To escape the onslaught of cakes we've taken a quick trip to England. Poppy loves running around the garden, barefoot in her pyjamas:
But look what the neighbours brought around! There truly is no escape:
You'd think all these cakes would cause my stomach to swell, but no, the stomach expanding prize has been given to Michelle, whos baby is due tomorrow:

Do you think I'm overdoing it with the cakes this month?
Here's some more:
And here is a demonstration on how we wash dishes in Positano:

More cake! This one was covered in honeycomb pieces especially for Laras birthday.People flew in from as far as Switzerland and LA to be there:
Lara teaches barman, Matteo how to really fill a glass with prosecco:
Sometimes I forget which man is mine.Luckily I took the right one home with me. I dropped the other off next door.

Rewind three months.
On a beach somewhere in Phuket, surrounded by Positanese I strip down to my bikini, ready to jump in the sea. But as I hang my shorts and suntop up on the spokes of a nearby sun umbrella a man I recognise lowers his glasses and looks me up and down.
“Ma sei malata? Are you ill?” He asks, wrinkling his nut brown nose at me.
“No”, I sigh, knowing full well what is coming next.
“Well why are you so white then? You look like a mozzarella. Get a bit of sun on you, why don’t you!”

Something in me snaps. I’ve heard it all before, many times in Italy. They can’t seem to understand why I am whiter than them. Normally I shrug it off and ignore them but the way this man looked me up and down, over his lowered sunglasses was quite offensive.

“OK, I’ll try to explain it for you, maybe you’ll understand.” I talk loudly so that any other person nearby that may be offended by the colour of my skin can listen and learn. “I am from England, which is much further north than Positano. It doesn’t get as much sun and most people born there have naturally whiter skin than people born in the Mediterranean. No matter how long I sit and bake in the sun I will never ever get as brown as you are, and frankly I wouldn’t want to look like an old leather bag.”

I think he flinched so I carried on.
“Let me ask you something. Do you believe that if you lie here roasting for long enough that you will become as brown as an African?”
“No, I don’t believe that.”
“Well why do you think that I should be as brown as you then? If you can understand that your skin colour is different from that of an African person, why can’t you accept that my skin colour is different from yours?”
“I just thought..”
“No!” I cut him off, “you didn’t think, you offended me. I am already aware enough that I stick out like a sore thumb amongst you tanned people, and I don’t need you telling me I look ill or comparing me to soft cheese.”

He started smearing another layer of baby oil over his wrinkled body.
“Mio Dio! Have you people never heard of skin cancer?” I asked, imagining what would happen to me if I coated myself in oil and sat in the sun for eight hours. I shuddered.
“Don’t worry, this is protection,” he said, waving the Johnsons bottle at me, truly believing as many of them do, that the application of pure oil or Nivea cream would save his skin from wrinkles and tumours. I left him to it and went to sit in the shade.

Back to Positano, mid-May. I know that sunbathing is a national past time here and having a tan is of the utmost importance. But, in my case it just isn’t going to happen. A couple of ‘white’ friends have already had brushes with skin cancer and I am not willing to take the risk. So to avoid being compared to mozzarella, this year my tan will come out of a bottle, smooth, golden and streak free, thanks to St Tropez. I will feel confident and colourful and hopefully the old-leathery-baby-oil-smothered locals will be appeased and refrain from name-calling.

"Look Mummy!" Poppy whispered loudly, pointing at the wall, "those cats are making baby cats aren't they?"She giggled as another cat came along to watch and finally got too close, scaring the poor animals away, mid-hump.
We had just been to choose a kitten, but it wasn't an easy job. We saw these little guys:

And I quite liked this little splodgy one in the middle:but Poppy wanted the white one with the orange tail and Carlo wanted a completely orange one. There were even more kittens lurking in the garden which we didn't see, and there may be a pale apricot one amongst them which would be nice too. Of course they won't be ready to leave their mummy until June, so we have a while to decide.

Oh, and if anyone wants a kitten let me know...no, really, there are a lot left!

Maybe my destiny this summer is to sit on other peoples terraces eating cake. I seem to be doing rather a lot of it lately. Hmmm, how very English elitist expattish of me...Martinas birthday cake with wild strawberries.
Carmelas tiramisu with velvet cocoa powder topping.

We're off to choose a kitten. The ones we found a few weeks ago vanished into thin air but we found someone who has fifteen kittens to give away as a result of all her cats getting pregnant at the same time.

Fifteen kittens!

May Day Weekend in Positano:The word "hordes" comes to mind.

We sat it out in a leafy garden:Fortifying ourselves with cake and champagne for the unavoidable re-entrance into daytripper bedlam.
We admired the flowers:

As the sun set over the mountain a mass exodus began. The beach breathed a sigh of relief and the hundreds of sweaty bodies got up and shook the sand off themselves.
The pier groaned and strained as it off-loaded people onto ferries as quickly as possible.
The pedestrian path up to the main road became choked and crammed with daytrippers, all trying to get somewhere, but a bottleneck formed.

