Italia! The name conjures romance, old-world glory, elaborate icing-topped monuments, and film and television references, which for me are impossible to escape. I’d love to think of myself as young Audrey Hepburn, princess in disguise, riding on the back of Gregory Peck’s Vespa through the streets in “Roman Holiday” (at a time when it wasn’t quite as treacherous); or Anita Ekberg lolling sexily in the Trevi Fountain at night in “La Dolce Vita” (when you could do that almost privately) or “Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow” where we get to play Sophia Loren and Marcello Mastroianni. And of course, there’s my cult favorite “Beat the Devil,” set in Ravello, where I get to be Gina Lollobrigida to my husband Larry’s Humphrey Bogart, but more on that later.
By reputation, the perpetually lemon-scented Amalfi Coast is almost peerless in its stunning beauty and sophistication. Just take a dip in the languid waters of the Netflix series “Ripley.” It fully captures the slow-motion riot of the treacherous roads, the decaying decadence of the crumbling buildings and the linen-clad beautiful people who still call it home. Built into the rocky hills, the houses tumble down the cliffs, seeming to float or be attached by invisible wires holding them up like alert puppets. The white of the buildings reflects almost blindingly off the blueness of the water. When a close friend rented a villa on the Amalfi Coast and invited us to come, the answer was a very quick YES!
Our villa, actually two country houses, was on a hill in Piano di Sorrento, off the beaten track but overlooking Sorrento, the coast and Capri. We settled in comfortably, meandering around the grounds filled with trees laden with apricots, oranges and, of course, the ever-present lemons. Our tiny neighborhood was populated by two cafes and a mini market whose hours of operation were at the owner’s caprice. There was even a tiny clothing-souvenir shop specializing in homemade linen shirts, dresses and pants. The sewing machines were in constant use producing brightly colored shirts and (alas) pants with lemon motifs.
Sorrento was our first eagerly awaited foray. Devoid of some of the harrowing hairpin turns that would await us on our trips to Positano and Amalfi, it was an introduction to driving in Italy where lane markings are mere suggestions, and the game of “Chicken” seems to be embedded in the DNA of anyone with a driver’s license; truly a case of “he who hesitates” loses. If roundabouts didn’t have stop signs, tourists would wait until the inevitable two-hour lunch break before they could progress.
Sorrento, the tip of a peninsula in the Gulf of Naples, is not technically part of the Amalfi Coast but shares some of its physical beauty. From the Sorrento harbor, boats and ferries leave for the islands and the cities of the Amalfi Coast. Mount Vesuvius with its dual peaks is an easily identifiable landmark, and Pompeii is halfway between Naples and Sorrento. It’s ironic, or at least disingenuous, of a tourist to complain about tourists but Sorrento, even in May, is nigh unto unmanageable. Rife with accommodations from the five-star variety to suspect B&Bs, the shops along the main pedestrian street sell tacky souvenirs and brag of so-called handcrafted wood inlay works of art but are just factory showrooms churning out ashtrays and plaques. Contributing to the claustrophobia were the hundreds of Bermuda short-clad men, women and children lined up behind flag-waving guides dashing through the stores and monuments before being herded back to one of the megaliners (4,500 passengers and more) docked in Naples. That it was Sunday may have been a contributing factor, something we would be able to judge when we returned.
Sorrento, on Tuesday after the hordes had departed, was much more pleasant because our host treated us to a boat ride, “yachting” luxuriously from Sorrento to Amalfi with the young, charming and gorgeous Capitano Antonio, viewing all the coastal towns along the way. He skirted the working fishing villages and less-traveled harbors like Nerano, one of his favorites, and brought us into the three-island Gallos archipelago for a close view of this famous property. Craggy, lacking vegetation, it was Léonide Massine, the famed Russian choreographer and dancer of Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes, who fell in love with the island and its medieval tower, converting it into a villa and dance studio. No wonder Rudolf Nureyev felt an attachment, buying it in the early ’80s, further renovating it and living there until his death. It has since been refashioned into a luxury villa where visitors may swim in the waters but, unless they can ante up the €250,000 per week rental (including servants, cook and boat), they are forbidden to set foot on the island.
Pacing the trip perfectly, we gazed up at the road, one we would repeatedly take in the next few days, winding through the imposing mountainous rock facings on one side and the little protected cliffside leading to the water far below on the other. Built into the rock are the towns and villages that dot the coast. Colorful pebble beaches abound, accessed by stairways carved into the rocks descending unimaginable heights. The barely-clad bathers were young and hardy, unless they had arrived by one of the anchored boats.
Positano is world-famous for its beauty and rightfully so. Gazing at it from the sea, it appears like a many-layered wedding cake, elaborately iced and inviting. Many of the boats anchored off the shore were on a grander scale than ours, equipped with motorized rafts or dinghies to transport their passengers to shore where they can dine, drink and frolic. The beach is crowded and the pastel buildings overlooking the sea (they all overlook the sea) have vast terraces and balconies. The exclusive properties are either near the bottom of this cliffside town or at the very top. I must confess that in all our trips past Positano, we did not venture into the town. Theoretically, it would have been possible to traverse the tiny streets, but it appeared that the vast majority of people visiting the actual town parked haphazardly, with the emphasis on hazard, along the upper road and walked down, a rather daunting prospect at any age. Still, the pastel combinations of Positano need to be seen to be believed. It is the very definition of a jet-set hamlet where it’s easy to imagine the linen-clad visitors, cocktail in hand, trotting from party to party and then back to the yacht.
Photos by Larry swanson
Continuing through the bay, Antonio led us into the Fiordo di Furore, a pristine beach in an inlet accessed from the tiny town by 3,000 steps. Furore is home to an 11th-century church containing frescoes by Giotto and his students. How, one must ask, did they get there in the first place, let alone why? It’s one of many puzzles to be contemplated all over the Amalfi coastline. It is the arched brick bridge, 28 meters high, traversing the fjord, from which there is a high diving contest every year, that provides its unique feel.
