The birds greeted us before the alarm ever had a chance.
After the previous day's adventures, we'd all slept like logs. We needed the rest because another day of exploring awaited us.
One by one, we took turns using what had affectionately become known as the casket shower.
I stood staring at the tiny glass enclosure, mentally devising an emergency escape plan. If I got stuck, I figured I'd drape a towel nearby so the hotel staff could rescue me without completely sacrificing my dignity.
"One...two...three..."
With enough momentum, I shimmied inside.
To my great surprise...
I fit.
Barely.
But I fit.
Disaster averted.
Breakfast wasn't quite the feast we'd enjoyed in Rome, but it was surprisingly good. There were fresh pastries, eggs, cereal, yogurt, bread, butter, fruit juices, and plenty of coffee.
A mimosa might have been nice, but after the gigantic beers from the night before, water sounded like the wiser choice.
The last thing I needed was to return to Miami with a newfound drinking habit.
After breakfast we stopped by the front desk to ask how to get to the bus station. The clerk explained that a small convenience store near the marina sold bus tokens and that the stop was only a few steps away.
So off we went.
The marina looked completely different in the daylight.
Fishing boats gently rocked in the harbor while restaurants overlooked the water. In the distance, Mount Vesuvius appeared to rise out of the sea, watching quietly over the Bay of Naples.
Near the water was a tiny patch of sand that served as the neighborhood beach.
A chubby little girl wearing nothing but bloomers and a bandana splashed happily along the shoreline. She was absolutely adorable, and I couldn't resist taking a photograph.
She distracted us just long enough that we almost missed our bus.
There was only one problem.
My grandmother had stayed behind at the hotel because her knee was bothering her from the previous day's "mountain expedition."
My mom and I hurriedly explained to the driver—in our very limited Italian—that our grandmother was waiting just outside the hotel.
To our amazement, he smiled and agreed to make an extra stop just for her.
Crisis averted.
Again.
Soon we were on our way into downtown Sorrento.
The town was every bit as charming as we'd imagined.
Boutiques lined the narrow streets. There was a lovely bakery, a neighborhood pharmacy, little cafés, and a grocery store filled with the freshest produce I'd ever seen.
Even the boxed pasta looked different.
Somehow it seemed fresher than the pasta lining supermarket shelves back home.
After buying bottled water, we made our way to the bus station for the next leg of our adventure.
The weather couldn't have been more perfect.
Warm sunshine.
A gentle breeze.
Flower pots overflowing with colorful blooms.
And everywhere you looked...
Lemon trees.
The lemons in Sorrento are famous for their size, and now I understood why.
They were enormous.
Every instinct told me to reach up and pick one.
Then I imagined trying to explain to my husband that I'd been arrested for stealing citrus in Italy.
I decided against it.
Our bus soon arrived, and we settled in for the scenic drive to Amalfi.
Or so we thought.
The first part of the journey was breathtaking.
Colorful homes clung impossibly to the cliffsides. Villas overlooked the sparkling turquoise water below. Every curve in the road revealed another postcard-worthy view.
Then the road narrowed.
And narrowed some more.
Before long our relaxing bus ride turned into what felt like an audition for the movie Speed.
The driver whipped around hairpin turns without slowing down.
The bus hugged cliffs that plunged straight into the sea.
My heart had migrated somewhere into my throat.
Meanwhile, every local passenger sat calmly reading the newspaper or gazing out the window as though nothing unusual was happening.
Apparently this was just another Tuesday.
Eventually we stopped clutching the armrests and decided that if no one else was panicking, perhaps we shouldn't either.
When we finally arrived in Amalfi, we understood why people rave about it.
It was stunning.
Colorful buildings cascaded down the mountainside toward the sea. Every narrow street seemed to lead to another hidden piazza, another café, another little shop waiting to be explored.
Originally we'd hoped to visit Positano and maybe even Capri, but my grandmother's knee had already endured enough climbing for one vacation.
Instead, we happily spent the afternoon wandering Amalfi.
It turned out to be exactly enough.
