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Driving in Italy

by John T. Baker

The Amalfi coast.

In Naples, driving is a contact sport.

Most Italian motorists are aggressive. But the Neapolitan driver exhibits a rare blend of audacity and insouciance, with bursts of belligerence. Traffic signals are completely ignored, pedestrians are fair game, and other vehicles are scornfully disregarded.

"Forget it!" I told Carol and Richard when they invited us to join them in renting a car for the weekend. "No way I'm going to drive in Naples!"

"Not to worry," said Richard. "I'll drive."

We picked up the little Opel a few blocks from the hotel at ten o'clock
Saturday morning, Richard behind the wheel, Carol co-piloting, Phyllis and I
in the rear.

"On down Via Partenope, around the Royal Palace, past Stazione Centrale,
then follow the signs to the auto strada," were the rental car manager's
parting words.

Carol studied the map as Richard inched into the traffic - light by normal standards, we had been assured, but formidable indeed it seemed to two tense back-seat passengers.

Positano!

No major problems arose until the first plazza and roundabout, where we
were engulfed in a cascading stream of blaring horns and screeching brakes.

Richard never faltered but plowed on through, looking straight ahead.

"Never make eye contact," he explained.

His philosophy carried us unscathed, though not unshaken, to the auto strada, an oasis of calm after the pandemonium of Napoli. Incredibly soon, we reached the exit to Ercolano, our first port of call.

Going was slow in Ercolano (previously known to us from high-school
Ancient History as Herculaneum) until we finally located a parking lot near
the scavi (excavations). After determining that we did not qualify for
reciprocal free-entrance privileges accorded to certain nations such as the
United Kingdom, we paid a modest (by current exchange-rate standards) fee and were admitted to the extensive but far from complete excavations.

A friend soon joined us. "I'm not a guide," he announced. "I'm a guard."

Guide or guard, he escorted us through the ruins for the next hour, engagingly explaining the exhibits, including the pornographic ones (tame after Pompeii, which we had seen a few days before on a conducted tour).

Pompeii fresco

Our 10,000 lire (about $9) tip at parting was accepted with less than enthusiasm. "Not much for a guide," he muttered.

"Not bad for a guard," retorted Carol.

Back to the auto strada and down the road. Just before Salerno, we took the Vietri sul Mare exit to the Amalfi Drive, "the most romantic drive in Italy."

Also, without doubt, the most precipitous. The narrow, winding road gouged out of the rocky cliffs plunging to the sea presented a new challenge for our dauntless chauffeur. Our cries of delight at the spectacular scenery were more than matched by Richard's gasps of concern at each of the more than a thousand corkscrew curves along the 45-mile stretch from Salerno to Sorrento.

Our first stop along the Drive was at Praiano, for lunch on the broad esplanade fronting the azure bay. The warm November sun and the rolls and
cheese saved from our breakfast in Napoli fortified us for the next leg.

Off-season, we had been told, reservations for lodging were not necessary. Nonetheless, we had a goal in mind for the first night - the Belvedere Caruso at Ravello. Friends had recommended it, guidebooks were encouraging, and the name was irresistible.

Mid-afternoon found us near the town of Amalfi. A sign for Ravello pointed up the steep cliffs. Assuring Richard that this was indeed where we wanted to go, we climbed for twenty minutes to a quiet, enchanting village and the charming, comfortable Belvedere Caruso.

The town and the magnificent view we had to ourselves. The hotel rooms
were small but pleasant and the village shops attractive and uncrowded. A
bottle of vino locale in the drawing room preceded a tasty dinner, somewhat
pricey we would have thought had not our pecuniary senses been numbed by
Napoli experiences.

Next morning we drove back down the cliffs to the town of Amalfi. Fortunate to find a parking place, we spent a couple of hours strolling among the shops (more numerous and also more expensive than in Ravello) and visiting the Duomo, the Moorish/early Gothic cathedral.

A few miles from Amalfi we stopped for lunch at a roadside bar/trattoria adjoining the Emerald Grotto. After eating, we entered the grotto and boarded a small rowboat for a tour with our oarsman/guide, who pointed out the various curious rock formations bathed in the greenish-blue light emanating from outside the cavern.

Positano, our second-night goal, was reached by mid-afternoon. For some
time we drove up and down the narrow, steep streets seeking both (1) a hotel
and (2) a parking spot. We had been cautioned about staying anyplace without a designated parking area, and posted signs on the streets warned against overnight parking.

Unable either to locate hotels that had been recommended to us or to find
a place to stop near those we did discover, we finally pulled into a
"no-parking" zone. Richard and Phyllis stayed with the car while Carol and I
set out up and down endless flights of stone steps and paths on a fruitless
quest. No acceptable lodging establishments with parking facilities.

Dejectedly we limped back to the car where our spouses were beginning to
wonder if they would ever see us again. Richard and I commissioned Phyllis
and Carol to make the next attempt.

Which they did, when we stopped in front of a prepossessing-looking
albergo.

They came out shortly, shaking their heads.

"No parking lot?" we asked.

"Sure" they said. "Right next door."

"Well, then?"

"Do you want to pay 400 dollars a night? Each?"

Case closed.

Later, Carol confessed she wasn't sure we would have been admitted at any
price. Our casual clothing might not have passed muster.

Suddenly, the ladies spied another hotel sign down the street. "Wait here," they ordered.

Ten minutes later they reappeared, shaking their clasped hands above their heads.

"We gotta' deal!"

They shepherded us down the street about fifty yards. An overhead door in the wall slowly rose.

"Drive in there," they said.

Richard eased the Opel into a cluttered basement barely large enough for
the small sedan.

"You sure this is all right?" we asked.

"This is the hotel parking area," they said. "Come on."

We carried our bags out to the street and up the steps of theHotel California.

The rooms were simple but clean and roomy. The couple in charge were
friendly and spoke good English. And the price was right!

That evening on the spacious veranda, over pizza and vino, Richard and I
graciously conceded that the ladies had adequately carried out their
assignment.

Next morning we explored the trendy boutiques of Positano. Few purchases
but much oohing and ahhing. Prices seemed high but Carol and Phyllis kept
assuring us they were real bargains.

Sorrento was a let-down after Ravello and Positano. We had a good
fixed-price lunch there (ravioli and veal) but the town seemed ordinary,
without the ambiance of our earlier stops along the Drive.

And besides, hanging over our heads was the prospect of our return into the Napoli traffic - not the light (!) weekend traffic we had conquered two days ago but the full week-day flow.

Determined to get there before rush hour, we hit the outskirts by mid-afternoon. Once we left the auto strada, it was bedlam revisited. Carol
navigated us masterfully and Richard reassumed his eyes-straight-ahead
stance. Eventually, after numerous harrowing near-misses, we were within a
few blocks of our destination - the rental car agency.

Beginning to relax. we suddenly came to a dead end. Somehow, inexplicably, we had been diverted into a dead-end street, and into the
compound of a police station, of all places.

The carabineri were friendly but spoke no English. We were frantic and spoke little Italian. Finally, broken French, finger-pointing and map-waving re-oriented us and soon we found ourselves in front of the Albergo Vesuvio. Double parking, we off-loaded Phyllis with all the bags and proceeded without incident to turn in the car and trudge back to the hotel.

That evening in our hotel rooms we held a critique and drank a toast to a
glorious weekend.