The Runaway Cook

http://www.indy.com/photos/21575/people/jaydjayd

AND the fact that when that heavenly bus ride ended, I got off a town too late for my hostel. OR that after taking the bus back to Atrani (which is basically up the hill and through a tunnel from Amalfi) I had to lug my suitcase down a two foot wide staircase that I nearly slipped on, then up another two foot wide staircase to get to the door of my hostel was not going to ruin this state of sleepless-heightened awe. Even the extremely odd innkeeper that had the strangest high pitched italian accent, did phase me. I now had a bed, a shower, a source of food not too far from me and it was all located less than a football field away from the 

                                                                                    edge of the water. 

http://www.cromwell-intl.com

After a couple hours of sleep I wandered down the white janga-style stacked steps the the Atrani piazza. Here one can find a grocers, general store, wine store, gelato parlor, and three places to eat. To those of you who have never been to Atrani, this town is teeny. That said this square is even teenier, smaller than a baseball diamond. Having all this in here is a little astonishing.     At this point I am ravished with huger enough to eat five pounds of just about anything. I pick the first table I come to. I sit in the bamboo-like outdoor chair under the shade of a square canopy, stare up at the mountain peeking above these stoney buildings hung with ornaments of laundry and shutters and wait . 

http://www.amalficoastweb.com/atrani/english/location.html

To me it's not any shocker that the man who is serving me looks like one of those guys on the covers of a sleazy romance novel. In fact I can't help but stare at the cliche that has placed the menu in front of me. His jaw had to be on steroids to look that chiseled. And the cheekbones on this guy, man they looked almost fake with their taut high curves and dark dreamy eyes above. His espresso-colored locks of shiny straight hair swayed in the ocean breeze as his rippled torso pulled back to an upright stance. Now he was just standing there in his shaggy jeans and a black t-shirt staring back at me. 

Somehow we stop looking at each other, and I'm certain that I've turned redder than those salamis hanging in the grocers. The worst part to all this, that this guy thinks he is the guy on all those romance novels. To me though he seems like Santa Claus, someone I never expected to see in real life. For our purposes aka future reference, we are going to call dark-haird book-man, Marcelo.