In the spring of 2001, dad phoned me, said that he, and his cousin Bob, were thinking of going over to Amalfi in September and asked me if I wanted to go with him. It was a no-brainer of course.
We stayed at Bob's place in Slough the night before the flight. The flight was an early one from Heathrow and was to Rome. Not Naples. From Fiumicino, we got the shuttle to Roma Termini and from there we got the Eurostar Italia to Salerno. The buffet car on the train was superb. It had a real bar in it. There was a corner bar with bar stools and the rest of the carriage was filled up with cafe tables and chairs. A proper bar. We'd only just left the 'burbs of Rome when dad fell asleep and me and Bob went up to the bar for a drink and spent the rest of the journey there.
We'd rented an apartment that you had to climb a few steps to get to but once you got used to it, it was alright. It was a nice flat.
Bob was an instant hit with Maria, Luigi and everyone else to whom he was introduced. He's one of those charming characters that lights a place up ... and he looks the part; totally Italian. Like an extra from the set of La Dolce Vita.
We had a cracking time. Three fellas in Amalfi just enjoying the craic. The sun was hot, the food was good and the wine was better. The main occupation was sitting in the Piazza del Duomo with a drink watching the world go by.
There were a couple of things that stick in my memory though. The first was a really strange thing. Me and Bob went out on the boat to Capri - left dad reading on the beach. There was a 'couple' (English) who were all over each other like a rash but everything that they said and did suggested that they were father and daughter. Creepy!
The second was a Scottish couple to whom dad got talking. They were very pleasant and we spent almost an entire evening with them. We were sat at a restaurant in the main square and I was chatting to the chef (Sergio) who said, in passing, that dad had a real amalfitana face. I passed Sergio's comments on and the girl 'accused' me of trying to be an Italian. Told me I was an Englishman and should be happy with that. I was gobsmacked. Speechless. How could she have misunderstood so completely? I spent the rest of the evening speaking to Sergio, his wife and his sister-in-law. No point in talking to her. She didn't understand anything.
The third 'event' was one that shook the world. I was sat with a beer outside the Caffe Royal in the Piazza del Duomo with Bob. It was about half past three when one of the brothers who owns the place turned up for work. "There's been an aircrash". I looked up at him bemused. Confused. "In New York. An aircrash." I thought no more of it. I'll catch it on the news later.
Then, a little while later, one of his brothers came past. "Ue, Criscuolo! You'd better get home and get your gun. There's going to be a war." My face must have been a picture. "Two planes have crashed into a skyscraper in New York." An American couple sat front of us heard the mention of New York and asked me what it was about. I told her what I had been told. "Which skyscraper?" I shook my head. "No idea."
I shouted into the cafe. "Which skyscraper?" "Le torri gemelle." The twin towers. The American woman nearly died. "That's where my office is." I went inside to watch the news on the telly and report back. The Italian newscaster told of the two airliners crashing into the twin towers and a third crashing into the Pentagon. There was another story though that disappeared without a trace after about half an hour without any trace of an explanation - a fourth airliner had been shot down by USAF fighter aircraft.
We spent that evening with one of dad's and Bob's cousins - Matteo. Looking back, it was strange. The disaster that was to become known as 9/11 really didn't intrude into the holiday. It was too remote. Too unreal ... like everything in the 'outside world' when you're on holiday. The holiday seems to insulate you from reality.
There was one other thing. One evening, Bob and I went up to this piano bar looking for a bit of action. We went in and the place was empty apart from the barman. We ordered a drink and asked when we could expect it to liven up a bit. The barman promised us faithfully that it wouldn't take long. We left an hour later and went back to the Piazza del Duomo. There was a lot more life in the square ... and we could hear ourselves think.
On a more mundane level, by the end of this third visit it was getting so that I couldn't walk down the street without someone saying hello; how ya doin'? I was starting to feel at home in the place. To feel at ease; comfortable.
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