I often think about Sorrento. And whilst that might sound like the wankiest start to an article, it’s true. Despite my short-lived affair with the delicate yet astoundingly determined seaside Italian town, I do think about Sorrento a lot. I didn’t stay there overnight but I spent the day. We took a break from our rugged dance with Napoli to spend some quality alone time with one of the many sunny ocean paradises in the country. I fell in love, albeit that was expected. It is Sorrento, after all. Shocking, though, considering the title I’ve gone with for this column. But, the middle finger is up to Sorrento for exactly that. For being so alluring in a way that you persistently have it on your mind, so much so that its invitation for you to return becomes harder to refuse.
Of course, it’s Sorrento. It’s a fucking chaotic hell full of tourists, especially in peak season, so expect to dodge gelato-munching folk who are too busy worrying about the drips of their pistachio cones on their fine linen shorts to watch where they’re going. And I am writing this as an Englishman who only adds fuel to the fire, so apologies for the hypocrisy. If you can resist this, though, and zoom out, you’ll begin to appreciate the Dolce Vita beauty that oozes from every crevice in the town. The character and the romance dance around you in the sea breeze as you stroll through the quaint alleyways and down towards the shore, passing market traders and food vendors galore.
Be prepared, too, for a fuck ton of lemons. They’re everywhere. I’m pretty confident in saying that they’re proud of their allegiance with the citrus fruit. I don’t mind the lemon frenzy, though, especially when you can walk down the street and grab a limoncello spritz for a euro. Yeah, it won’t be the best spritz you’ll have in your life but you’re in Sorrento and you’d probably drink your piss if they told you it was locally brewed and cost you the equivalent of a pack of Haribo back home (inflation permitting, of course). Silly us, though, for not bringing checked luggage and having to leave the town without a bottle of limoncello. Not even a cream, a fuck you. Nothing. Apart from two shot glasses, which we now fill with my embarrassing attempt at a home-brewed version. My partner tells me it’s nice but the scrunched-up face and coughing and spluttering after beg to differ.
The juxtaposition of such an elegant place, one that’s on every single mid-twenties Instagram-fuelled travel moodboard is extraordinary. Only an hour away from the coarse city of Naples, Sorrento stands as a pulchritudinous destination deserving of its reputation. My middle finger stands strong, though, in a way to say; Sorrento, I love you but fuck you for being this beautiful because now so does everyone else.
