* Subtitled: How almost to ruin your perfect vacation by attempting to make it perfect-er.

In a previous post we have stipulated that we have landed in paradise. To recap, for those just tuning in, we are ensconced in a tastefully decorated, well-appointed, four-bedroom house with an enormous terrace that gives us about a 180-degree view of the Tyrrhenian Sea, the isle of Capri to our left and with Naples on the far side of the bay, where it belongs. The weather is nearly ideal; mild sun, agreeable zephyrs and short spells of gentle rain that serve to green up everything and scrub it fresh.

What to do on Day 3 of such an adventure? Well, of course: You try to make it better.

I will take responsibility for most of what followed. It wasn’t my idea, originally. But I seized on it with enthusiasm and became its most vocal supporter. Yes, I was going to do some pruning in the Garden of Eden.

Leah had noticed that chamber music was available in the tourist/artist mecca of Ravello, not far from Massa Lubrense, on the map. (The key words there: On The Map.)

Tonight, they were presenting a trio — pianist, cellist, violinist — playing Haydn and Mozart chamber music.

Well, how perfectly charming. And how potentially pretentious. Right up my alley.

See, as the day had unfolded in blissful nothingness, I grew concerned that, ultimately, all our stay in Massa Lubrense would amount to was … stunning views, delightful weather, the complete absence of tension and seven consecutive suppers of gustatory accomplishment.

This chamber music in Ravello …  Yes, a bit different. Dignified. Do-able. Different. Removing us from this tiresome paradisaical rut into which we had tumbled. (Eve: apple.)

Let’s do it!

The plan: Eat dinner here in the house, drive over to Ravello and soak up the Amalfi Coast scenery, take in the 9:30 p.m. concert (nice and late so everyone can eat, first), maybe some espresso or gelato afterwards, and the leisurely, reflective drive back.

The reality: We dawdled until it was too late to make dinner here, never mind eat it. Upon further online inspection, we found that Ravello might be 20 miles from here (as the crow flies) but about 50 miles in real life (as the tourists drive). Thus, we’d better get some clothes on and get moving! We’ll grab a pannini or something at the other end. Still can turn out well. Light dinner and watch the day end in this fabulous Ravello place.

Hah.

Into the Fiat, not recognizing that we were about to spend 90 minutes in pass-me-the-air-sickness bag winding over roads hardly wider than your driveway, with hairpin turns every 100 yards, lots of erratic traffic coming at us and scads of impatient Italian traffic behind.

And that was the good part.

Somewhere above/north of the little town of Saint Agate, we ascended into the clouds that had brought us that mild rain earlier. But now, it was just so much fog … and it tensed up four people already getting a bit agitated by this slow, winding ascent that seemed never to end.

We reached the crest of the mountains, came down the other side and found (or rediscovered) that the road — for much of the Amalfi Coast — hugs the side of mountains with a sheer drop of, oh, 1,000 feet straight into the sea. Which would be interesting to study if 1) you weren’t mildly acrophobic, 2) already made more than a little queasy by the previous 30 minutes of mountain driving and 3) possessed of an imagination vivid enough to conjure the real possibility that some bus coming at you from the other direction might nudge you over the retaining wall and into a spectacular death plunge into the sea.

The road got narrower, just when any North American would have thought it already was too narrow to handle two-way traffic driving at some speed.  And as a special added twist, it began to be lined by miles of parked cars.

By now, driving (and I am behind the wheel) has become a heart-pounding test of split-second time-and-space calculations. How fast can I take this turn? Is space enough available for the approaching SUV, our Fiat, the parked cars, the pedestrians (!)  and the wall to keep all of us from ending up as one truly messy, Rai Uno newscast-leading traffic calamity?

And on and on it goes. One curve after the next. Charming little towns appearing on our right, hugging the cliffs, Positano, Priano, Amalfi, etc. Choked by tourists (as opposed to the peaceful village we had abandoned on this fool’s errand) strolling down the road as if they were on the sidewalks of New York. A drive into hell. Dangerous,  frustrating and interminable.

At least I was driving and my body could anticipate each turn. Had I been a passenger, I would certainly have been so sick that I would have asked someone to kill me. How the others didn’t lose their dinners — oh, yeah, we hadn’t eaten any. Because we wanted (I wanted) to add some culture to perfection.

Now it is night. A serious night. Moon obscured by the trailing clouds of the storm, road not really lit, too much oncoming traffic to use our brights … and on and on we go.

The closest we came to disaster was outside Priano, when an oncoming motorist strayed far over the line, forcing me to veer to the right, where the wall was jutting in from the mountain and leaving me about 20 feet to throw out an anchor and reduce our speed just enough to keep us from crashing into the rocks … and then be dashed on the rocks far below. I’m not sure the others knew how close we were to a wreck just then, and I was too shook up to talk about it.

