Lingering Impressions of Amalfi Travel

“Positano bites deep.” That according to John Steinbeck and certainly seconded by me and my traveling party, only we would apply the phrase to all of the Amalfi Coast. Only home a week now, I have no trouble evoking images of those marvelous Praiano sunrises. Opening the shuttered doors of our hotel room, we delighted each morning to the spectacular scarlet hued transformation of night to day. And at the end of the day, walking just up the hill from our hotel and turning west, we were treated to another solar spectacle. For fleeting minutes, the Praiano sunset lends its striking illumination to the majolica tiled dome of San Genarro, the cayenne rooftops of Positano, and the jagged limestone coastlines of distant Capri.

What I called “Sensory Overloads” were common occurrences on this trip to the Amalfi Coast. Our first morning we were treated to Tosca’s “Puccini” played by a military band on the tiled piazza just outside the church. Being a day the Bishop visited, families gathered at this village church, as aged and stooped little ladies in their sensible black pumps bustled about inside the church, making sure the flowers were placed, the candles were lit, and all was in order for this very important visitor. Outside the band played on and the beautifully dressed grandchildren begged their grandfathers for money to buy a balloon from the balloon man strategically stationed for just such purchases. And just over this seemingly levitating piazza is the beautiful blue of the Tyrrhenian Sea. Not a bad way to start our day and our nine day visit to the Amalfi Coast.

Visiting beautifully ornate churches throughout this area was a history lesson, usually suggesting the wealth of their past. Their vast fishing industry, silk industry, and holiday repose for various emperors, corporate tycoons, and movie stars brought wealth to the villages early on. Mostly today their income seems to come from tourists who revel in the tarnished as well as the natural beauty that abounds.

And there is such great beauty to be found at every turn. As one guidebook says, “The camera almost clicks itself.” The gardens of Villa Cimbrone in Ravello were no exception, and the early morning light and small number of tourists were in our favor. Ravello was only one of our many excursions, but perhaps my favorite. Pompeii was an amazing and enduring testimony to the sophistication of the Roman’s culture and engineering. Collecting the dust on my shoes, I continued to look up to Mount Vesuvius in awe, always wondering of the lure that keeps civilizations building in its dark shadows.

Positano is definitely a vertical experience, as is Capri. We shake our heads in amazement considering what a feat of engineering was accomplished in hollowing out these mountain sides. Lemon studded Amalfi was Italy’s earliest maritime republic and a hub of great eastern trade reflected in the Byzantium architecture of the Duomo of St. Andrea. The piazza in front of this Duomo buzzes with gelato shops, jewelry shops, and the very popular ceramics shops seen throughout this coast.

Lemons, lemons, everywhere-- but not our typical grocery store lemons. No, these baseball sized lemons hang from terraced trees on most any available land, even inside restaurants. They are used in many of the Italian dishes, but their most popular use in this part of Italy is the renowned Limoncello. This after dinner drink is the perfect ending to all our perfect days on this coast!

The thirty mile stretch of exquisite coastline is often hard to enjoy when riding any vehicle that drives on this one and one-half lane coastal highway. Luckily we did not drive this, but left it to the questionable expertise of hired drivers or bus drivers or our hotel shuttle. It is not uncommon for these one and one-half lanes, marked for two cars, to questioningly accommodate two cars, a bus, a motorcycle, and a delivery truck, as well as the car that weaves through all this, determined for what or where I have no idea. All the travel guides print about roadway rage is true, but not our typical American road rage. Italian road rage, while sounding and appearing serious, seems only to be another of their communication tools, just a bit more serious than “Caio!” It’s such a way of life for them, they seemed amused when we appear to be cringing in the back seat. Vincent, our favorite driver, could handle all this and still quote his favorite recipe for Mushroom Risotto and his father’s famous dried fig confection, made for the Christmas holidays.

We soon learned the advantages of hiring a water taxi transport from village to village. Admiring the mountain side terraces, homes and churches from this seaside perspective soon became a preferred way of travel. Not only could we gain new perspective of the villages, but we could come almost close and personal to the huge yachts sailing this sea, watch swimmers dodge the jellyfish abounding in these waters,and visit many of the water caves that put the bright turquoise of this Tyrrhenian Sea to its full advantage. And always we made conversation with these local water taxi skippers, learning a bit of the colorful local lore.

Language never seemed to be a problem even though the local Praiano villagers, especially the older villagers we met on the street, spoke almost no English. The younger folks usually had some command of our English, as did most shop and restaurant owners. Their limited English and our lack of Italian never seemed to impede our respective understandings. Other than mastering the common daily phrases of Buongiorno, Buona sera, Grazie, and Prego, we simply put our English into the marvelous Italian cadence, and everyone seemed happy with that.