We battled our way through the masses, slinking, pushing, avoiding, squeezing. Afterwards home felt like a small peaceful oasis of calm.

"Positano is not a real community." says Anonymous

(Scroll down for the English bit)Per la gioia di chi avesse perso l’ultimo commento sul mio post intitolato “do people actually live in Positano /Ci sono persone che effettivamente vivono a Positano?” eccolo a voi, ovviamente scritto da un anonimo:

"Sebbene le tue critiche al turista non fossero del tutto infondate, la tua risposta ha confermato la mia prima impressione sui residenti esteri (Inglesi) stagionali e cioè che essi sono molto ricchi, elitari e convinti di vivere una realtà più “autentica” di quella dei turisti. Io dico: stupidaggini. Positano, seppur bellissima, non è una vera comunità. Poche persone normali possono permettersi di far parte dell’autenticità artefatta di tali posti."

Esattamente a chi è rivolto questo commento?

Chi sono questi residenti esteri(Inglesi) stagionali? Sono inclusa anche io? Vediamo nel dettaglio: di solito vado in Inghilterra per una settimana a Maggio, 10 giorni a Novembre e poi a Febbraio. Questo fa di me una stagionale? Molti Inglesi che vivono qui passano più o meno lo stesso tempo in Inghilterra, se non meno.

Sono molto ricchi…e come avresti fatto a stabilirlo? Mi vuoi presentare queste persone? La mia esperienza vissuta mi dà queste cifre: Euro 800 di paga media di cui metà va all’affitto e l’altra metà va a babysitter/conti/assicurazioni etc.

Elitari…stai generalizzando gli Inglesi. Come minimo ora mi dirai che nessun Inglese sa cucinare.


Convinti di vivere una realtà più autentica dei turisti…Beh sono convinta proprio di sì. Specialmente se i turisti non fanno altro che fare fatica a salire fino alla Chiesa dalla spiaggia per poi ridiscendere, convinti di avere visto tutto il paese in quei pochi metri quadrati e di poter dire di conoscerlo. Chi non vive una realtà autentica in un posto dove abita da anni ed anni? Certamente non trascorro le mie giornate seduta al tavolino di un bar aspettando di essere servita. Dobbiamo fare tutto quello che la gente fa nelle proprie città, nei propri paesi. Portare i figli a scuola, cercare una fonte di guadagno, fare file all’ufficio postale, pagare le bollette…cosa c’è di “non autentico” in tutto questo? E’ ovvio che essendo questo un paese turistico, d’estate sarò più propensa ad andare a cena in un bel ristorante sul mare o di andare ad una mostra in un albergo, ma dimmi, non è uguale a quello che fanno milioni di persone in tutto il mondo?

E poi la mia parte preferita: Positano, seppur bellissima, non è una vera comunità. Poche persone normali possono permettersi di far parte dell’autenticità artefatta di tali posti.

Non ho parole!!! Un altro persona chi crede che Positano e un specie di Disneyworld fatta apposta per i turisti!

Temo che il nostro caro amico anonimo non si renda conto che invece noi siamo infinitamente fortunati, perché seppur non nativi di Positano possiamo fregiarci di lussi che in pochi posti al mondo si possono ancora trovare: Dimmi, caro amico, se anche tu hai la fortuna di mandare tuo figlio alle scuole elementari DA SOLO perché sai per dato di fatto che tuo figlio è SICURO; se anche a te è mai capitato di andare a fare la spesa e ritrovarti senza un centesimo nel portafoglio, ma poco importa perché il proprietario ti farà pagare domani o dopodomani o fra una settimana perché ti conosce benissimo; se hai mai avuto un’emergenza medica in piena notte, e non hai dovuto far altro che comporre il numero di casa del dottore che è arrivato in pochi minuti a risolverti il problema, forse salvandoti la vita senza mai neppure dirtelo; se hai mai camminato per strada tranquillo, senza pensieri perché tutt’intorno a te ci sono facce amiche, persone a cui basta una sguardo particolare per farti aiutare.

Questa è realtà “autentica”.
Dunque, caro amico anonimo. Vieni a trovarci. Dacci la possibilità di mostrarti la NOSTRA Positano. Forse l’ultima volta che ci sei stato qualcosa è andato storto…

Grazie e thank you a Dollyna who translated this and added her opinion too.

For the pleasure of those who might have missed the last comment on my post 'do people actually live in Positano', here it is, written of course by Anonymous:

"While your criticisms of the tourist weren't completely inaccurate, your response confirmed my initial impression of the apparently seasonal foreign (British) residents of Positano--that is, that they are largely rich, elitist and convinced that they live some sort of more 'authentic' life than the tourists. I say hogwash. Positano, while absolutely beautiful, is not a real community. Few normal folks can afford to participate in the manufactured authenticity of such places."

