Last night we set the smoke alarm off in our apartment. It was quite a surprise, as we think this is the first place we’ve stayed in that actually had one fitted. As the screeching beast drew our attention to the charred steak on the stovetop, we frantically waved tea towels (in the fashion of my dear mother) at it, opened the doors and windows and tried our darndest to placate it. Nothing seemed to be working.
As it continued bleating, panic set in. We are staying in Atrani, a minute (possibly Italy’s smallest) village perched on a cliff top in the Bay of Salerno (Amalfi Coast) and I’m sure the wailing monster could be heard as far away as Naples. We wondered whether it needed to be reset by the fire brigade or perhaps it was malfunctioning.
Almost defeated, I turned the aircon on while Mick prodded it with broom handle. Then as we turned to each other, looks of exasperation spread across our faces, me on the verge of tears (lie), it stopped. Just like that. If not for the buzz of the air conditioner, the hum of the range-hood and the gale force ocean winds battering our worldly possessions around the apartment, I’m sure a sense of calm serenity would have washed across us.
As I mentioned earlier, we are staying in Atrani on the Amalfi Coast. A spectacular coastline where mountains, ravines, lemon orchards, white washed towns and terraced vineyards all meet black pebbled beaches and the inkiest blue ocean I’ve ever seen.
Our research prior to arriving was minimal and although Mick has proven himself a very capable driver we were not at all prepared for the hair-raising drive along the coast road. It follows the curve of the coast and is two lanes wide. Not Australian lanes, small Italian lanes, which to my eye appear about 70% of what we are used to. Adding to this, people park their cars all along the road, in the curves, lengthways, sideways or anyway that fits; making a tight squeeze even tighter. If you are ever offered a free upgrade for a hire car in Europe- politely say “No thank you, that is unless it comes with a complimentary prescription of Valium”.
Our knuckle-whitening experience went like this. We turned a corner and saw a coach stopped in an upcoming bend. It seemed to be parked, as all of the cars on our side of the road were driving past it. As we got nearer, the space between it and the opposite cliff face shrunk before our very eyes. It seemed impossibly small for our luxuriously sized Citroën C5 Exclusive (Thank-you very much!). So much so, that I pointed out the obvious to Mick “Babe, we ain’t gonna fit through”.
By this time we were blocked in, the coach on our left (it was now painfully obvious that she wasn’t parked, she was stuck), a queue of cars behind us and a merciless looking stone wall out the passenger side. Even after folding in the side mirrors the space was still gut wrenchingly tight. I was envisaging a gaping tear down my side of the car, much like when the iceberg hit or when an alien, in an alien movie decides it’s high time he meets his prey.
We got through, like Destiny’s Child we survived. We didn’t give up. At one point, my side of the car was so close to the cliff my hand could not have squeezed through the gap. Fo’ realsies. A saintly ambulance driver (one of the growing audience) helped guide us through, millimetre by millimetre. We only started breathing again once we were well past the growing line of traffic on the other side. I wonder what became of the coach.
There are a lot of stairs here. That’s why this blog is called jelly legs.
Peace out.
