AMALFI: February, 2003 (Part 2)

I awoke in the dark to the crashing sound of thunder. Across the now-black sea, rain poured in sheets and lightning flared. I could make out roiling whitecaps in the ocean.

Dinner. I decided I was going to find a place out there, in that rainstorm, to eat. I grabbed my umbrella and set forth, getting pelted by raindrops so fat they resembled a Hollywood effect. I slipped and slid down slick stairs and across shiny cobblestones. Rain soaked my shoes and pants.

I crossed the main piazza, illuminated by occasional lightning flashes. Spears of light brightened the round top of the Duomo. It wasn't difficult to notice the inspiration Edgar Allen Poe may have found here.

It being winter, there weren't many choices for dinner, but I found one open trattoria. I stumbled in, slightly shocked by the heavy storm, and shook myself free of my damp coat. According to my guidebook, this family-run restaurant was known for its fresh seafood. An older — well, elderly — gentleman steered me to a table and pulled out a chair. I could see through to the kitchen, where his mama cooked, her face rosy in a cloud of steam. At the cash register his wife counted receipts.

I learned of all these relationships over my three-course meal of insalata, zuppa and golden-fried octopus and shrimp. The man, who was the family son, stopped by at each course for feedback and I told him, "Bella, bella and bella." He was tickled by my limited but positive response and offered a local treat to enjoy with my cappuccino.

He produced a tall bottle of greenish liquid. Basil liqueur, he explained, and poured me a small glass. An unusual but not unpleasing taste and oddly perfect on a winter night with a storm raging outside.

My new friend filled me in on some agricultural facts. Because the Amalfi coast includes the ancient city of Pompeii, Vesuvian ash is embedded in its soil, making its fertility remarkable. Here lemons were fat and tasty, tomatoes sweet and juicy, and basil especially fragrant.

The son took a serious tone when expressing sadness about 9/11 and his fears of an upcoming war (the U.S. was only a month away from marching into Afghanistan). He believed George Bush was a stupido, as was the Italian leader Silvio Berlusconi. He pined for Bill Clinton and brushed aside the former president's amores.

Capisco? he kept asking.

Si, si, I answered.

When it comes to sadness and fear, linguistic barriers disappear and an international fluency of the heart takes over. I thanked my host and his family for the delicious meal, donned my coat and stepped back outside to cross the piazza and return to the hotel.

My sleep that night was deep and dreamless. The next day dawned crystal-clear and brilliantly sunny. Amalfi, washed clean, awaited my exploration.