Sorrento

18-Settembre-2011

We drove south past Rome to Sorrento.  What a pain.  The drive took longer than we would have liked, and though the countryside was interesting, time on the road is a lot less pleasant than wine appreciation in Tuscany.  I like being spoiled once in a while.

Closing in on our destination, we made an unfortunate stop at a rest area that was under construction.   Mary and Becky went off to the makeshift ladies room for a unique experience.  It seems that when they flushed, the results did not disappear into unknown darkness.  They were treated to the sight of all the fluids running under the grate they stood upon.  Other senses were also stimulated.  “Disgusting,” is what they called it. 

It wasn’t so bad on the A-1, but we missed the turn and eventually got off slightly farther south than we should have.  We motored past a few exits before we decided that we had in fact gone too far, so I convinced myself that it would be a good idea to get off and approach from that direction.  We turned around in Nocera Inferiore, where the name of the town indicates that people can’t possibly feel good about themselves, since it means something along the lines of “the lower place that will be bad for you.” Though we didn’t see the first two signs, I’m sure we passed through Irritato and Frustrato to get to Angri.  Even though Angri seemed largely deserted, there were blue and white ribbons and balloons adorning many of the buildings.  I guessed it was for soccer, but I couldn’t figure out why they’d be flying Argentina’s colors. 

After what seemed like a long time traveling on vacant rundown roads following the signs to Sorrento through less than appealing neighborhoods, we got back onto a real road and joined the traffic.  Twisting, turning, cliff-hugging roads finally brought us to Sorrento.   I pulled into one of the wide spots in the road that overlooks Sorrento so that Mary could stop blocking my view in favor of me paying attention to driving.  

Beautiful.  Just beautiful.  And the view wasn't bad either.  We were perched hundreds of feet over the clear water where we could take in the panoramic vista of Sorrento, the towns leading up to it and the mountains beyond.  We didn’t linger long, even with the spectacular view.  It was time to get out of the car.

Not too shabby.

When we arrived at our hotel, we told the busboy of our approach route.  He cringed.  “Why did you come that way?”  I guess he was familiar with the slums and the warehouses and the litter everywhere.  I explained, but he still shook his head.  When the bags were delivered, a decent tip renewed his faith in my potential for sanity.

 

We rested with the intent of going to the pool, but it had closed at 6:00.  While Mary showered,  I went to our Hotel Tramontono balcony, one of the many cliff-top hotels looking out over clear blue-green water all the way to Napoli.  Vesuvio oversees all in the hazy distance. 

As soon as I arrived, fireworks shot up from a pier to the west as the sun went down.  Very nice for them to arrange the display in my honor.  By coincidence, Napoli had just finished playing Milan in a big game.  3-1 in favor of blue and white Napoli not only corrected my Argentinian misconception, but also meant that we would see multiple fireworks displays across the bay later in the evening.  

I’m generally skeptical of the restaurant recommendations made by the concierge.  Whose brother-in-law’s place are you going to end up at?  But we took a chance, and the hotel shuttle bus took us to the Vela Bianca (White Sail) at the base of the cliff.  


What a great time.  The food was fabulous, the wine was plentiful, and the staff was having a good time in the nautically themed restaurant.   And all under the watchful eyes of Sophia Loren, pictured on the walls.  Holding a platter of lemons supplied by our waiter who had detected what we were up to, Mary posed with her lookalike.    



Envious at not being the center of attention in all the photo opportunities, Becky inserted herself into the restaurant-front shot in what we were to come to find out was her signature move. 

We had a short van ride back to the hotel.  One of the other riders let it be known that he actually lived on Lake Como.  Becky and Mary were sure he was George Clooney traveling incognito.  Great makeup job, I must say. 

Before entering the lobby, the ladies posed on the Vespa positioned for photo opportunities just outside the door.  I thought I heard Steppenwolf in the background, but I didn’t understand the lyrics in Italian.  

Doesn't every girl need a Vespa?

Also, Becky made up for the earlier lack of photographic attention by posing statuesquely.

Back on the hotel terrace before retiring, we ordered drinks. I’m not really sure how those lemons got to our table.  This night we were the loud Americans, but we weren’t so loud that we couldn’t overhear a bit of conversation coming from wealthy guests at another table. 

“I have to say, you must have married well.”

“Not really.  I didn’t marry well at all.  But I did divorce well.”