Ahhh. . . the food and the wine. What’s not to like, or should I say revere, about the culinary experience of this Campanian region of Italy? In choosing a restaurant we always deferred to Gary, our travel companion of pure Italian descent. Rather than a visit to a restaurant, we always had a dining experience, and by the time we left, we usually had met most of the kitchen staff, the chef, and the entire Italian family who owned the restaurant. Gary charmed them all with his earnestness to know more about their families, their histories, and most of all their culinary skills. Campania is a foodie’s delight with its abundance of the freshest ingredients, especially the tomatoes, basil, and fresh cheeses. Its dishes were always enhanced with the local olive oil, fresh herbs, and lemons. As novices, Doug and I ate many wood fired pizzas and the beloved Caprese salad, but soon warmed to the seafood laden pasta dishes. We ate pasta we had never experienced and came to know the marvelous taste of freshly prepared gnocchi. Being well known for their seafood, the Amalfi Coast treated us to delicious prawns, squid, clams, mussels, and a variety of the day’s catch of fish, often brought to the table on ice, awaiting our selection. Always, this feast for the eyes as well as the stomach, was eaten from the local and colorful Majolica pottery.

And certainly what was not to like about the wine? We drank the local Amalfi area wines with every meal but breakfast. The no-sulfite reds became a favorite, Doug often holding out for the fruitier whites. Of course no wine labels offered a hint as to the grape -- be it chardonnay or merlot, we drank to our heart’s content. And the coffees! From the morning cups drunk in our hotel to the cappuccino I preferred in the afternoon, violating the Italian custom of drinking cappuccino as a breakfast beverage, I loved every cup. Doug, being the ice cream aficionado, sought out more than a few gelato shops, usually enticing us all to join him with the paper umbrella decorated parfaits.

Let me not forget to mention our market experience. Most every afternoon after 5:00 when the market reopened, Gary, Judy, Doug and I walked down to the local grocer, usually to purchase our before dinner appetizers. After Doug and Gary carefully studied the contents of the butcher’s selection of cured meats and cheeses for the day and heard the butcher’s recommendations, the decisions were made. The butcher then proceeded to hand cut our meats while we worked hard not to drool over the glass counter. After our preferences of fruits, wine, olives and breads were made, we climbed back up the hill to enjoy this evening ritual of patio delights, including what ships were sailing the Tyrrhenian that afternoon.


It is difficult to close this memory studded Amalfi Coast experience. Of course we returned with the usual mementos -- a few small rocks and shells stuffed into pockets along our way, a few ceramic pieces carefully packaged for travel, and one bottle of limoncello we’ll probably save forever. The photographs play over and over on the kitchen counter frame, but all the wonderful memories play over and over in our hearts. Arrivederci Amalfi!

Pompeii Dust, Dirty Clothes, and Asters

Sitting amongst piles of dirty clothes hastily unpacked from my suitcase last night, I long for that morning wake up call of unbelievable sunrises and Tyrrhenian Sea breezes. But right now I can be happy to settle for this gorgeous 62 degree, sun filled morning in Georgia.

No matter that I suffered from a considerable lack of sleep (5 hours in the last 40), the first place I headed on setting down the suitcases, was my back yard garden. Two days of welcomed rain prior to our arrival has made everything (well almost everything) in the garden stand up straight and salute my return. Even having just seen the marvelous Villa Cimbrone gardens of Ravello, my backyard beauties stand the test. The profuse blooms of the purple asters, recently moved to a new spot in the garden, demonstrate their happiness with quite a show. The bright yellow swamp sunflowers, given to me by a neighbor and just budding when we left home, are happy to take the place of the faded summer phlox. My much awaited lavender mums burst with buds promising to open most any day. And all of this to a backdrop of bright blue skies and gentle fall breezes coaxing the maples to begin their transformation.

And so as I return from ten days spent on the glorious Amalfi Coast of Italy, I do so knowing that the Piedmont of Georgia offers its own special beauty, comparable to most any place on the globe. Time to shake the Pompeii dust from my shoes and start the wash, comforted by awesome memories and thoughts of the colorful autumn that my little corner of the world promises me.

Fingerprints

The grandchildren and their parents left yesterday after a weekend visit. There is comfort in the routine that Doug and I so easily slip back into following one of these visits, but the delightful memories linger and so too the fingerprints. The fingerprints are mostly left on the glass of the French doors leading to the back yard. A wise neighbor, a grandmother herself, once told me to leave the fingerprints as a reminder of the grandchildren’s visit. She said she left them for several days, providing her with great remembrances. And so, I too never fail to leave the fingerprints.

No longer are they the prints of a toddler, two and three feet off the steps. No, the prints are quite a bit higher now and not as many. The maturing hands so very often have found the door knobs now, but a few of the fingerprints are there, and I will leave them for the week. What fun we had building a fire in the firepit on the garden terrace and roasting marshmallows for our s’mores. Each grandson had his own style for how a marshmallow should be roasted, some smoldering, others catching the flames to become their own torch. A small entry into the personal style that each is creating for himself, as distinctive as the fingerprints of each.

