Five days behind the wheel of a rental car have brought to my attention two things:

1.  Italian highways are a California driver’s dream come true.
2.  Italian drivers are insane.

Earlier this week we picked up a rental car – a short and squat white Mercedes of an economy class not available in the states – and drove three hours from Rome to the Amalfi Coast.  It took less than two minutes on the highway for me to understand the rules of the road.  Of the three lanes, the left one was empty.

Completely.

And it stayed that way except for the occasions when a car in the middle lane pulled out to pass, after which, it promptly returned.  It was the least aggravating driving experience of my life.

Until we pulled off in Napoli.

I’d read somewhere that Napoli is home to the best pizza in the world.  It seemed like something worth investigating. Some quick research surfaced a ‘must visit’ pizzeria in the center of Napoli – noteworthy because they make their own mozzarella fresh each day.  For the entire two hour drive from Rome we craved it.

Napoli; however, turned out to be larger than we’d imagined.  Much.  In spite of my directions, I soon had us in the center of what looked like the industrial district.  This was where the civilized driving code of the highway degenerated into complete and total mayhem.

Italians don’t stop.  They don’t signal. They honk so often you can’t tell if it’s at you or someone else or just for the hell of it.  Lanes are merely a suggestion.

We gave up on my pizzeria, instead eating at a place so obscure that the owner asked us, in very broken english, “how did you find this?” We had no clue, which made getting out of Napoli a bit of a crap-shoot.

After a harrowing 40 minutes, involving one particularly skillful left-hand turn across four lanes of traffic (huge props to David, dented hub-cap aside), we made it back onto the highway with 70% confidence that we were headed the right direction.

Within an hour we were wrapping around the hair-pin turns of the Amalfi Coast on a highway lined with lush vegetation, several hundred feet above crashing waves.  It was the stuff of car commercials.

We eventually arrived at our destination, a sleepy hilltop town called Saint Agata where the uncivilized drivers were made more bearable thanks to the limited number of intersections and far-fewer cars.  We were relieved to have three days ahead of us unwind from the drive.

Blue skies on the first day inspired us to check out a beach we’d read about in nearby Nerrano, which turned out to be even sleepier than Saint Agata.  We’d gone there expecting to find a cafe for breakfast but found only a small store with an ancient espresso machine.

As the elderly proprietor made our double espressos, I looked around the store and realized it was not obvious what it sold.  The place was filled with salvaged plastic bottles and styrofoam made into art pieces that looked more akin to an elementary school project.  From a stereo somewhere, Italian Christmas music (Little Town of Bethlehem) competed with a BBC news report that broadcasted from a black and white television in the corner.  The man offered us homemade almond cakes (which we gladly accepted) and then, after our espressos, limoncello (which we politely declined).

Yesterday, after visiting the island of Capri, we continued driving southeast along the Amalfi Coast, slowly (very slowly) making our way to a beach town called Santa Maria. 

The drive was enjoyable right up until the sun set completely.  In pitch blackness, Italy is a confusing place – made more so by the absence of GPS or even a detailed map.  But sometimes a lack of confidence in direction does not necessarily mean you’re going the wrong way, as was fortunately the case for us.  After a few turnarounds to double-check road signs I, the navigator, thought I’d read correctly but ‘maybe, possibly, didn’t,’ we pulled into our hotel (poorly labeled as it was), feeling not just a little bit proud of the accomplishment.

We’ve thrown out some guesses as to how much the rental car company will charge us for that hub cap we damaged back in Napoli, but whatever the cost, this road trip has been worth it in spades.  We’ve experienced a side of Italy I would otherwise not have known.  It is genuine and it is funky and it is, at times, drop-dead gorgeous.

On our last night in Saint Agata I was blessed with the kind of run that runners run for.  The air was early-autumn crisp and windless.  My stride adopted that rare ‘floating on air’ sensation and it carried me, with abnormal ease up a long, steep hill on a quiet country road.  At the top I stopped to catch my breath and there, directly in front of me, was the sun hanging low over the sea like a giant piece of butterscotch candy.

It was genuinely the most incredible sunset I’ve ever seen.  The kind that people set out lawn chairs and wait for – and yet I’d just happened upon it.

I’m not a particularly emotional person but something about that moment, actually caused me to cry.   It was as if the universe had slapped me in the face and said “Just stop for a moment and be thankful for where you are.”

And so I did.  I am.