postcard from Italy - 3

Day three of our trip and we passed the morning on the beach soaking up the rays and reading – just as well we had that meditative time.
Mr Sangue pleaded the case for what he assured me would be a mere forty-five minute diversion; he envisioned a relaxing drive along the scenic Amalfi Coast, sunglasses gleaming, exchanging movie-star smiles as Louis Prima blared from the iPod followed by a smart turn inland towards the Adriatic coast and Accadia, my homeland. He showed me the route on the Hertz map,

“It’s not far…”

I squinted at the meaningless squiggle and read it like a doom-laden palm; I saw a treacherous chariot ride skittering around hair pin bends, my eyes on stalks, my stomach in my throat, and my pants soiled but I conceded with a pout because why miss the experience of a lifetime because I’m a wuss? Neither of us were right, of course but I’m thrilled we did it. It took about three hours and was breathtakingly beautiful.

The entire length of the coast is so windy that I’ll re-name them as spaghetti bends – their isn’t enough unpredictability in the term ‘hair-pin’ to cover the sudden lurch as the car changes angle again. We didn’t dare play music – it would have been over stimulating and I wouldn’t be able to tell if I was alive or dead without my frequent hiss and sighs of horror, disbelief or joy. After an hour or so I think Mr Sangue began to enjoy himself and get the hang of driving like a native; it’s all about timing and gear changes. My sphincter was aching before we pulled over for a delicious lemon granita, freshly made lemonade, lashings of sugar, poured over crushed ice by the farmer himself who was so sun-baked he looked like a tortoise in a straw hat. We gulped it down, squinting in the African glare, trying not to get ice-cream headaches and averting our eyes from the plastic cups, condom wrappers, cigarette packets and butts at our feet and wondering if the beautiful village below was just too damn pretty.

The entire length of the coastal road, we didn’t see a parking space for about four hours. This was the busiest holiday weekend for Italians and families had made for the beach and wedged their cars or motorini bumper to bumper for a mile or on the road in and on the road out of the numerous villages we drove through.

Others had taken the bus: I would have taken my hat off to these blue-uniformed drivers by way of saluting their calm and bravery if I hadn’t had to keep both hands clamped to dash-board. How did they remain so calm? How did they not grind their teeth as they negotiated the spaghetti bends and their tail-ends momentarily flipped over the cliff edges? How did they not burst into tears each time another Vespa overtook them and just managed to avoid being crushed by oncoming traffic? For our part, Mr Sangue and I were appalled at the reckless, fearless risks taken by an endless stream of youngsters on Vespas and Lambrettas; they sometimes drove side by side with another motorino, passengers clinging to the drivers shoulders, many helmet-free, clad in beach wear, their golden bare skin and sandal-clad feet looked so vulnerable but they smiled, chatted across the small gap between the two vehicles, doing the whole Italian hand-gesture thing.

On one occasion we screeched to a halt as a bus turned a corner and suddenly loomed towards us. We had no choice but to concede right of way on the road. It made sense to us but not to the nutters behind. Two Vespas, unaware of the concept of danger, overtook us, one from each side of the car in a pincer movement, once past us swerving and wobbling like boats on rough water, righting themselves and squeezing round the side of the oncoming bus oblivious to the fact that they might have been crushed in a breath. The driver didn’t even blink. I guess they all understood that these kids needed to get home for lunch or their mammas would have been upset.

I wish I had a euro for each time Mr Sangue said, “For fuck’s sake!” on that drive yet we saw no evidence of road rage at any time over our ten days in Italy despite the most annoying and dangerous habits: on motorways, drivers rarely indicated before changing lanes or if they did, it was a split second before they lurched out – bit like the driving in Withnail and I. With two lanes on the autostrada, it was common to see some monster car appear in your mirror and tail gating you until you leapt from their path and allowed them to snarl past, the driver as ever unblinking and sedate, only one hand on the steering wheel, elbow out of the window and foot on the floor. On La Costiera Amalfitana, we witnessed the not so funny practice of drivers taking the racing line into oncoming traffic and leisurely pulling back into their own lane at the last minute. Why save time and fuel by doing that when you are in danger of losing many years of your life?

Watch this and you’ll feel like you are there!