By 1998, I had decided that I was ready. I had all the information that I needed. It was time to try again. To try again to go back to Amalfi. It wasn't really a going back of course because I'd never been there but that's what it felt like.
I had no idea how to go about organizing it. No idea where to start. What to expect. What to do. It must have been early in 1999 when I went to my local Thompson (or is that Thomson? No. It's definitely Thompson) and booked a package deal ... for me, my wife and my 9-year-old son.
It suddenly occurred to me (or maybe it was to my wife that it occurred) that we had to take dad. We had to ask him at the very least whether he wanted to come along. The name 'Pontone' was as much a part of his identity as it was a part of mine. He said yes. There were going to be three generations of Criscuolo making the journey. It all seemed so right.
On a gorgeous day in October 1999 (I'm ashamed to say that I can't remember what date it was), we took off from Manchester airport bound for Naples. It was late morning when we landed at Capodichino airport and after having been churned through the mill through which arriving tourists are ground when they arrive at any airport anywhere in the world, we got on the coach that was to take us to Amalfi.
Out of the airport, onto the Autostrada del Sole and southwards until we cut west onto the Sorrento peninsula. Through Cava dei Tirreni, Vietri sul Mare, Cetara, Maiori and Minori - mountainscapes of outstanding beauty - with the sun beating down on our coach and my heart leaping out of my chest we wound our way until we reached the last headland - Capo del Orso - and turned the last bend.
Then I saw it. Just like on that old picture postcard. Was this home? Was this real? Had I finally made it? I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Our hotel was just off the main square - Piazza del Duomo - and we were very soon booked. Stood on the balcony dad and I looked out over the marinas ... and cried.
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