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ROAD FROM PERDITION (p. 2)
1 | 2 | 3 | OCT 03
Yes, good things happen underground. Not just weddings but wine. One of the most important wine cellars in Europe, on the way to the Amalfi Coast, occupies a 2,500-year-old Ossian tomb. Don Alfonso, a restaurant in Sant’Agata sui due Golfi, proudly sports three stars from the Michelin people, and we concur. Just as impressive as the exquisite cuisine, however, is their piece of the underworld, where the souls of the dead now preside over the finest liquids ever bottled by man. (The single malt list alone includes dozens of names I’ve never encountered, and I consider myself a reasonably informed amateur). As you wind down the steps, you encounter a vast collection of international wines, which occupy former tombs. At the very bottom of this pit hang soft pendulums: squashed spheres of rime-encrusted cheese, gloomily awaiting the day when they will make that final sacrifice, to give life to one of Don Alfonso’s angelic pasta dishes. And so begins our gradual path to salvation.
We take a private car along the serpentine coast to Positano. Here damnation isn’t an option, even if the more enjoyable sins still have free reign. Sloth, for instance, is widely encouraged, especially if you check into Le Sirenuse, which is often rated among the best small hotels in the world. The name refers to Parthenope, one of the Sirens who, after failing to lure Odysseus to a moist grave, spent her postcelebrity years washed up on the Amalfi Coast.
Le Sirenuse emulates the shape of Positano itself, which is modelled – but perhaps not intentionally – on the structure of tiramisù: a cliff of gorgeous layers. The hotel’s lobby is almost at the top, and the elevator descends through floor after floor of perfect rooms. Our suite has monastic barrel vaults and a balcony that looks out over a poly-chromed cathedral dome down to the sea.
The lemon ranks with the mollusc, by the way, as the region’s defining object – specifically Sfusato Amalfitano, a swollen yellow fruit the size of your head. This bulbous brute is squeezed and distilled into Limoncello, a sweet liqueur that seems to find its way into every meal but breakfast. Positano is noted for its local fashion: colourful garments that may well have been inspired by designers, under the influence of Limoncello, contemplating a giant lemon.
While Positano is primarily a resort town, Amalfi has profound historical significance. In the ninth century, it rivalled Venice as a maritime republic. The famous Cathedral was built at this time; it is traditionally the resting place of St. Andrew, the first of the Apostles, along with Peter (even if Andrew gets a somewhat smaller church).
In Amalfi, we spend a night at the Hotel Santa Caterina, in a room with hand-painted floor tiles and a world-class Jacuzzi. Here is where I have an epic Adventure in Bathing. I decide to add some bubble bath; since how much is not specified, I blithely empty the entire bottle. The ensuing foam is astonishing, bordering on dangerous. My companion saves me from drowning by scooping up vast armfuls of jiggling bubbles, which she transfers to the shower. In the morning, we breakfast in a light-drenched room, where the marble floors are laced with lapis.
Our last stop in the region is in Ravello, inland from the coast. Our hotel here is the Palazzo Sasso, which has a Leafs/Habs relationship to Le Sirenuse – they battle for the pundits’ imprimatur as the globe’s finest small hotel. Two Jacuzzis simmer on the roof (we resist the temptation to enhance them with bubbles). Outside our room is a mock cloister of twisting columns surrounding a deep atrium.
Ravello is the most beautiful town we visit. Satan has fallen behind us at last. A tangle of narrow streets takes us to a brace of famous villas, one of which – the Villa Rufolo – was Wagner’s model for Klingsor’s magical garden in the opera Parsifal. The poet Boccaccio featured Ravello in his Decameron. Neither of them stayed at our hotel, but Ingrid Bergman did, which is good enough for me.
While not on the water, Ravello sits high in the hills and has Positano’s steep, layered cityscape, with a similar view of the coast. Simply walking the streets is a mystical experience, but we encounter something unambiguously transcendental while strolling back from dinner. The sound of a choir emanates from Santa Maria a Gradillo, a 12th-century church; we step inside to witness a routine choir rehearsal by a group of amateurs. You have to understand that amateurs in this country would be opera stars anywhere else, and one man in particular has a tenor voice to make you weep. If my soul were within reaching distance of salvation (no chance, I’m afraid), then this would be the tipping point.
After this Dante-approved vacation, we return with regret to Rome for a final night. (How often do you visit Rome with regret?) This time we occupy a palatial suite at Hotel de Russie (among the best in the city). While only streets away from the Aleph, we are now fully returned to paradise, including a doorman with a top hat who subs for the cherubim at the Gates of Eden. All has changed. [ ]
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1 | 2 | 3 | OCT 03
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