A BEAUTIFUL RELATIONSHIP

Lunch at Prestofa

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? What would she have said if someone had told her she was English?  I spent the rest of the evening speaking to Sergio, his wife and his sister-in-law. No point in talking to the Scotswoman. 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.

Matteo & Marco Criscuolo

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.

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 remember for the life of me what it was called but it had a name that alluded to ancient Rome.

View across Rome at sunset

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.

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.

Siena

In 2006 my wife and I went to Venice, Verona, Peschiera del Garda, Longarone and in 2007 to Pisa, Lucca, Siena and Pistoia.  I have enjoyed all of them although I have to say that I find the denizens of la Toscana rather strange. I have spent the last ten years wandering around Italy with a red-haired, Irish wife so that - whether I look Italian or not - I am clearly identifiable as a tourist. When we sit down to eat or drink, I open my mouth and I speak Italian with a southern accent and, although there are mistakes in there they are not very frequent. That visual contradiction has the effect that wherever we go, Italians talk to me ... except in Tuscany (Toscana sounds so much better - or is it Etruria?).

In Veneto people talked to me. In Friuli-Venezia-Giulia people talk to me. In Campania people talk to me. Nella Toscana they say nothing. Perfunctory. Brusque. Taciturn. Not Italian? There is a theory that the Toscani consider themselves to be something better than Italian.

In Italy people are loyal first to their 'region' and then to their country - especially where food is concerned. However, the Toscani elevate this to another level.

I wouldn't say that I've 'done' Toscana. I've been to a few places there. What I don't understand is the English love affair with the place.

Have you ever taken the train from Venezia Santa Lucia to Longarone? Have you ever driven across the mountains from theAutostrada del Sole to Vietri sul Mare and along the coast road on the south coast of the Sorrento Peninsula (la Costiera Divina)? Have you ever taken the bus from Caserta into the Apennines to tiny villages like Alife? Have you ever driven up into the Dolomiti? Have you ever been to Lake Garda on an October's day when there isn't a tourist within 100 miles of the place? Have you walked along the banks of the Adige in Verona or the Arno in Pisa? Have you left the Piazza San Marco and the Canale Grande behind in Venice and allowed yourself to get lost in the backstreets? Have you sat in a bar and sipped on a glass of wine or a cup of coffee to the mellow sounds of Pino Daniele? Have you sat down to a meal with a group of Italians and watched them argue with the chef about how he should cook the meal you've just ordered?

Before you tar Italy with Tuscany's brush, do all of those things. Tell me then where you'd rather be.

I've done all these things and thoroughly enjoyed the sublimity of them ... and there's still so much more to do. So much more! It is entirely possible that 'the promise' has become an obsession but ...