It was August 2010, the Amalfi coast. My then-boyfriend and I had decided to go on holiday to Sorrento in the south of Italy, and predictably it was 40C, which (even more predictably) did not agree with his complexion. I remained adamant that this was an extremely agreeable temperature, and a pleasant change from the English weather, by which (being half Italian) I am perpetually offended.
I was even more bullish about the idea that it would be romantic – sexy, and a little bit dangerous – to rent a Vespa and whiz down the coast to Positano and Amalfi, where we would eat pistachio gelatos and drink minuscule coffees in architecturally striking piazzas. “Absolutely not,” said my boyfriend, explaining that he had never ridden a scooter. “We are 100% renting a car,” he insisted. I refused to budge. Like Jennifer Coolidge’s Tanya in The White Lotus, I was set on the Vespa trip, and no amount of pleading about “the world’s deadliest roads” was about to change that.
A few days into the holiday he relented, and we rented a scooter I deemed suitably vintage-looking. A perfunctory three-minute demonstration followed, then we were on the road, fumes sputtering behind us. We felt the breeze on our skin as we sped up and away into the dazzling scenery, the sunlight turning everything it touched a shimmering gold. It was exactly how I had imagined it would be, except for the faint whiff of petrol that seemed to be getting stronger. “Is the fuel meant to go down this quickly?” one of us asked, about 20 minutes in. It’s probably fine, we agreed, until five minutes later we were almost out of gas and in the middle of nowhere, my boyfriend’s shoes and shorts soaked in a mysterious oily liquid. We drove, then pushed, the scooter to the nearest village, where an amused mechanic informed us that one of the tubes was leaking and we were lucky to have reached his establishment in time.
Nearly an hour and quite a few euros later, the scooter was fixed. “Great,” I said, “let’s go to Positano.” “You’ve got to be joking,” said my boyfriend. I was not. We went on, up the narrow streets and twisting hills, the oncoming traffic zooming around blind corners towards us. We drove much more slowly this time, allowing irritated motorists to overtake us, increasingly aware of the very real possibility of serious injury, yet still working through our list of destinations, ticking off Positano, Praiano and Amalfi before I allowed us to return to Sorrento. Somehow, a few asphalt-grazed knees aside, we got through the rest of the day in one piece.
Two years later, my boyfriend proposed; 10 years after that, we got married (meglio tardi che mai, as they say in Italy – better late than never). During this time, there have been many small and large acts of affection, but in terms of sheer reckless stupidity – and is that not what young love is truly about? – the terrifying Vespa day still holds a special place in my heart. It didn’t end up being the romantic trip I had envisaged, that is true. But agreeing to do something that scares the absolute hell out of you, and might conceivably get you killed, just to indulge your partner’s cliched whim is by far the sweetest thing anyone has done for me. Next time, though, we’ll probably rent a car.
