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.
