Well, I wasn’t able to make it to the Emerald Grotto, because I fell asleep after breakfast and didn’t wake up until after two. So instead I spent the day in Amalfi proper. I had lunch on the water--gnocchi with tomato and marinara sauce, as well as chocolate and hazelnut gelato (feel free to drool over the photo above), found the dock where the boats leave, and decided that tomorrow I’ll take a boat to the grotto and Friday and Saturday take boats to Capri and Paestum. I am, if nothing, ambitious.
I spent the rest of the day hanging out, shopping, and wandering around the downtown area. As I was hanging out on the steps of the town’s cathedral (Sant’Andrea’s) some young teenage boys asked me in English what time it was, but I believe they were mocking me. Later I saw them ask some British tourists the same thing, and laughing.
I think I may have screwed up on my olive oil purchase. Bertolli—don’t they sell that at Klein’s? Oh well, at least the label is in Italian.
A brief note on Italian physiognomy: compared to the French and Icelanders, Italians are—how can I say this politely—a little more portly. Methinks pasta and gelati may be among the chief suspects. And everyone is friggin' brunette!
All day long I was trying to find the side street where Da Meme’s is located. This is a ristorante recommended by Danillo here at the hotel. He told me to mention him when I arrived at the establishment. I eventually found the side street (more like an alleyway--it's pictured above looking down from Da Meme's), and then had a classic "John moment," when I walked into the wrong restaurant, asked to use their bathroom, chose a table, and then realized I was in the wrong place. The first clue should have been when I first entered and said, grinning, “I am a friend of Danillo’s!” and they looked at me as if I had said “I am a small goblin!” in their native tongue. Anyway I apologized when I realized my mistake, gleaned from them which direction Da Meme’s was in, and departed. As I left I heard one of the women inside talking very loudly in Italian, but then everyone here talks very loudly in Italian.
So I exit to my left, and there at the terminus of the alleyway is, of course, Da Meme’s. I enter and say grinning, “I am a friend of Danillo’s!” I felt like Da Idiot. But at least they sort of knew what I was talking about. Didn’t get me any discounts on the bill, though...
Dinner was as follows: First course—spaghetti with mussels in tomato sauce, Second Course—swordfish and cherry tomatoes in tomato sauce, and a side of green salad; and their portions here are almost American size! (OK, maybe not Denny’s Grand Slam breakfast size, but then nothing else on earth is). The food was great, but from now on, only one course for me.
As I left I peeked into the first restaurant I had mistaken for Da Meme’s. They had several tables filled. They were doing fine without me.
The evening ended with a nice, harrowing, nightmarish 25 minute walk back to my hotel, gently dodging oncoming cars and motorbikes. Part of the way there was an intermittent sidewalk, but the rest of the way there is only a white painted line that runs about a foot from the precipice. This is apparently the “shoulder.” The other pedestrians, walking on both sides of the road and dressed in black, ignored the oncoming vehicles with nonchalance. But then one forgets that Italy is a nation of extremes. This is, after all, the country that gave us Caligula and Dario Argento. From now on I’ll take a taxi or the bus whenever possible.
I spent the rest of the day hanging out, shopping, and wandering around the downtown area. As I was hanging out on the steps of the town’s cathedral (Sant’Andrea’s) some young teenage boys asked me in English what time it was, but I believe they were mocking me. Later I saw them ask some British tourists the same thing, and laughing.
I think I may have screwed up on my olive oil purchase. Bertolli—don’t they sell that at Klein’s? Oh well, at least the label is in Italian.
A brief note on Italian physiognomy: compared to the French and Icelanders, Italians are—how can I say this politely—a little more portly. Methinks pasta and gelati may be among the chief suspects. And everyone is friggin' brunette!
All day long I was trying to find the side street where Da Meme’s is located. This is a ristorante recommended by Danillo here at the hotel. He told me to mention him when I arrived at the establishment. I eventually found the side street (more like an alleyway--it's pictured above looking down from Da Meme's), and then had a classic "John moment," when I walked into the wrong restaurant, asked to use their bathroom, chose a table, and then realized I was in the wrong place. The first clue should have been when I first entered and said, grinning, “I am a friend of Danillo’s!” and they looked at me as if I had said “I am a small goblin!” in their native tongue. Anyway I apologized when I realized my mistake, gleaned from them which direction Da Meme’s was in, and departed. As I left I heard one of the women inside talking very loudly in Italian, but then everyone here talks very loudly in Italian.
So I exit to my left, and there at the terminus of the alleyway is, of course, Da Meme’s. I enter and say grinning, “I am a friend of Danillo’s!” I felt like Da Idiot. But at least they sort of knew what I was talking about. Didn’t get me any discounts on the bill, though...
Dinner was as follows: First course—spaghetti with mussels in tomato sauce, Second Course—swordfish and cherry tomatoes in tomato sauce, and a side of green salad; and their portions here are almost American size! (OK, maybe not Denny’s Grand Slam breakfast size, but then nothing else on earth is). The food was great, but from now on, only one course for me.
As I left I peeked into the first restaurant I had mistaken for Da Meme’s. They had several tables filled. They were doing fine without me.
The evening ended with a nice, harrowing, nightmarish 25 minute walk back to my hotel, gently dodging oncoming cars and motorbikes. Part of the way there was an intermittent sidewalk, but the rest of the way there is only a white painted line that runs about a foot from the precipice. This is apparently the “shoulder.” The other pedestrians, walking on both sides of the road and dressed in black, ignored the oncoming vehicles with nonchalance. But then one forgets that Italy is a nation of extremes. This is, after all, the country that gave us Caligula and Dario Argento. From now on I’ll take a taxi or the bus whenever possible.
Tomorrow I will buy a bus ticket for my Thursday pilgrimage to Pompeii and make another attempt at the Emerald Grotto.
Ciao!
John
Ciao!
John
4 comments:
I feel a little responsible that I didn't warn you about the harrowing walk along that narrow road to town. In my defense, I had completely forgotten about that until I read it in your blog. I guess I was too busy staring at the scenery (or maybe I'd had a bit too much limoncello) to notice how dangerous it is. But what the heck, it's Italy! I'm convinced that if the Tower of Pisa had been built in any other country it would have fallen by now; but for some reason it makes sense that, in Italy, it's still standing (sort of). In any event, I'm really enjoying reading your impressions of the scenery, the people and the sights.
John, my friend and co-worker, put captions under the photos!!!!! I'm dying to know what the building is with the tower! And what is the mini-town looking scene?
Sorry for all of the questions, but I travel vicariously through you! :)
Time is money, Jen. I'll forward you an invite to my Amalfi Flickr site when I get back, with all the pictures fully annotated. Patience, my dear. But thank you for your enthusiasm!
John
Don't feel bad about your olive oil purchase i'm sure they ship Bertolli in barrels from Italy to the U.S.
I'm sure your is a lot more fresher than what you get here.
Gene
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