I will not name nationalities, but had to laugh at this tourist whose “Gopro” does not react to her voice command. She starts off quite gently – “Gopro, take a picture”. Moment of silence, then slightly louder and more articulated – “Gopro, take a picture”. Silence. Then, articulated, agitated and louder – “GOPRO, TAKE A PICTURE!”. She did not see me, and I was so tempted to shout back “piss off, I do not want to take another picture!” As if it is not enough that they feel a desperate urge to talk all the bloody time, they now have gadgets which they have to talk to as well! Gopro cameras, cellular phones, watches. I give up!

Positano lured us into staying one more night. Our plan was to start moving back toward Rome today, but we succumbed to the beauty and atmosphere of beautiful Positano and decided to stay one more night. Our new Air B&B overlooks the ocean, and has a wonderful deck from which to drink in this spectacular view. The room has the pinkest tiles I have ever seen, and candlewick bedspread exactly like the ones my Grandmother had. It is located high up against the mountain with a zillion stairs leading down to the ocean.

We had all good intentions to have a braai at our home last night. There was a big built in braai with loads of wood. After two Aperol Spritz and a swim, we were simply too lazy to make the effort and settled for our by now favourite little spot. Typical holiday makers we are now familiar with the waiters, who make sure that we get a good table and half decent service. (I do feel incredibly sorry for the waiting staff having to put up with the stupidity of the average tourist – not speaking the language, not making an effort, being impatient, and some just being plain rude!). In all my years of travelling, I have been astounded by tourists. 

My first experience of the tourist phenomena was in 1984, when I worked as a general worker in a guesthouse just outside Salzberg – Pension Christl. In the days before the internet and Tripadvisor, Frommer’s “Europe on $20 a day” was the guide book to have. (There was also a cheaper backpacker version, the name of which I now forget). Pension Christl was given a very good rating by Frommer’s, who made special mention of the poodle Blackie. Clearly Frommer did not do his homework that well, because by the time I arrived at Pension Christl Blacky was long dead. Frau Christl was a middle aged, neurotic soul who loved money. Every morning she would grab the notes, kiss it passionately and stick it very deep into her ample bosom. Having said that, she was not stingy, and us poor staff regularly got special treats like strawberry cakes. 

I was the only person in the Pension who could speak English, which admittedly was not really good either, as I grew up in small town South Africa where we hardly ever heard or spoke English. I made the beds, cleaned the house, made breakfast, drove guests to and from the station. My main job was to go to the station early every morning and lure guests to come and stay at Pension Christl. I hated this part of the job with an unspeakable hatred. Firstly I felt like a stalker – and the reaction of the average person being stalked is not kind. Secondly, stalking was forbidden on the station. Considering the fact that I was working illegally, I was a prime target for the police! So – I spent my days dodging the station police, lurking behind pillars, jumping at unsuspecting tourists asking them if they are looking for accommodation. Nine out of ten times I was rudely brushed off, every now and then I caught one. Armed with the copy of Frommer’s, I then had to go to the public telephone, phone the house and get Tony to come and collect my prey. 

Tony was from Yugoslavia and stayed somewhere deep in the basement of the Pension. He had the face of a Troll, all squashed up like a Pug snorting for every breath. He always had a three day old beard and smelled of sweat and cigarettes, driving a scooter at the speed of light. Not the picture that creates confidence in neurotic guests that by now have been waiting with you at the telephone booth for fifteen minutes. Some just walked away – others I promised on my life that it was a beautiful place and that they would not be abducted by the Troll. Usually I would get the green light from Tony when the house was full – of course feeling like a total failure by 20h00 in the evening sometimes when I did not manage to succeed. (Tony killed himself in a scooter accident a few years after I left).

Every night it was my privelege to play the video cassette of “The Sound of Music”, as most tourists would go on a tour to the sights where some of the film was shot in and around Salzburg. Every night the same routine – tears and snot as the Von Trapps are finally free of the Nazis. 

There were two other permanent staff members – Desanka and a wiry young man of different abilities whose name I also forget. Both were from Yugoslawia, both annoyed me endlessly. What annoyed me more was the rudeness and utter stupidity of the tourists – I remember keeping a journal of their questions and comments. We decided that most people leave their brains at home when they travel. Be that as it may – I learnt about humility and patience which after almost 33 years I have still not mastered! I had some good times – especially with the Australian and NZ guests. Somehow our sense of humour connected, and I remember having amazing times at the Stiegl Cellar with them. Having spent most of my life this far in the service industry, I have a very sensitive ear for people who talk down to service staff… (Fascinating that half an hour after writing this I read in Brene Brown’s “Daring Greatly” about disconnection and the I – it relationship, when people treat others like objects. She refers to her own experience of being a waitress, and how humiliating it is when people do not see you as a person. Synchronicity remains one of the most fascinating things to me – how if our hearts and minds are open we recieve what we need from the Universe!).

Reading this again brings me to what it must feel like being old and vulnerable, not being seen or heard. Becoming disconnected. Is this not the root of all the anxiety of ageing? Loosing a sense of purpose, not being able to contribute (without judgement). Being shamed for not living up to expectations, being too slow. I cannot forget the image of the lady struggling up the stairs, alone going who knows where. And subsequently I have noticed so many Elders – sitting down to catch a breath, children being impatient because they did not hear the first time. A woman struggling on the Parthway of the Gods apologizing profusely for slowing us down – only to have me patronizingly tell her “don’t worry, it is not a problem at all”. Yea right – not for me. I could sense her feeling ashamed and embarrased. Nothing I said was going to change that.

Back to Positano – our last supper is again at the restaurant with the beautiful view. (Ok ok I know – most have that. But this one has a spectacular setting perched high above the ocean). Our waiter (to whom we were very kind before) makes sure we get the best table in the house, and indeed the best service. Our starter of a mixed platter of antipasta is laden with deep fried zuchinni, strips of prosciutto, a fresh ball of mozarella and a generous serving of melanzane parmigiano, topped with the freshest basil and rocket leaves. This plate in itself, even shared, is a full supper! Victor goes for Pasta Vongole (clams) and I dare to take the Tagliatelle Porcini. Dare, because I know exactly how rich it will be. And it does not disappoint! The texture of the porcini mushrooms is by itself enough to make you want do dig your head into the plate and slurp them up. The unique texture combined with a taste that does not compare to anything one could possibly describe in words make for the most heavenly meal imaginable. And – we hit the jackpot with a bottle of wine selected purely by price. (We have learnt our lesson with the vino della casa – wine of the house. I think they collect all the leftover wine and combine it in trough for that purpose). So – we go for one up from the cheapest, which in terms of the exchange rate is still bloody expensive – but worth every cent! It guides and compliments the meal, opening every possible taste bud to enhance the experience of being in heaven. 

We vow to cook like this again – in our vegetarian days we used to make the most delicious Italian food. Home-made pasta with delicate sauces, grilled vegetables and tempura delicacies. Then we started eating meat again and all the subtlety disappeared on the braai!