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I awoke feeling warm. But what had stirred me was the sound of loud, raucous singing – peppered with cheers and applause – coming from somewhere below. A beam of morning sun shone through the tangerine linen curtains off a fourth floor balcony at Hotel Neapolis. Laying in my narrow single bed, I tried to raise my head. It seemed to weigh at least 1,000 pounds. It was my first trip to my dream destination of Italy – in fact, my it was first trip to Europe, and I’d done it solo. It was also my first experience with jet lag. As I laid under a thin blanket that matched the curtains, I struggled to will myself alert by recalling my arrival a few hours earlier. I’d taken an eight-hour red-eye flight from Edmonton, Alberta with a 10-hour layover in Amsterdam. While in Amsterdam I’d ridden a train from the airport and explored the downtown. I hadn’t slept since leaving Canada. As my final flight descended, a sea of twinkling lights emerged from the blackness, hugging the Amalfi coastline. My heart glowed like those lights, just a little bit. However, soon after we landed my heart fluttered in exhausted panic when I discovered my driver had left because my flight was later than expected. A call to my travel agent instructed me to take a cab. It was around midnight on a Friday night, and my hotel was in the heart of downtown Naples. I plundered my way to the taxi area with my fully-loaded backpack. A driver who appeared to be in his 30s ushered me into his car. He didn’t speak much English. I didn’t speak any Italian. After some anxious pointing at the address on my phone, we were off. And I mean, we were off. That little car raced and jerked over the bumpy, twisting, narrow cobblestone streets at what felt at times like dizzying speeds. Horns honked as our vehicle crammed into tight alleyways alongside other cars, mopeds and pedestrians. As we whizzed by, I was amazed at how crowded the streets, bars, and restaurants still were at this late hour. And then, fairly abruptly, the cab halted at the end of a dark alley. “This is the address,” my driver said. “Are you sure? But where is it?” I could hear my voice squeak in a panic-pitch. “This is it. Francesco del Giudice 13.” “Ok…” was my shaky reply as I paid him and got out. My brain taunted me that it would be a shame to die this early in my trip. I soon noticed a number of businesses off the alley. I popped my head into the entry of a restaurant and asked in a small voice for “Francesco del Giudice 13”. To my heart’s relief, one of the staff warmly told me I could find it just beyond the iron gate at the end of the alley and up the stairs. After hauling myself up four flights of stairs and checking in with the desk clerk, I’d fallen asleep exhausted under those tangerine sheets until I was awoken by sun beams and singing. A glance at my phone told me It was about 11 a.m. and, singing aside, the sound from the streets was loud. Horns blared and voices shouted atop a constant buzz of conservation. I had to get down there. I quickly washed up, got dressed and half-ran down the stairs. In the daylight, I could clearly see the sign for Hotel Neapolis from the spot on the bustling Via dei Tribunali where the taxi had dropped me off. I discovered my morning serenader was performing from one of the nearby balconies. I could see bakery stands with bright green pistachio-filled pastries. I could see clusters of bright yellow lemons, and tables adorned with colourful ceramics. And everywhere huge historical buildings with great turrets and pillars rose like castles from the cobblestone ground up to the blue Naples sky. The day's heat toasted my skin. I stepped one foot shyly onto the street, nervous and eager to get to know this new place. I took a deep breath and set out on my love affair with the magical Amalfi Coast.