I am doing a hundred, a hundred and twenty. There's a speed limit of eighty, but that has a whole other meaning here in the south. I know because I am overtaken by a raven-haired beauty in a beat-up old car. She flicks her eyes at me in the rear-view mirror. 'Eat my smoke, nonno,' she smirks, as she slides across the lanes for the turn-off to Castellammare. I rev up to a hundred and fifty.
Driving down the A3 is a little like driving along the Sheikh Zayed Road from Dubai to Abu Dhabi. It's all about speed and panache; lane discipline is optional, but a dose of foolhardiness helps. Defensive driving looked right, then left, then right again, and never crossed the Channel.
The autostrada arcs over the Tyrrhenian at Salerno. A huge container port sprawls beneath, while the majolica dome of the San Giovanni Battista glints in the distance in Vietri. The Amalfi Coast: proof that God is Italian!
The tunnels grow longer around the Cilento. I find myself speeding past a small convoy of carabinieri – not a smart move. They must be coming off shift, however, because they don't care. The tunnel lights reflected on my windscreen twirl in a crazy dance, while on the radio someone sings a canzone di felicità.
I make it to Padula much earlier than expected.
No comments:
Post a Comment