We were able to dock in Amalfi, larger, more bustling than any of the other towns, allowing us the time only for a purchase at the pasticceria and a few lemon-scented souvenirs. Our lunch was at the Torre Saracena, a 16th-century tower that was part of the city’s defense system. The views to the northwest are of Amalfi, and to the southeast, Atrani of “Ripley” fame. We’ll get a closer view of Atrani, Amalfi’s poor relation, when we drive to Ravello. The food was wonderful but the views were better. But then, all of the views have been panoramic and stunning. Our trip back to Sorrento was at a faster pace and we enjoyed a crisp breeze as we retraced our earlier steps, making sure to renew our sunscreen.
We would return to Amalfi the next day, taking the treacherous SS163 with its serpentine curves, hairpin turns, series of long tunnels and blind mirrored corners dreading the sound of a bus honking its arrival. The lanes, marginal under the best of circumstances, are often further constricted by parked cars along one edge or the other. Even worse are the sightseeing viewpoints where cars spill out onto the roadway waiting for a place to stop, competing with the ever-present vans selling fresh juice, lemon granita and T-shirts. The trip never got easier and the anxiety never lessened; but in each case, we lived to tell about it. Arriving again in Amalfi, our small group split up, the more intellectual choosing to climb up to the Duomo and its Byzantine facade of inlaid striped marble and stone. The 63 wide stone steps lead to a vast porch, semi-enclosed by a series of arched window-like openings giving it a Moorish flavor. Others of us, the more superficial members of the group, myself included, went in search of artisanal souvenirs. The shops closest to the harbor are crowded with the same lemon-themed souvenirs found in every other town in Southern Italy. Walking slightly off the beaten track are the more interesting stores of inlaid wood furniture, handmade paper and ceramics of more unique design. After lunching on garlic-flavored focaccia, myriad antipasto and fish, we returned to the car and wound our way slowly back across the hills and treacherous roads.
For our next excursion, we chose the small town of Nerano with its seafood restaurants on the water. Lo Scoglio was a trip to the rarefied air of the jet set. Although we arrived by car, most of the guests in this terraced restaurant were ferried from their private yachts by Lo Scoglio’s motorboat, arriving at the restaurant’s landing platform. Stanley Tucci, in his series “Searching for Italy,” declared their Spaghetti alla Nerano with zucchini and provolone to be his favorite pasta. The food was sumptuous, the service attentive and the local wine delicious. Lingering on the multicolored pebble beach for a few moments, we made a last stop at the mini market to buy vodka and crackers, indispensable for our evening cocktails. Lemon twists were in abundant supply from the villa’s trees.
We left early the next morning for our trip to Ravello, east of Amalfi and north of Salerno. It’s famous for its hilly location and view of the blue coastline to the west; and east, the grassy highlands of its rival city Scala with its vineyards and olive groves. Ravello is known for its two exquisite botanical gardens, the Villa Cimbrone and the Villa Rufolo. Villa Cimbrone is a long walk uphill, far from the city center; not the option we took. Instead, we headed straight for the Villa Ruffalo, a palace built originally in the 13th century but rescued and renovated in the 19th century by Francis Neville Reid who bought the villa in 1851 and installed the elegant gardens that can be seen today. Its pavilions are terraced such that each looks down onto the next, all with a view of the bay far below. In spring it is a riot of neon-colored flowers and green sculpted hedges. Excavations in recent years have uncovered artifacts and foundations from its 13th-century origins. Towers and courtyard columns attest to the Moorish influence of the times. One can easily see why this garden has enchanted so many over the years, including Richard Wagner and Maurits Cornelis Escher, who may have been inspired by the Torre Maggiore’s staircase.
Although Ravello is also on the list of tourist must-sees, our early start avoided most of the crowds. Much to our dismay, the restaurant we wanted was closed, but the shop owner next door suggested we try Osteria Ravello, a family-run restaurant at the far end of town. With its outdoor terrace and excellent food, we were well cared for, especially when the owner’s mother adopted one of our group showering her and us with extra attention and treats. Returning to the center and the shopkeeper who had made the original recommendation and reservation, we found lots of souvenirs to take home and even some to keep. It was now mid-afternoon; the tour groups had begun to arrive, and it was time to leave.
Our final outing to Positano was for a birthday celebration. The storied Hotel Il San Pietro is at the summit of Positano just before Praiano. It has sweeping views of the entire bay, but most importantly it has valet parking. Tiered on the hillside, there are tennis courts, a pool and deck, a spa and garden and a small private beach far below, all accessed by an elevator built into the rock. Of course, one always has the option of walking, but a glance at the stairway was one more reason to hope the elevator was operational. Cocktails were first in order at the beautiful bougainvillea-filled terrace bar where Bellinis with fresh peach almost matched the stunning views. The San Pietro’s Michelin-starred main restaurant, Zass, is open only at night so we held our celebration in the beach-adjacent Carlino, an al fresco lunch spot where they have a farm-to-table concept drawn from their garden. The pasta was as fresh as the fish, and the atmosphere was festive. Sated, we were back on the road to the villa to pack up and snack on leftovers from previous evenings.
The Amalfi Coast, land of sun and endless lemon trees—it is not surprising that each local restaurant offers its own artisanal Limoncello, and we sampled any and all put in front of us. The sharpness of the colors, the salt in the air, the hairpin turns that seem to cantilever over thin air will be memories we always keep. And to all who follow, take a boat along the coast to get the full flavor of life on those shores. So don those linens and, for a brief moment, you too can be a jet-setter.
