Positano, and Near Miss #2

Finally in Positano. After an arduous car transfer, luggage drop, taxi ride, train trip, taxi transfer, hydrofoil haul and then sweat-inducing, muscle-pulling, can-we-just-STOP-now walk straight up the sheer face of a cliff hauling way too much luggage and sleepy child, we are here. It is breathtakingly lovely, and the prices are sky-high. Everyone is nice, though, rather unlike the hustle and bilk attitude of Napoli.
Honestly, I am a little scared of Napoli. Imagine this scenario: The minute you step off the train you are accosted by touts for everything from taxi rides to hotel stays to candy. They wrap their arms around you and slip their hands into your pockets. You walk to an official taxi rank and some shill walks up and starts directing “taxi” traffic, and you slide right into the car of an imposter. The whole way to your destination he is trying to talk you into a “deal” of some sort that he can hook you up with. Of course he doesn’t speak English, and of course you don’t speak Italian, so you wave your hands furiously at each other until one of the other gives in. From afar it looks as though you are two regular Italians having normal conversation, gesticulating wildly.
The city of Napoli is dirty and crazy. People must have earplugs and caffeine jolts to survive. The Vespas dart in and out of traffic at a speed that makes Roman Vespas look like tricycles. Clare decided to take this moment of madness and make it even more exhilarating. While I was changing her diaper and washing her hands at the Molo Beverello harbor, she yanked her wet hand out of my wet hand and ran down a short ramp, straight into oncoming traffic. The attendant, normally busy cleaning under his fingernails with a paperclip, leapt from his chair and put his body before hers in traffic. I was milliseconds behind, but the drama was a slow clip-by-clip play of a tragedy unfolding with no apparent ending. I grabbed the attendant forcefully by the shoulders and considered, briefly, kissing him square on his greasy, sunburnt lips. American prudence took over and I released him to retreat back inside the Servizio, where I was torn with the decision to either hit my child (normal reaction for fear-induced terror) or simply hold her so tightly that her eyes bulged slightly and speak to her in grave tones [the New Parenting (and highly physically unsatiating) way of dealing with surprise, fear, and horror. I dug two 1 Euro coins out of my purse with shaking hands (it cost just 10 cents to enter) and made Clare hand the attendant a paltry $4 for saving her tiny life.
After that incident, she fell asleep peacefully on the hydrofoil, drooling copiously onto my sleeve. We rounded the point of the Amalfi coast ad laid eyes on our present stay, Positano. I write this from our “Glorified Cave” as Tom calls it, carved into the steep hillside of a sheer cliff. The road way is suspended over us at about 200 ft, a precarious linkage of concrete slabs embedded in the rocky hillside. Prickly cactus and scrub clings to the face, and they shiver when the cars rolls by. Our apartment smells strongly of damp from the water running between the rivulets in the mountainside, and the fact the neighbor’s garden sits directly over both of our bathrooms. Damp on damp on damp. But there is air conditioning, a glorious courtyard where we consumed a lovely bottle of Pinot Grigio this afternoon, and an alimentary up the hillside with the tastiest fresh mozzarella I’ve ever eaten. There is the Verde bar a bit down the road, and the sweet shops selling everything at a very dear price. There is the waterfront, with its grey pebbles and numerous polished sea glass pieces. There are the nightly fireworks (at midnight no less) so loud and reverberating that it is as though someone is standing over you with a cookie sheet and a baseball bat, whacking excitedly. The baby is terrified into prolonged cries just as she begins to sleep deeply.
There is the throng of tourists, all trying to blend in and all failing miserably. I am happy to be among them, here, where it is normal to be from anywhere else. I almost dread the return to Rome, where you are expected to assimilate quickly, completely, and wholly -- immediately. Our apartment situation is sketchy, and the rest is a mystery. I suppose this is what adventure is really about. One can only hope.