Eventually, just as we think we must have passed the turnoff for Ravello — even though almost no other roads penetrate the hills to link up with the coast road — there is a sign” Ravello 5k.

We begin to climb back up into the hills. Even darker. We glimpse a church on a height up ahead. That must be it. And after our 1,353rd hairpin turn … we are in Ravello, City of Music, where Wagner, Vidal, Capote, Gide, Woolf and Escher went for relaxation and inspiration. And where we went to be hungry/queasy and wrung out by tension …

And wet. It begins to rain. Perfectly on cue (and I believe at least one Hollywood movie has this precise scene, after minutes of whatever-can-go-wrong-will-go-wrong “comedy”; a character announces, “Well, at least it’s not raining!” And the thunder cracks and the skies open.)

That is what happened to us. Honest. The doors open, we tumble out … the rain comes down.

So now we are hurrying across the only parking lot in Ravello, up about 80 stairs, cold, increasingly wet … and then we dash across an enormous piazza to the Rufolo Villa, where People Actually Staying in Town are protected by umbrellas and are slowly entering the famous old villa (an inspiration for some scenery in Wagner’s “Parsifal,” apparently).

We, by now, are soaking wet. The only saving grace in this tableau of self-induced misery: Leah has had the wit to bring along a small loaf of olive bread, which we all take a piece of and eat during our dash up the stairs and across the piazza. Our only food for about six hours.

We queue up for tickets, dripping, and then wander upstairs into the cozy chamber where we are to be entertained. (A room which, I’m sure, stands in violation of about 50 U.S. fire code laws, beginning with that one narrow stairway 100 or so of us enter and exit from.)

To be sure, the concert was very nice. The strings interweaving in delightful song, the pianist filling in the spaces left by instruments Not Available Tonight … and over the next hour I can feel myself relax. A little. We applaud lustily with the rest of the tourists; the pretty German pianist and the Italian string players bow gracefully (twice; they did an encore of Mozart) and we file out.

Ah, the rain has stopped … to be replaced by whipping winds. We are cold for the first time since we have arrived. Still, we search the piazza for someplace to eat … anything. A sandwich. A candy bar. But no. This is a town of 2,500 people and they are in bed at 10:45, and everyone else who went to the concert was smart enough to eat before they arrived.

As the concert was ending, I had quietly been studying a map on the night’s program. It had recommended routs to Ravello, and they recommended, when coming onto the peninsula, a route that snaked back into the mountains and then down to the flat land north of Salerno (scene of a fruitless Allied amphibious invasion in World War II) and south of Naples.

We agree to take this other route. To continue on the coast road will be another 30-45 minutes of cliff hugging torture; to go back the way we came is unthinkable. So.

For those of you familiar with the San Bernardino Mountains in Southern California, the way we chose would be like going the back way from Big Bear Lake down to Lucerne so as to get to the Inland Empire with a fraction of the mountain driving, but it is far longer, as the tourist drives. It also is the road far less traveled. It was almost disquieting to be among so little traffic. But by now it’s midnight, too, on a Monday in May.

Shortly before we were back on the plain, we reached a roundabout … and next to it was an enormous pizzeria. The clamor to stop, please stop or we will bludgeon you caught my attention, and a moment later we were being directed into a parking spot by a little old man wearing a soft hat. (More on that in a moment.)

The place seats at least 100. It must be the Campanian pizzeria answer to the Denny’s in Baker. Lots of hungry wayfarers, a few locals, open late, hallelujah.

Finally, then, a bit of relief. A four-cheese-pizza, a prosciuto pizza, a mushroom pizza, and house special (artichokes, etc.) pizza and “some wine” which turns out to be some mystery red liquid in an unmarked bottle (the grapes would have died from embarrassment had they been named) that Leah dismisses as swill and the rest of us soak up with no objections, thank you. A bit of angst-numbing vino seemed an elixir, at that moment.

Excellent pizza. Thin crust. Fresh ingredients. Anyone who has been in any part of Italy from Rome south knows the drill. Unbeatable.

Two observations before we return to the car. In the corner of the room is a TV showing one of those execrable Italian variety shows, “hosted” by lecherous old guys with bad hairpieces and a line of stop-you’re-killing-me patter … who are somehow amused/entertained by a dozen scantily clad women who manage to giggle despite wearing shape-hugging clothes that might be made of tinted Saran Wrap. With bouts of slapstick and at least one handsome and quite serious tenor singing the Italian equivalent of “My Way.” Anyway, our server disappeared for stretches of time to stare at the TV. Second, against the back wall, at the precise spot you would sit if you wanted to make sure you saw every single person who entered or exited the room … sat two guys wearing dark suits, too much jewelry and carrying an air of potential violence. One fat, the other fatter. Giving knew meaning to the Sopranos line, “Come heavy or don’t come at all.” The wait staff is being solicitous to them, as if they matter, and that little old man in the soft hat standing out in the parking lot? He is there and can be seen … right up until the two fat guys in suits waddle out of the place. Mobsters? Who came with a watchman? Of course! But no one seems to agree with me. Just a couple of lonely businessmen who like to sit against the back wall and have a friendly guy watching their car. OK.

