On Saturday, the memory of Thursday's ride on the SITA bus still fresh in our minds, we decided to hire a private car for our trip to Amalfi and Ravioli (Ravello to the locals). We met our driver, Donatello, in the small square at the top of our street. He didn't speak English very well and we speak Italian poorly, so we spent much of the drive to Ravello saying 'eh?' and 'huh?' to each other, these apparently being the most common Italian words we hear, now. Donatello suggested that we start in Ravello and to have lunch there. We agreed, assuming we all understood each other.
The ride in the private car wasn't a whole lot more pleasant than the ride in the SITA bus; we're beginning to suspect it's the road that's the problem.
Soon enough, we were in Ravello and stopped in a tratoria that Donatello recommended. Once inside, we asked for "un tavolo per due" (a table for two), and Donatello looked hurt. I didn't realize we were supposed to feed him or hang out with him. Well I spent the next 5 minutes inviting him to join us and he spent it telling me no problem and that he would wait dejectedly in the rain. We finalized that as our arrangement, and he left.
Since we were in Ravioli (Ravello to the locals), I thought it made perfect sense to order Ravioli (Ravioli to the locals). The meal was great, as it seems to be in every restaurant here, and we were ready to head out. The owner of the tratoria - an Italian grandmotherly type who any person would love to have as his Italian grandmother, whether he was Italian or not - was talking to the people at the next table who were arguing over a misunderstand with their order. I was looking over as my Italian Grandmother gave me a sideways glance and a smile. After calming the family at the other table, she turned to me and muttered to me under her breath, "Momma mia!" I smiled and she asked us what I would like for dessert. I told her in Italian the we only wanted the check. She would have nothing to do with that. I then told her in Italian again that I was full (I figured it's a phrase that few tourists know and use). My Italian Grandmother smiled, pinched my cheek, and told me she would bring me a small slice of dessert. I gave in. She brought us the best small slice of chocolate cake; we inhaled it, paid our check and were on our way.
We met up again with Donatello, who introduced us to his friend Antonio, who ran a wine shop. I know the drill ... he had us taste a special local wine, offered to sell us a case of wine we hadn't tasted, and we bought a bottle of the wine we had tasted so Donatello could save face.
At this point, we left Donatello behind to make our way across town to Villa Cimbrone, with the most beautiful view above the Amalfi coast one could possibly see in the pouring rain (I'm sure it's quite nice in clear weather as well). The grounds of the villa are stunning (including the structure on which Nancy's doing her best Gene Kelly imitation, above) and I have to put it on a must-see list for anyone coming close to Amalfi.
On the way back to the town square, Nancy spotted a ceramic outlet, and we struck up a conversation with its most charming shopkeeper (originally from Ravello). We butchered each others languages beautifully, covering weather, religious symbols, the differences between Catholicism and Protestantism, and our wedding plans. It's simple connections with people like this that really make my day.
We made our way back to the town square and Donatello just as the skies opened and the wind picked up. We decided we'd had enough and Nancy was "fredo e stanco" (that's "cold and tired," not "cheesy and stinky"), so we bypassed Amalfi altogether and returned to Villa Flavio Gioia to warm up and relax.
Next up: our trip to Capri.
Ciao!
-- Brent & Nancy
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