Andiamo : On the Buses

Being Roman, my Mother never really liked the Napolitaine. To a degree, I have inherited her dislikes but I try to keep an open mind. Yesterday, we decided to go to Ravello to look at Villa Cimbrone’s garden. It is the 2^nd Baron of Grimthorpe’s folly. A mixture of formal British rose gardens, small Bacchalian temples, grotto’s and even a Moorish teahouse.

We bought our SITA bus tickets from Bar Internationale and we were told the bus was due in 15 minutes. It arrived 45 minutes later. The road to Amalfi is a seriously narrow, elevated, winding track with cliff one side and sea the other. The driver thought he was Alonso and took those corners on two bus wheels. I nearly tossed up my oats. After getting to Amalfi, Meg looked at the ocean with ferocity. I asked what was up. She told me she was considering swimming back to Positano.

We then had to catch the next bus to Ravello which is even a narrower and windier road. I sat right up the front and the driver talked to his buddy the whole time. I nearly kicked him in the back of the head.

“Watch the road” I mentally screech.

He just kept talking.

We arrive and he shunted us off the bus. He was very ungracious.

Ravello is enchanting. BUT…we have to catch the bus back. It is another 45 minutes late by which time, Allan is expressing strong opinions on Italian efficiency. The bus arrives; the driver is an arrogant clod. We make it back to Amalfi and I head for the nearest taxi (just to save Meg from having to swim to Positano).

Funny thing is that every single one of those drivers was a Napolitano. Their dialect is very distinct and to my ear, it disharmonises a beautiful language. Coupled with their bad driving, poor attitude, surliness and rudeness, one can only assume my Mother was correct. There is not much to like with the Napolitaine, especially if they drive buses.