Perfection can be addictive

In October 2003, we were back again. Just the three of us and we were staying in a bed & breakfast just outside Amalfi in Castiglione di Ravello. Ravello's up in the mountains but this bit of it is on the coast road and overlooks the bay on which Minori and Maiori sit.

We'd chosen the place because it was run by a friend of ours and he'd given us a very good deal ... I think. Anyway, the place was called (is called) La Rosa dei Venti. It's a ten minute walk from Amalfi and a twenty minute walk from Minori - I should add that I'm 6' 3" (or 1.85m) so average walking times may vary.

As every other time, we spent a great deal of time in Pontone with Maria and Luigi. They'd go to the cemetery every Sunday at 4 o'clock in the afternoon to clean up their parents' graves, lay new flowers and pray and we went up with them on at least one occasion.

In Italy, if someone asks you round for a meal you either take a selection of sweet pastries and cakes or you take flowers. More often than not we'd take flowers though. Maria always took them to the cemetery on a Sunday and used them for her parents' graves. I've problem with that. It's sort of making a practical use out of something that's pretty but not very useful.

This time we didn't get the weather that we'd had every other year. It poured out of the heavens most of the time. I never took a coat with me. Didn't think I needed one. We'd been in October at least twice and the weather had been superb. Maria ended up giving me a Nastro Azzurro jacket that I still have and still wear in preference to any other jacket I own.

I wasn't in the least bit bothered. I wasn't there for the beach. Never had been. I'd set on the beach for five minutes and get bored. "Where d'you wanna go now then?" "D'you wanna do something now then?" I can sit on the beach for ages in the evening, when there's nobody else there, watching the sun go down (which never seems to take long on the Med) and just listening to the sound of the waves. Beaches with people on them have no attraction for me at all though.

Anyway, back to 2003. I'm sure it was 2003. Doesn't matter really I s'pose. Life was good. We wandered around the place. Went to Sorrento where I tried my damn'dest not to look like a tourist nor to sound like a tourist.

But my principal aim, as it was every other time I'd come over, was to socialize myself into this society. To learn the rules. To learn to be one of them. I have to say that it's really difficult when you don't speak their dialect ... or if you can speak a bit of it but get completely lost when they speak it at 90 to the dozen.

When we left after two weeks my Italian was just starting to get back into gear again, I'd met more relatives, made more friends and reaffirmed the friendships that I'd made on our previous visits.

I cried when we said goodbye to Maria. I know. That's no way for a grown man in his forties to behave but I couldn't help it. When I was a kid and we were living in Devon and nan and grampa were still living in Bucks, we used to go up for a couple of weeks to stay with them. I felt just like I used to when we got in the car to go back to Devon. I used to cry then too.

I had to find a way of maintaining my Italian at a decent standard though. You go a year without speaking it at all and then you land in Naples and you have to speak it right off the bat. I could. Of course. But I had to think about it and concentrate on what I was saying. There had to be a way round that. I think I found it years later but I'll come to that when the time comes.

Senatus Populusque Romanus

In August 2002 we were back. Me, the missus and the kid (and one of his mates) was back in Amalfi. This time though we'd decided that we was going to spend a few days in the Città Eterna at the end of the holiday so we booked our return flights to Rome (Fiumicino).

We'd taken an apartment (not a flat mind you) but, if I'm honest, I have to say we didn't do much self-catering. We were still getting €1.50 to the £1 and life in Euroland was good. We went to Pompeii and Herculaneum again for my lad's mate's benefit ... and because I just love them.

Maria loved my lad's mate because he'd eat 'til he burst. No matter how much she put in front of him, he'd eat it. He's not a big lad either. Bit of a belly but nothing particularly worrying. He was only about 15 and full of energy. Not surprising really.

After two weeks in Amalfi, we got the bus to Salerno station and got the train to Roma Termini - sort of like Roma Euston if you like, or Roma Victoria. We arrived at Salerno station with about half an hour to spare and I went up to the little ticket window to buy a ticket. "Two adults and two kids to Roma Termini please." The ticket-man says there's no second class tickets left; only first class tickets. How much are they then? €36 each! £24 for a single first class ticket for a journey that's the equivalent of Liverpool or Manchester to London!! Unreal!

When we got to Rome, we checked into a hotel that had been booked for us by a mate of mine who was a member of the military wing of the Finance Ministry in Italy - the Guardia di Finanze. Nice Hotel and dead central. Can't rememer for the life of me what it was called but it had a name that alluded to ancient Rome.

Having checked in we went out to do the tourist bit. I love Rome. There's something about it that is irresistible. The atmosphere. The people. The city itself. I love it. We went to the Flavian Amphitheatre, the Circus Maximus (the Roman equivalent of Royal Ascot but every day) and, after some discussion, St Peter's Square. My wife, having been permanently psychologically scarred by the nuns, was very reluctant to go at all.

There was a curious thing though. As you approach the Basilica, from whatever direction, there are a legion of souvenir shops selling all sorts of religious artifacts from small statues of the Madonna to massive pictures of the Sacred Heart. The curious thing was they all sold busts of Mussolini! Bizarre. I was tempted but good sense got the better of me.

That evening we met up with my mate from the military wing of the Finance Ministry and he and his wife took us for dinner in a very nice restaurant. After dinner I was taught about the Italian obsession with good coffee and good ice cream. There is no room for compromise in either case.

He asked us whether we wanted a coffee and when we said yes, he put us in the car and drove us half way across Rome. The coffee was stunning of course and the journey had clearly been worth it. After that he asked the two boys if they would like an ice cream. When he got an energetic yes, he herded us all back into the car and drove us back across Rome to another place to the only place where one can enjoy Italian ice cream at its best in Rome.

I did learn the taste of a decent coffee from that though and, to this day, I remain incredibly particular about the standard of my espresso (caffé in God's own language). The only chain that even comes close is Costa and that is bettered by a country mile by a little place on Theobald's Road in London called Sfizio. Brilliant place! I'm told that the Bar Italia in Frith Street in Soho is at least as good.