When I originally submitted my memoir, "Are We There Yet?", to the editor it was almost 120,000 words. I was advised that that was too long for a memoir. It was suggested that I cut it to 90,000 words or less. In order to do so, I had to edit out some of my favorite "Crazy Travel Stories of Cheryl & Hank". This is one of them.Enjoiy!
In the
summer of 1992, Hank and I took a train through the Swiss Alps to Italy, spending
two days
in Interlaken on the way. We rented the only car Hertz had left that day, a huge black BMW sedan
which we nick-named "the Beast". It was the
road trip of a lifetime: We took a romantic gondola ride in
Venice, stood in
awe before Michaelangelo’s David in Florence, and ate way too many Roman
gnocchi’s while exploring the City of Seven Hills. Without a GPS, there was
nary a hill in Rome that
we missed.
From
Rome, we headed to Sorrento and Positano. The road runs along the edge of steep cliffs
over 300feet above the Tyrrhenian Sea, which flows into the
Mediterranean. This narrow twisty road—the only one along that stretch of the
coastline—offers captivating views but precarious turns and extremely narrow
driving lanes. If you miss a turn or get too close to the edge, it’s a long way
down.
As amazing as the views were along this route, I spent much of the drive
with my sweater over my head, afraid to look out the window. We did eventually
arrive safely at our hotel, which was right on the water. The hotels along the
Amalfi coast are built at beach level, well below the Amalfi Coast Road above.
Most have steep driveways down to the office and some have funiculars to carry
guests from the beach back up to the hotel or street level. After the
treacherous drive to get there, we were happy just to check-in.
We spent three days exploring the Amalfi coast, stopping along the way at roadside
pottery stands and vendors of Italian street food. Since what goes down must
come up, our exit from the hotel required us to drive the BMW up the steep hill
from the hotel back to the Coast Road after we checked out. As we left the
office area, there were two directional signs in Italian, which we were unable
to read. This led to a brief argument with Hank saying that we should go “this
way”, and me insisting that we should go “that way”. Since he was driving, we
headed up the hill in the direction Hank had chosen.
As we crept
our way along, the driveway became narrower and narrower and I began to ask Hank, “Are you sure this is the right way?” He insisted it was so
we kept going until we were stopped by two enormous ceramic plant pots filled
with geraniums, one on each side of the driveway. Because our BMW was so wide,
we couldn’t drive between the two. This caused me to wonder, once again, how
this could possibly be the correct exit from the hotel. Why would they place
these behemoths this close to the only exit road?
But Hank insisted, so,
feeling like a foolish American tourist, I got out of the car, made sure no one
was looking, and leaned all my weight against the pots, one by one, managing to
move each of them a few inches so that we could squeeze through. Once we did,
we could see that after another few steep meters of gravel, the road leveled
off. Maybe we’d finally made it!
Except
we hadn’t. As we drove over the crest of the hill, Hank slammed on the brakes
so that we wouldn’t hit a cluster of patio tables sporting colorful umbrellas,
and, most embarrassing of all, the well-dressed and tanned guests sitting under
them sipping their morning mimosas. Apparently, the sign we chose to follow led
not back to the Coast Road, but to the rooftop bar!
I was
so mortified I would have liked to disappear into my seat but Hank remained
undaunted. He had just started to turn “the beast” around when two waiters ran
out of the cabana waving their arms and screaming something in Italian. I think
it may have been a good thing that we couldn’t understand them.
They gestured
for Hank to get out of the car, moved tables, pushed more potted geraniums out
of the way, and turned the car around, as the wealthy sun-glassed cocktail
guests stared at us as if we had just landed a UFO in their midst. I couldn’t
wait to get out of there! Hank insists that my version of the story has “grown”
over the years but I warn him that she who writes the memoir gets to tell the
tale.