By early afternoon we were ready for a snack.
Gelato sounded perfect.
After carefully studying every flavor in the display case, my grandmother chose coconut, my mom selected mascarpone, and I ordered panna.
We carried our gelato outside and sat together enjoying every creamy bite while watching the town bustle around us.
To this day, I still don't think I've had gelato quite that good.
Refreshed, we wandered through the local shops.
One ceramic store caught my eye because Brandon and I had recently moved into a townhouse that didn't have house numbers.
Surely Italian ceramics would solve that problem.
I found beautiful terracotta numbers trimmed in black and red...
Except they had plenty of threes.
No ones.
Our address was 133.
Eventually I found another set—white ceramic with cobalt blue trim and little yellow lemons decorating each piece.
Perfect.
Every time I looked at those numbers, I'd remember Amalfi.
As we continued exploring, we kept seeing signs advertising something called Babà.
None of us knew what it was.
We simply made a mental note to find out later.
The produce market was another highlight.
The strawberries, peaches, apricots, and grapes looked almost too beautiful to eat.
Nearby hung long strings of dried peppers beneath a sign that proudly proclaimed:
"Viagra Naturale."
We laughed far harder than we probably should have.
Eventually another, far more pressing issue arose.
Three women.
Several bottles of water.
Not a restroom in sight.
After asking multiple shopkeepers for directions, we finally located one.
The only catch?
You had to pay.
It was the first time in my life I'd ever paid to use a public restroom.
Ironically, it wasn't even a particularly nice one.
But when nature calls...
You pay.
Our last stop before leaving Amalfi was a limoncello shop.
The owner reminded me of Geppetto, cheerfully offering samples of lemon, strawberry, orange, and countless other flavors.
Choosing just one felt nearly impossible.
My grandmother left with two bottles.
We left with happy memories.
The return trip to Sorrento felt much less terrifying now that we knew what to expect.
Back in town we wandered into an elegant leather shop called Nannini.
The handbags were exquisite.
The prices...
Less so.
I quietly admired a pale yellow leather purse before carefully checking the price tag.
Three hundred and fifty euros.
I gently placed it back on the shelf.
My grandmother surprised all of us by buying my aunt a beautiful handbag.
Then she chose one for herself.
My mom found an orange one she loved.
Finally, my mom looked over at me and smiled.
"I think you should get the yellow one."
It remains one of my favorite souvenirs from the trip—not because of the purse itself, but because every time I see it, I'm reminded of that wonderful day.
That evening we found a cozy trattoria for dinner.
The World Cup was in full swing, and every café seemed packed with cheering fans gathered around televisions.
The atmosphere was electric.
After ordering dinner and a glass of wine, my grandmother noticed another sign advertising Babà.
This time she asked our waiter “ What is baba?”
He smiled.
"Baba no, Babà" he corrected gently.
Then he explained it was a traditional rum-soaked sponge cake.
After seeing signs for it all day, my grandmother couldn't resist.
She ordered one.
My mom and I each took a bite.
That was enough.
The rum packed quite a punch.
My grandmother, however, happily finished every last bite.
Back at the hotel...
Let's just say the Babà won.
A short while later she made a frantic dash for the bathroom.
The sounds that followed were equal parts concerning and impossible not to laugh at.
Between bursts of laughter we checked to make sure she was alright.
Once everything settled down, I couldn't resist.
"Aby..."
"I think the Babà went ba-bye."
The three of us laughed until we cried.
Later that evening I climbed into my faithful Murphy bed.
The sheets were still damp.
Some things, apparently, never changed.
As we settled in for the night, we kept hearing what sounded like running water somewhere inside the walls.
After searching the room for leaks, we finally realized what it was.
Every time someone in the hotel flushed their toilet, the pipes ran through the wall beside our room.
It was the perfect ending to the quirkiest hotel we'd ever stayed in.
The next morning we'd head back to Rome.
But Sorrento had already given us far more than we expected.
It had given us stories.
And, as it turned out...
the beginning of my lifelong search for the world's best zucchini pie.
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