Surprisingly not hungover, we packed up, stored our luggage with Claudio (the very friendly proprietor of our hotel) and set off for a goodbye brunch with the ladies and their men. In various states of recovery, we recounted some of the night’s more memorable moments, including one wedding-goer who, his wife having left earlier than he, wandered in search of his hotel only to completely overshoot it and end up in the wild hills above the town, where he fell down a ravine and was knocked unconscious. Awoken and driven home by a passing motorist, he received, I believe, six unanesthetized stitches and, I assume, a worried/angry tirade from his wife.
We spent the day lounging on the beach with my friends that still remained, discussing film, sex offender rehabilitation and why some of us were charged €10 for our umbrellas while others charged €12.
While Positano drips with dewy-eyed romance, the swooning can easily fade over the weekend, when hordes of Italian weekenders clog the narrow pathways to the beach, slowing foot traffic to a sludging geriatric sightseeing pace. Take this image and crank it up to 11 on the awful scale when you add in a holiday weekend. The masses swarmed the small town and it dawned on me: I was in the Hamptons of Italy.
Sad to leave my friends, but more than happy to escape the throngs, we booked a ferry back to Naples — one of the best moves of the trip, given the increasingly dire luggage situation. By this point, both wheels on the large suitcase had snapped and Sean, go bless him, was physically carrying this monstrosity down whatever stairs stood in his way, which was many. The hour-long ferry meant avoiding the bus>train>subway option that carried us to Postiano in the first place. But there was still the question of how top get our crappola all the way down to the port, as a good portion of the town restricts cars. Claudio (God, please bless him as well) came to the rescue by calling a porter service, the miracle workers of the Amalfi coast.
We arrived in Naples around 7PM and decided to head out on the town since this was the only time we had here. My friends could not warn me enough about how terrible Naples was, and the NYT was so kind to print a story about the overflowing trash problem only about a week before my trip. I, however, witnessed no stinking heaps of refuse nor felt any repugnance for the city. In fact, I thought it was pretty OK. Not amazing, but definitely worth a 5-hour stop, most of which included the fulfillment of a pilgrimage upon which I had long wanted to embark: to dine on the famed and beloved Neapolitan specialty in the land of its origin, that amazing culinary delight for which my cravings never cease.
Pizza.
Pizza Napolitana, recently winning the title of “regional specialty” by the EU, consists of fluffy, chewy crust topped with buffalo mozzarella and fresh Italian tomatoes. Popping into an no frills but packed pizzeria, we quickly ordered the meat version and the DOC, speckled with cherry tomatoes. In this unassuming shrine to one of my favorite foods, I offered silent, masticating thanks to the Italians for the many cheap and late night meals their ingenuity has afforded me. We leave not so full that we don’t have room for gelato, knowing this will be out last night in Italy. One thing’s for sure: I’m not leaving Italy hungry.
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| [08.06.01] Positano Day 4 / Naples |
