Positano is…

Pastel-colored stucco buildings, weathered by the sun and wind, spilling down steep hillsides that plunge to the turquoise sea;

Purple Bougainville-draped arbors, lemon trees laden with aromatic fruit and gray-green olive trees clinging to the terraced slopes;

Laundry dancing on balcony railings and clotheslines strung from window to window above the narrow cobblestone alleyways.

A rooster crows “koo-kee-eye-oh” that sounds like the word cucchiaio which means “spoon” in Italian;

A stray cat softly mewing as it stretches itself in the morning sun;

The whoosh of cappuccino machines and the aroma of fresh-baked pastries wafting out open windows;

Melodic church bells calling the devout to mass.

A gray sand beach speckled with towels and beach chairs you can rent by the day;

Blue and yellow row boats lined up on the beach waiting to be inspected by fishermen;

Old men playing the card game Scopa on the sidewalk outside the internet café;

Artists at their easels capturing the town in vibrant colors on canvas.

Shop keepers standing in doorways smoking cigarettes;

Tourists strolling by with cones of gelato inspecting brightly-colored beach towels and t-shirts, Hand-painted ceramic bowls, and Rows of handmade leather sandals bedecked in jewels.

The whine of motor scooters and the screech of bus brakes as they maneuver the tight turns along the cliffs above the village;

The smell of garlic and olive oil wafting on a balmy breeze;

Cafes with tables on the sidewalk;

Shouts from a bar when Italy’s team scores a soccer goal and occasional fireworks that celebrate a victory.

 …where I lived one summer

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