The path to our apartment – 251 steps to be precise. But they lead to a little haven of peace and tranquility to which we gladly escape. We have now settled into the Mediterranean habit of siesta – it is simply too hot in the middle of the day to be outside. So we escape, snooze, and then tackle the streets or the beach.

Yesterday, we decided on the spur of the moment to rent a scooter. 60 Euro for 24 hours. The little thing sighs under our weight. Before we can give it too much thought, we are off into the madness of the Amalfi coastal road. (I remember fondly when we were here 12 years ago driving to Ravello how our dear friend Terry got car sick. He was sitting int he back looking either over a steep cliff or seeing a massive bus approach at full speed). The roads are increibly narrow, the drivers incredibly insanely not afraid of anything. A few times I can feel Victor’s entire body go into spasm as he tries to pull in his stomach, his knees clutching to my sides as we just miss an ooncoming bus. Other scooters scoot past us at the speed of light. It must be the most laughable thing to see these two middle aged men perched upon a small little scooter, obviously scared shitless but nevertheless scootering along as if we know exactly what we are doing. 

Well, it is so worth it, and possibly the best way to see this magnificent coastline. We venture all the way to Amalfi and Ravello, where we spent a few glorious day celebrating my 40th birthday with Dianne, Van, Gillian and Terry. I remember stuffed gourgette flowers, pasta vongole, copious gallongs of wine and laughter. I cannot remember a time that I had laughed so much. it all started in a Villa between Florence and Siena, with a joke about Veruschka on a train from Vladivostok to Moscow. Memories, friendships that are still such an important part of my life. (Terry and I have known each other since the late 80’s). I can write books on my friendships – my life is so much richer for the wonderful people who share my story. Like fellow actors in this drama of life they contribute to the richness of the story, adding colour and life and joy and drama. Picking up the pieces after a broken heart, sharing the joys of birthdays and celebrating achievements. I do believe that I have the most incredible selection of people in my life – they inspire me, share their children with me, challenge me, and love me for the crazy person that I am. And as I get older, these connections seem to become deeper and the bonds inseperable. 

We are surprised at how little we remember about the village – except for the bloody bus stop where one night we waited for what felt like hours, in the rain, for a bus that was not arriving. Eventually we all bundled into a taxi, only to be told that the busses were on strike. After much deliberation and wandering around, we find the place we stayed in. It is an old tower that must have been part of the original settlement. (I remember that the floor in our room had a glass cover through which one could see the kitchen below, and that it was all very close and intimate. Dianne did mention that farting and snorting kept her awake….) The little front garden where Victor did yoga is covered in a lush vine that provided the perfect setting for wine in the afternoon, looking across the endless blue ocean. Ravello is beautiful and just a tad less touristy than Positano. 

The freedom of the scooter is wonderful – we can explore places that we will never see on foot, and renting (actually parking) a car in this part of the world is just a pain. 

Back in Positano it is clear that the Madonna festival is still on – we can hear the Priest sing with his very croaky voice, using what sounds like a home-made loudspeaker system. Tinny and scratchy. (I am not sure if it is his voice or the loudspeaker, but the sound carries all the way to our apartment). We venture into town following the singing – on the square in front of the Cathedral there is a whole commotion of people, a brass band, children singing and croaky Priest. We settle for dinner at one of the beach front restaurants, and I for a sacrilegious non Italian meal: schnitzel and chips! And for my sins I am punished with the most hideous piece of flattened meat – the crumbs being more substantial than the actual piece of meat, and frozen chips. The pouches of mayo makes it even more disgusting. Revenge of the Italian god of pasta. Victor had Pasta Amatriciana – tomato, pancetta, garlic. The perfect meal. I learnt my lesson. 

This morning we are up early to enjoy the last few hours of our scooter. We scoot up the mountain – hair raising bends that I find almost impossible to manouvre. Take note – this scooter has an engin no bigger than a stick blender, carrying two men weighing in at – well never mind. So we tututututututut up the hill, hardly able to make 10km/h, swerving like drunks every time a truck or bus come hurtling down the mountain, leaving so little space for us that I could feel the skin being torn off my knee by the passing vehicle. Sometimes, life is all about “daring greatly” (Brene Brown again). I love taking risks – always thinking “if so and so can do it, I can do it”. Seeing people of all shapes, sizes, ages, denominations and personalities scootering away in Italy, why can’t I? And here I am – alive to tell the story, having seen the most breath taking views, feeling the ocean breeze in my face, getting the most exhilarating adrenalin rush and being able to tell the story. 

Life is good.