As grandparents we can only hope that we leave an imprint on their lives, and certainly that we leave memories. Here’s hoping we leave fingerprints that don’t get cleared away for some time.

Fall IS on the Way!

Take heart all ye Southern gardeners. Fall seems to be making an entry, albeit with some 90 degree temperatures still, but there are real signs of this only heretofore imagined autumn. My walk around the neighborhood block reveals a freshness in the air, bright blue cloudless skies, and lengthened shadows. If I time the walk just right, I am also blessed with the high school band tuning up for their Friday night halftime performances. Does anything say fall like football?

Fall has always marked my New Year. Perhaps this is a reflection of all my years of teaching. Time to start the calendar, rev the engines, and make use of the energy level that summer drained away. Of course my garden delights in this possibility too. Time to cut back many past their prime plants and replenish a few spots. I can’t wait to get my hands on the bedding mums -- nothing smells like fall any more than those brightly colored chrysanthemums happily planted among my other fading perennials. I often regret allowing these mums so little time in my garden, yanking them up to plant the pansies as soon as frost seems imminent. I hope they know what delight they bring to me in such a short time.

Listening to the school bus as it stops to pick up the neighborhood children, my mind starts to process the day. No, not with bulletin boards and lesson plans, but thoughts of breakfast on the patio and where to shop for those mums!

Kitchen Window Beauties!

My kitchen window serves me well. It is the place where great ideas bubble up and profound insights are realized. Well, maybe!? And of course it is most often entry into my backyard nature, especially when weather or life’s other events keep me inside. This morning was no exception.

Peeling the last of my fresh and deliciously dripping Georgia peaches, I looked up to see goldfinches at the left feeder and a ruby throated hummingbird on the right. As usual, by the time my hands were cleaned and the camera was found, they were gone, but not for long. To my delight many flew into the feeders, not all goldfinches nor ruby throated hummingbirds, but others as well. A few agreed to have their beauty photographed as they dined, and only too late did I ask myself why I hadn’t removed the window screens that I usually do for the summer.

The goldfinches have always been such a delight to see when they fly through and visit the feeder, often in numbers, families I suppose. I must study up on their habits, but I now remember how well they love the old fashioned Black-eyed Susans, wildflowers actually, and many other of the yellow flowers that are fairly prolific in the garden right now. Just yesterday I had almost cut back the Black-Eyed Susans which are looking really bedraggled now, but I was reluctant, wanting to give them one last stand. I’m so glad I left them to host those little golden jewels.

Through the Lens of a Camera

I think one of the things that intrigues me most about photography is the ability to focus on the beautiful. This morning’s magnificent Pee Dee hydrangea bloom gives no hint to the totally burned leaves of the mopheads sharing the same hot and sultry garden bed. Throughout my blistered July garden I do find beautiful places to focus my lens.

I turn away from the newly planted and already wilting tomato plants to find the adjacent three year old Japanese maple saying, “Look at me! I’m making it.” It has recovered so amazingly from having several limbs succumb to a falling Leyland cyprus in a past winter snow. The maple’s leaves are a bright emerald green, showing few signs of heat prostration. So many bright yellow blooms, some beginning to lose a few petals, but others standing tall and resistant to the already brutal morning’s heat. I capture a stunning showing of golden blossoms, taking care to avoid the foliage of the spent lilies behind them. Through my camera’s lens I focus on a lovely pink coneflower bloom, not the spent and dusty brown petals of its sister flowers sharing the same stalk.

A ray of sun catches a remaining sprinkler droplet on a trio of rose blooms, and with my lens I am able to isolate them from all those brown and crinkled neighbors, awaiting a deadheading attack. Yes, I was glad to have my camera along this morning to improve my perspective. I can only hope that my Creator is using a similar lens on me.

My Window Garden

I knew it would come to this, just not quite so soon. Usually into August, in the dog days of summer, my garden becomes a “window garden.” But this year, with temperatures in the mid 90’s starting as early as June, I’ve pretty much left my garden to the butterflies, birds, and the bees already. That’s certainly not to say that its glorious rainbowed beauty is going unappreciated, but just mostly from the perspective of my kitchen window. My strolls through the garden are early morning or late evening, accompanied with the beverage of my choice, no longer trowel or shovel. I pray for rain and cooler temperatures, but doesn’t everyone here in the Southeast?

Those little sunflower heads that began blooming last week and disappointed me with their size have put on a quite a stage show this week, dancing with the afternoon breezes. In mass, their chorus line is lovely and very inviting to what appears to be miniature honey bees who nestle and buzz in those brown powder puff centers. And the dwarf zinnias that I used to replace some spent perennials have now put my taller and mostly wilted zinnias to shame. Lots of color, a successful annual entry into the mostly perennial garden. Just more testimony to the wonder and unpredictability of gardening.