Who is this aimed at exactly?
Who are these apparently seasonal foreigh (British) residents of Positano? Am I one? Lets see...I usually go to the UK for a week in May and ten days in November, and again in February. Does that make me seasonal? Most of the expats here spend about the same amount of time as me in the UK if not less.

They are largely rich...how did you figure that out? Can you introduce me to these people? In my experience it doesn't get much better than earning 800 euro a month employed in a store in town, half going to the rent and the other half going to the babysitter/bills/insurance etc.

Elitist...You're just generalising the British, next you'll be saying that none of us can cook.

Convinced they live a more authentic life than the tourists...Er, yes, I think we do actually. Especially if the tourists only manage to stagger up to the church and back, convinced that they now know the town. Who doesn't live an authentic life in the town that they have lived in for years and years? I certainly don't spend all day sitting around at the beach restaurants being waited on. We have to do all the things everybody else that lives in any other town does. Take the kids to school, try and earn money battle at the post office, pay bills etc etc. What is not authentic about that? Every now and again in the summer we might stop off at an art exhibition at a hotel, or go out for dinner at a restaurant, but don't people do that in other towns?

I love this bit: Positano is not a real community. Few normal folks can afford to participate in the manufactured authenticity of such places.

I don't know where to start, I am speechless! Another person who thinks that Positano is a Disneyworld especially for their viewing pleasure!

Dollyna (a real Positanese) says:
I take this as a comment from a frustrated person who would love to live here but actually CAN'T!
Yes, I hate my town with all my guts more times than I find myself saying "Gee, how lucky I am to live here!" but still, this is the most beautiful place in the world and if you need help, here you'll find it in no time. You just need to yell and you'll be heard. And I send my son to school, alone at 7, every single day. Because I know it is safe. I can shop wherever I want in town and suddenly realize I have no money with me. No problem…you pay tomorrow…the shopkeepers know you and trust you. I can go at any doctor's home in the middle of the night and guess what…he'll be there to help…I could go on...

Dollyna suggests that this person should visit Positano so that we can demonstrate how 'authentic' it is. I actually don't think it is worth the effort.

Can't you just feel the sunshine warming her face?

Once upon a time I worked in a small, poky little clothes shop in a quiet piazza set back from the beach. It was rather boring, spending the day closed inside a musty, windowless shop, so I looked around for something to occupy my time with. My friend Dino has a little sandal shop across the square and often I would wander over and watch him making sandals.
Dino and his father decide what style sandal they are going to make, then choose colours, leather straps, thongs, bands and accessories too. Sometimes I used to help, suggesting matching colours or stitching twine or ribbon into holes that Dino would punch into a piece of leather. The small work table is tiny and covered with tools, nails, soles and scissors, and the walls stacked to the ceiling with coloured laces and ribbons, sequins and flowers. If you have a specific idea of what type of sandal you want, you only have to ask. Dino will find the right sized sole for you and measure the straps and buckles, then either offer you a seat or tell you to come back after lunch, and create your very own made to measure sandals.

Over the years Dino has been very sweet and kind, always mending my broken shoes free of charge. He came to England once with a friend and they stayed at my house for a month. They hid under the kitchen counter in fright the first time they saw a milkcart, they taught my Dad how to make proper Neapolitan coffee, and my Mum how to cook a variety of pasta dishes.

If you're ever in town, why not stop by and say hello to Dino? Just walk straight up from the pier and you'll find his little sandal shop.

Poppy ran enthusiastically into her classroom, leaving me clutching her bag. The teacher came in from the next room and swooped Poppy up into a hug.
" Poppy! Dove sei stato?" Where have you been?"
"Sono stato...er...chiuso dentro una macchina!" I've been...closed inside a car!
The teacher looked at me in alarm and I hastily explained that we had been in Tuscany for a few days and made the six hour drive back yesterday. I took Poppy aside and made her promise to tell anyone else that asked that she had been to Florence, not closed inside a car.

The best parts of our trip:
A fun expat bloggers lunch in Florence organised by Sara, followed by a walk around the city, eating ice cream and window shopping.
Driving through the hills of Chianti, watching the sun turn amber, feeling free with so much space around after the crowds in the city and the claustrophobia of Positano.
Sitting in lush grassy fields, making daisy chains in the sunlight. Inhaling the perfume of fresh cut grass that reminds me of summers in England. Positano has no grass, so it has become so very special for me.
Wandering through medievel Tuscan hill towns that hadn't yet been taken over by tourism. Driving back to Mels house and lighting the fire, then sinking into the sofa with cups of tea. Mmmmm.

We missed the incredible fog that engulfed Positano on Monday morning, click here to see some photos.