Death at the Seashore, Tobía the Dog

Sunday, leaving Ercolano

Last night we were the only tourists at a bright and lively locals restaurant filled mainly with older couples. The food was fine but the people-watching was Michelin-grade; tables full of bangled wrists, sheer tops, stuffed trouser-fronts, hairpieces, discreet vaping, and towering bowls of mussels entertained us for nearly two hours. It was an education to see Italians in their sixties outpace us (in the slow sense) and finish a Saturday dinner at 11:45pm.

Today we wept to leave behind the lavish, classically western European breakfast spread at Casa Ricola (sp?), but it was time to mix on down to Minori on the ferry. The waters glinted, the cliffs bluffed, and the tacky embroidered bags and ball caps were hawked with disinterest by the woman who also operated the beer and cookie concession, and seemed to like the beefy Adonis who dropped the anchor.

Minori is a small beach backed immediately by terraced residential cliffs built over many centuries. It could not have been centrally planned by human intelligence, but only by a steady appreciation for mudslides, stairs, and great calves. Sure, it’s touristy, but the gradient keeps out the denim-shorted ones with the husband who won’t try the bruschetta.

Monday

Our cottage, among the dense arborage of a small lemon farm, was built in 1732 and looks out from an aerie hundreds of feet above the port. It is six AM as I write this, and the hillsides have been alive with barking dogs since I first woke at two. The better dogs can go three barks per second, if counted against the Mississippi scale. Tomorrow night we will close the window.

Today we will stretch and climb the footpath to Ravello, as the postage stamp of Minori’s quaint downtown still feels a bit defined by, and weary of, selling mealy gelato to foreign couples.

For now, we lay in wait of the breakfast the little old man has promised to cook for us in the little old building among the lemons.