The best way to see the Amalfi Coast is from a comfortable car driven by someone who knows the roads.

Filippo has arranged for us to meet another guide in Pompei in the afternoon. We need to drive down the coast first, he explains, so we can be on the side of the road closest to the edge. If we drive in the other direction, we'll be in the inside lane and we won't see as much. Bonus points for details.

We leave Sorrento and climb into the mountains. The road is narrow and winding. Every now and then, Filippo pulls to the side to let a bigger vehicle squeeze by, so close that we could brush the side mirrors with our hands.

We also pass a number of little three-wheeled pickup trucks, which I dub tricycles. Filippo says they have tiny engines, like scooters. I tell him I could hear the hamsters running under the hood as we passed.

The mountainside is terraced with orchards, mostly lemon, nut, and olive trees. The nut and olive trees have nets strung beneath the branches to catch whatever falls. Looking down the hill at hundreds of nets strikes me as inexplicably funny; I picture myself bouncing from net to net, grinding olives into my jeans.

And then, suddenly, we're on the coast. Filippo pulls over to let me take a picture, a move he will repeat every time a curve produces another magnificent view. I step out of the car into clean, fresh air scented with sage and flowers. It's intoxicating. I remind myself that there would be no quicker buzz-kill than falling off the cliff.

We go through a few of Italy's cool little tunnels. Ever the intrepid photographer (heh), I stick my arm out the window and grab a shot.

Filippo pulls over at a little Scenic Vista™ with a photo-op terrace, a postcard stand, and a produce stand. We take pictures of each other. I take a few pictures of the produce stand, but the proprietor's annoyance with my choice of photos over produce gets embarrassing. Which is too bad, because the stand had some wild colors.

We pile back into the car, round another couple of curves, and find ourselves looking down at Positano. I ooh and ahh and take pictures; my father notes how clear the water is; my mother looks down and mutters, "Mingy little beach."

"It's at the base of a mountain," I say.

"Then they should haul in a few truckloads of white sand."

Filippo drives us through the narrow streets of the town. There are no sidewalks. Many streets are one-way because they're too narrow for two-way traffic. Residents mostly park their cars on private, fenced-off ledges above the town and walk down endless staircases of doom to get home. (We have a moment of silence about the climb back up. That must be deadly. I bet everyone in town has quads like Arnold Schwarzenegger.)

They don't have to handle groceries with the stairs, though. All over the coast, people have put up motorized zip-lines: long wires from the road to the house with sturdy baskets for whatever they need to send down (or up). Once Filippo points out the lines, we see them everywhere. They're like dumbwaiters on wires. (I still don't know what they're called; Google is resisting my efforts to explain.)

The town is beautiful in a very Italian way. Gates are made of elaborately worked metal; window boxes everywhere are filled with flowers; pretty architectural details are maintained. I noticed the same attention to detail in Florence and Rome. I love Italy.

Filippo parks in Amalfi and sends us forth to check out the fountain and buy postcards, which we do. I also buy a little piece of pottery, fake bronze and very cool. Filippo suggested that we look at the church, but we're sort of Duomoed out after last year and the stairs are too formidable. My mother (bad knee) sits on the steps; I (bad back, bad ankles) take a picture of her with steps filling the entire frame around her.