A Donkey and a Suspicious Elevator

The Amalfi Coast, a Donkey, and a Suspiciously Convenient Elevator

There are two types of people in this world: 1. People who take the train from Rome to Salerno because it’s scenic, efficient, and civilized. 2. People who eventually hike up a mountain with their luggage because they missed an elevator that was right there the whole time.

Naturally, we were both.

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A Civilized Beginning (This Will Not Last)

We began like refined travelers aboard a train departing Rome and gliding toward Salerno. The Italian countryside rolled by in that annoyingly perfect way—vineyards, hills, charming villages that make you question your life choices back in Wisconsin.

“I could live here,” I said.

“You say that everywhere,” my husband replied, already suspicious.

We had one hour in Salerno, which is just enough time to: • Wander confidently • Eat something you shouldn’t • Almost miss your ferry

We boarded said ferry like maritime professionals and set off toward Maiori, blissfully unaware that our dignity would soon be tested.

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The Climb of Regret

Armed with an address and misplaced confidence, we set out for Hotel Botanico San Lazzaro.

Google Maps, that charming liar, directed us up a winding, vertical path that seemed less like a route and more like a punishment.

We climbed.

And climbed.

And then… we met a donkey.

Not just a donkey. A donkey carrying supplies. Up the same path we were on. With the quiet confidence of someone who knew this was a terrible idea—for us.

That was the moment my husband stopped speaking in full sentences and began communicating exclusively through looks. None of them were supportive.

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The Elevator That Broke Us

We finally staggered into the hotel lobby looking like we had just completed a wilderness survival challenge.

The receptionist blinked. “How did you get here?”

“We walked,” I said, trying to sound heroic.

She laughed. Actually laughed. Then pointed out the window.

There, bathed in sunlight and mockery, was a small hillside elevator.

An elevator.

A perfectly good elevator.

We had, quite literally, chosen chaos.

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A View That Forgives Everything

Fortunately, Italy believes in redemption.

Our room was a corner slice of heaven—Mediterranean stretching endlessly, Maiori unfolding below like a watercolor painting, and just enough breeze to make you feel like the main character in a film where nothing bad ever happens (except earlier, when you climbed a mountain unnecessarily).

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Wandering, Watching, and Mild Judgment

We descended—via elevator this time, because we learn from our mistakes—and wandered the town.

Cobblestone streets. Tiny cafés. A church that made me consider becoming briefly religious.

Then, back at the pool, we witnessed something extraordinary: An influencer filming herself unwrapping a gift.

Again. And again. And… again.

At one point I considered offering to open it for her just to move things along.

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🍝 Dinner, Limoncello, and Twinkling Lights

Dinner at Casa Ferraiuolo Ristorante was everything you imagine Italy to be—warm air, glowing lights, the gentle hum of conversation, and enough limoncello to convince you that you, too, could live here.

Spoiler: I could not. But I was willing to try.

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The Path of the Lemons (No Donkeys This Time)

The next day, we tackled the legendary Path of the Lemons.

Terraced lemon groves. Sea views. Historic pathways. No donkeys.

A flawless hike, clearly approved by management.

Our reward? Pastries from Pasticceria Sal De Riso.

I don’t remember what I ordered. I just remember emotional growth.

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Beach Day & Castle Dining

We ferried back—because once is enough for heroics—and spent the afternoon on the hotel’s private beach, doing what we do best: absolutely nothing.

Except people-watching. Which is, in fact, a sport.

That evening, we dined at a castle restaurant dramatically perched over the sea (because of course we did—this is Italy, not a chain restaurant off the interstate).

There had been a wedding the night before, and the decorations remained—twinkling lights, flowers, that faint sense that someone else’s love story was now enhancing our dinner.

We accepted this gift graciously.

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The Scooter Phase (What Could Go Wrong?)

The next day, we rented a scooter—because nothing says “responsible adults” like weaving through cliffside traffic.

We channeled Roman Holiday energy and headed to Ravello.

Ravello was breathtaking—gardens, views, stone steps that made you feel cultured even if you were slightly windblown and questioning your life insurance coverage.

Then came Positano.

Beautiful? Yes. Crowded? Also yes. Mildly chaotic? Absolutely.

But we had a scooter. We were unstoppable. (We were not unstoppable, but we felt unstoppable, which is almost the same.)

⸻ Pompeii: History, Ash, and an Ominous Sense of Doom

Near the end of our trip—just when we had grown comfortable, confident, and perhaps a little too smug—we decided to visit Pompeii.

Because nothing says “relaxing Italian getaway” like touring a city famously destroyed by a volcano.

The journey involved a bus and then a short train, which sounded harmless enough. And honestly, the trip there was fine. Pleasant, even. We gazed out the windows like seasoned European travelers who definitely knew what they were doing.

Pompeii itself? Fascinating.

Walking through ancient streets, seeing the preserved ruins, learning about Mount Vesuvius—it was equal parts awe-inspiring and slightly unsettling.

At one point I thought, “Wow, nature is powerful and unpredictable.”

This will become important in approximately ten minutes.

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The Bus Ride of Questionable Engineering

The return trip began innocently.

Then the bus started climbing.

And leaning.

And leaning more.

Now, I am not a structural engineer, but I am fairly confident that buses are not designed to tilt at dramatic angles over cliffs while everyone collectively rethinks their life choices.

The road curved. The bus leaned outward. Toward open air. Toward the Mediterranean. Toward what I can only describe as “a situation.”

At one particularly aggressive turn, I am fairly certain we were operating on two wheels.

Two.

Wheels.

And then—because apparently this was now a group activity—people started cheering.

Cheering.

Like we were on an amusement park ride called “Near Death: The Italian Edition.”

Every sharp turn? Applause. Every near-miss with a cliff? Enthusiastic encouragement.

Meanwhile, I was mentally drafting my will and reconsidering every decision that had led me to this moment… including the donkey.

When we finally rolled back into Maiori—miraculously upright—the entire bus erupted into applause.

Not polite applause. Full standing-ovation energy.

I have never been so happy to get off a bus in my life.

From that moment forward, we made a pact: We are ferry people now.

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A Strong Preference for Not Falling Off Cliffs

Ferries, it turns out, do not: • Tilt dramatically over open air • Inspire spontaneous group cheering • Cause you to question gravity

They glide. Calmly. Respectfully. Like transportation should.

We embraced this lifestyle immediately.

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Final Thoughts (Now With Slight Trauma)

The Amalfi Coast gave us: • Stunning views • Incredible food • A magical hotel with a secret elevator • One deeply judgmental donkey • And a bus ride that bonded strangers through shared terror

We left a little sun-kissed, a little wiser, and with a firm transportation policy going forward.

Would we go back?

In a heartbeat.

Would we take the bus again?

Let me put it this way…

If it doesn’t float or run on rails, I’m not getting on it.