Dah-veed

May 7, 2024

It all began this morning when he showed up.

No, that’s not right. It really began months ago when I was scouring the World Wide Web for a surprise for Cathy on the last day of our vacation. Some special memory, Maybe something romantic. Think Gregory Peck in Roman Holiday with Audrey Hepburn. Or Cary Grant in Houseboat with Sophia Loren.

Or . . . Tramp . . . with Lady in . . . well . . . you know.

Something Italian, preferably involving fast cars and crumbling ruins. Maybe a sunset. Cathy’s favorites.

The problem, as usual, was logistics. The Devil, they say, is in the details but what I didn’t know then was, this time, the Devil would be sporting Armani shoes.

Let’s review my choices. Amalfi Coast or Pompeii?

Option # 1: Amalfi.

I did my research. I knew the stunning car ride along the Amalfi Coast was best if driven south, so the car is on the outside lane in the hairpin turns overlooking the Mediterranean. If we drove north, we would be on the inside lane. Safe, but not nearly as dramatic.

Then there was the question of who was going to drive. I sure as hell wasn’t. And I couldn’t ask Cathy. Can you imagine . . .

“Look Cath; just look at the water; it’s so blue”

I’m gonna go out on an Italian Cypress limb here and suggest that such enthusiasm, sincere as it may be, might not be well received if, at the time it is offered, Cathy had a white-knuckled death grip on the steering wheel of a dinged up diesel Fiat, trying to decide between death by a head-on with a truck carrying Sorento lemons or death by a plunge over the cliff with her sorry limonyello hubby, “Stupido.”

Even if I could summon the intestinal fortitude to take the wheel and head south, the prospect of parking on a lookout point half the width of our sporty Fiat to catch a photo op of Amalfi or Ravello seemed treacherous and time consuming. First, my mad parallel parking skills are not what they once were when Mr. Quesenberry taught Driver’s Ed. Second we would likely spend half the day with me looking for breaks in traffic to allow enough time for me to drag my sorry ass out of the driver’s seat and, because I would be forced to park so close to the wall that it is imposs-see-blay to open the door, Cathy would have to crawl over the stick shift to exit on the driver side herself.

Option No. 2: Pompeii

What could be better for my frustrated amateur archeologist than a day strolling through an ancient City buried beneath tons of volcanic ash? The baths. The bakeries. The brothels.

Maybe a guide named Claudia to show us around. Remind us that the folks in Pompeii never tasted a tomato, because Columbus didn’t bring them back until four-hundred years after Pompeii became a giant pizza oven.

Option #1 or Option #2. Can’t do both.

Or could I?

Just as I was ready to call it finito, I stumbled upon an ad for “Amalfi Coast and Pompeii by….a  Private Car.”  There’s your answer, Rob. That’s the ticket. We can do both.

Genius.

Thank you, good folks at Booking Dot Com. Thank you Good Heart Limos.

So, I fired off an e mail to Enza, the Presidente of Good Heart. Delightful man. Couldn’t be more accommodating. There was something hearty and wholesome about him. I could tell from his e mails. I envisioned someone like the waiter in Lady and the Tramp. Short, big belly, an Italian Danny Devito.

“No problemo Roberto; we make-a-it speh-see-al for your lady.  My car   . . . it hazza a moon roof. You see whole of the Milky Mountains. You like. I promise. We pick you up on the road just up the stairs from your hotel, Viale Pasitea at 9:00.” 

“Could we make it 9:15?”, I asked. “Yes, of course Roberto; the day is yours. We are at your disposal.”

“This will be so cool.”, I thought, eying the pastries as we sat down to breakfast. Hmm, maybe open with something chocolate this morning. Could be a long day.

That’s when it happened. 

Midway through my second croissant, Enza texted me a brief message. “By the way, your driver today will be Davide. (It’s pronounced Dah-veed”, accent on the second syllable.)  He is waiting for you.”

“Hmmm…okay . . . I guess. Kinda had my heart set on Danny Devito, but I’m sure this Dah-veed guy will be fine. Sounds  a little stuffy to me. Probably dresses like a chauffer with a little black chauffer hat, and has Puccini playing on a tape deck retrofitted into the dash of his little red Fiat.”

Puccini?……no.

There was nothing “poochy” or, for that matter, “ini” about this guy.

Davide is 6’3”, lean, fit, speaks with a silky baritone in halting English. We’re talking a Latin dreamboat. Smoother than gelato on a warm summer day. I quickly consulted my Italian Phrasebook. Hmmm . . . dream boat . . . dream boat . . . must be here somewhere.

What happened to Danny Devito? Puccini?

This isn’t the Fiat I ordered.

He activated the invisible door handles on his 2024 Black Mercedes, opened the left rear door for Cathy, took her by the hand to ease her onto the black leather. Firing up the engine, the music player blasted out something American.

“Scuzza, signora”, he said, apologetically. “I like 80’s music.”

“Oh, I do too.“, Cathy said a little breathlessly. “Since when?” I thought. I was pretty sure she wasn’t winded from the climb up the Positano stair master from our room. She couldn’t have gone more weak in the knees had she experienced an acute diabetic low.

Somebody get a fully leaded Coke and a hand fan. Stat. 

I sat back in the right rear. Davide had the rear-view mirror angled to see Cathy. Searching for something to break the spell, I said, lamely. “Nice car.” This prompted Super Mario to ask Cathy what she drove. Embarrassed, she said, “Oh, an old Land Cruiser.” To which, Davide lit up like a Roman Candle and asked, “What year?” When Cathy replied “2000”, he erupted like Vesuvius, “Best car ever built! My father always wanted to have that car.”

“I love engines. Do you like engines, Cah-tee? I love the sound of a strong engine when the accelerator is pressed to the floor.”

“Uh boy”, I thought. “To think she’d be swept away by a meat salesman. It’s not the salume, Rob; it’s the zoomy in the maroon suit.”

“That’s the best sound in the world.”, Cathy replied.

And so the day went.

“Did you hear that, Rob. Davide was a volleyball player. A spiker. Almost made the national team. Isn’t that amazing?”

“A captain, you say. On yachts? Oh my. Did you hear that, Rob? Sometimes three months at sea. . . ”

“Why don’t you stand in back, Rob. Let Davide take the selfie. He has longer arms.”

David this, David that  . . . yeah, yeah . . . yeah. Sure he’s charming, polite, gracious, endearingly shy, can recount local history. But where are his socks? You can’t tell me those Ferragamos don’t pinch at the toes.

I used to work at Leeds Shoe Store in Coddingtown. I know a thing or two about shoes. Probably could use some “heal savers.”

Okay, I’m a big man. I’ll admit it. I was a bit jealous. Davide was close to the highlight of the trip and, because of him, I think Cathy had the final day I had hoped she might have, if a little different than I envisioned. Should you ever find yourself on the Amalfi and in need of an answer to a dilemma, call Enza at Good Heart Limos and ask for Davide. You won’t be sorry.

I myself preferred the guy in the Green Grotto explaining stalactite growth with his flashlight and a ten word English vocabulary. “A centimeter every forty years. Meellions and meellions years old.” Now that’s useful information.

Oh, one last thing. I’ll have a few things to write I’m sure tomorrow on the plane ride home, but I want to explain why I said Davide was “close” to the highlight of the trip. I say “close” because the best part of our trip was what awaited us on our balcony when Davide dropped us off shortly before sunset.

A double rainbow disappearing with the setting sun.