And just when you, the reader, and us, the protagonists of this endless evening, thought things were winding down … no. It’s back into the twilight zone.

We emerge from the hills at long last and are immediately presented with a dilemma. Our two-lane highway is now one of dozens of two-lane highways. It no longer can be traveled by following our noses. We have choices to make … about every quarter-mile.

The first: Left, to “centro antica” (in whatever town we are in) or right to wherever it was?

In Italy,  you see “centro” on a sign, you think of city hall. The main square. Probably a tourist office. So if you are even slightly confused … always go to “centro.” Always.

But just as we make the turn (or I do; I can’t blame the others) … fireworks begin exploding on our left. At 1 a.m. On a Monday. Bang! Bang! Bang! Rockets that disappear into bright flashes of white, starry light. What? It is as if we have entered a Fellini movie. And moreso, when the road I have chosen dwindles, within 100 yards, into nothingness. Like,  dirt is ahead. Where is the clown with balloons?

By now, I am so flustered (anew) that 1) I’m thinking these are random kids blowing off fireworks, and who knows what they might do to four tourists in a Fiat station wagon who have entered this dead end and 2) I wonder if I have enough pavement left to turn this thing around before we, like, get stuck in sand and have to try to use our no-signal cell phones to call … whom? … for help.

So, I’m doing a Y turn, and I’m in phase two (the backup phase) when, thud — the bumper smacks into a stone wall. Hard enough that our heads snap back.

I am not getting out off the car to examine or acknowledge any damage, so I put it back into first gear, head off down the road … and see that the source of the fireworks are a bunch of forty-ish guys coming in and out of a two-story building (partying on Monday, May 31?) … and I just want to make sure I don’t run one over and bring upon us a posse of Made Men.

Now, we are far enough away from the fireworks guys to have to worry only about getting hopelessly lost in what appears to be the grimy underbelly of southern Naples/northern Salerno. Grim industrial buildings, ancient structures without roofs, no people, no light … and only the occasional road sign.

We do about 15 minutes of that … and shazam, but we have found the A3 autostrade … at the precise entrance we used two days earlier after we overshot the road to Sorrento. And there is the cheese shop. Though, sadly, closed.

Past the toll booth (1.60 euros) and up two exits, and we’re in Fat City. In theory. We’ve done this before, remember? Albeit in broad daylight …

We make the second exit (and did I mention the gas gauge is finally in the red zone, which I haven’t mentioned but someone else has seen?) … and now all we have to do is follow the sign to Castellamare … until we see a sign for Sorrento. Easy.

No. Road signs, to expand on this, in Italy,  are infrequent, absurdly small (not to be read at speed or in the dark) and confusing. Straight can mean left or right, etc.

We reach the key point — Castellamare one way (and we just took a turnoff with that name), the Sorrento peninsula the other … and at speed, I choose … the wrong one. Groans all around. I not only have done some undetermined amount of damage to the car, I now am taking us back to Salerno and Off the Grid of what we know about the local roads. In the middle of the night.

We exit asap.  We drive by Pompei — yes, that Pompei, except it’s dark and I can’t see any ruins — we are on weird roads leading nowhere. Looking to get back on the autostrade. Searching for signs that aren’t always helpful. We find the road, and Leah insists we head towards Salerno … when the rest of us who still have the energy to form an opinion are thinking “no, towards Naples!” … but Leah carries the day because she hasn’t made a ridiculously stupid decision in at least half an hour.

She is wrong. We realize it almost immediately. Back off the autostrade. The search again for another entrance. Back into the same maze of crumbling industrial nothingness … and back to the very same cheese store entrance to the A3 that we are now entering for the third time in three days (and second time in an hour).

Now, I am going to get this right or die trying. And I do (get it right) … and we get on the road to Sorrento, where we are led on a looping detour because a tunnel is closed for construction, we lose goodness knows how much time following a creeping cement truck, get good and bloody lost in Sorrento which shouldn’t be possible but is because with no traffic every road looks the same and because of the signage issues … finally get back to the house in Massa Lubrense at 2:30 a.m. (2.5 hours after leaving the concert; seven hours after leaving the house) … take a  brief look at the bumper (“just a bit of scratching; no, really”) and crawl back into Eden, determined never to drive anywhere, stay out late after dark or even to leave the house the rest of our time here. At least until one of us has another idea for making “perfect” better.