Dispatch from Amalfi

National Geographic’s Traveler, in its Millennium edition, listed the best places in the world to go and see.  I remember one of the top 10 as the Amalfi Coast - a short stretch of south facing cliffs and villages between Pompei’s volcano, and Salerno’s WWII invasion beach.  Jean’s choice for a cooking school, our main genesis for an Italian holiday, not only turned out to be in this very village of Amalfi, but in a hotel that has been part of the scene here since the early 11th century.  After my moving experience in Assisi, it is ironic that we sleep in this ex-convent (yet with monks, not nuns) that was founded by Francis himself, in 1222.  The Saint might have even stayed in our room and enjoyed our expansive deck and big bathtub overlooking the tiny harbor, (but he probably did without the bubble-bath and mini-bar).

The Barbaro family opened the building to paying travelers in 1822 after the Pope surrendered Amalfi to the Kingdom of Naples.  Many generations later, an 80+ year old Signorina Barbaro, sits downstairs watching over her staff.  These few dozen guestrooms have been visited by the who’s-who crowd; from Bismarck to Mussolini to Tennessee Williams.  Both Ibsen and Wagner claimed the hotel as muse for one of their works.  Just today, an author writing a book on art history, was photographing the old oils gracing the hotel’s public areas.

Even the hotel staff fits the mold, while not being at all moldy.  At breakfast, our waiter is the aging Luigi, a Neapolitan cross between Charlie Chapman and the Munster's Lurch.  He serves us our daily cappuccini repleasent in white coat and wing collar.  I sip with my pinky out, but feel like a Saracen in a Cathedral.

The cooking school classroom is in “The Tower”, an even older part of the hotel, that was built on a rocky point to prevent the real Saracens from landing and doing what Saracens do.  When Jean and I landed, we found the cooking school was all our torsos feared - no one travels to Italy to learn to cook lite salads and diet dip. The head chef is Pinocchio’s father come to life.  His name is Enrico and he speaks no English.  His every energetic word is quickly translated into the Queen’s English when he calls out  to "Rosemarie!"  She is a taciturn and proper lady who left London on holiday 35 years ago, took one look at the magic Amalfi coast, (and an Italian stallion named Pepe) and has lived here ever since.  The combination of Enrico’s “Gepetto on amphetamines”, and her “Nelson pacing the quarterdeck”, is a comedy act fit for prime time.

Andre, the chef’s/sorcerer's apprentice, does Mickey’s job of cleaning, stirring and carrying, while passing spoons and wisks like a surgical nurse.  Add in the talented hands of the 14 lady students, (and subtract the efforts of this one male interloper) and the speed at which the food is produced, in restaurant sized proportions, is astounding.  Siestas become a necessity of survival after eating the morning classwork - all washed down with Pepe’s (now Rosemarie’s husband) fine local wine.

Amalfi town reminds us of Catalina Island’s Avalon, steeply clinging to a small inlet full of small boats.  It is the oldest of the maritime republic states and did some very early voyaging to open up trade with the orient.  As a result, they claim the invention of the compass, rudder, nautical rules-of-the-road, and the Knights of Malta; as well as the introduction of coffee, carpets and paper into Europe.  Some paper is still made here with the waterfall-powered tools from the 13th century.  

Thankfully, our pending return to backpacker status will prevent any heavy souvenirs from the area’s famous ceramics shops.  Instead, Jean has found a scarf, with a long Italian name, that will grace her ensemble when we have our final and formal school dinner tomorrow.  I will change my wardrobe with an obligatory new hole in my belt.

- Rodufio Ravioli

Quiz:  Why does the backpacker prefer European style hotels?