It had been a long day. No one wanted to cook. Why didn’t we try Hotel Margherita? It was close, classy, and we had heard it had a great restaurant.
The concierge directed us up to the open-air rooftop terrace, decked out with a bar, comfortable lounge seating, and dining tables.
The town twinkled as night descended. Lights from distant points along the coast glittered in the clear night air: Positano to the right, and Amalfi, Vietri Sul Mare, and Salerno to the left.
Flickering candles cast a soft light as we contemplated the impressive menu. We giggled at the piped-in music, Italian songs sung in chipmunk voices.
The food was delicious, and we plowed through several courses and carafes of wine. We laughed throughout dinner, feeling liberated from the cares of the world. Complimentary glasses of limoncello finished off the perfect meal.
Back at the villa, the party continued. Never mind that it was dark, the weather was still gloriously warm. The guys donned suits and jumped into the pool.
We all screamed with laughter when Kris modeled a shirt he had secretly purchased in Sorrento.
In the meantime, the party in the pool was heating up. This renegade group was cranking up for some serious liquid celebration. The hour was already quite late, but the revelers had their drinkable provisions lined up on the ledge, reflecting the glow of the terrace lights.
You might think this party pack was composed of the younger ones of the group. You are wrong. It consisted of just three: Gino (58), Dan (64), and Kris (the 30-year old groom).
As the night wore on, the rest of us were tucked in bed with covers over our heads. Intermittent roars of laughter ebbed and flowed from the upper terrace, filtering down through the open windows.
Around four in the morning, I suddenly woke up — from the silence more than anything else. The steady drone of voices was gone. Worried that the three of them may have passed out in the pool, I bolted out of bed and opened the bedroom door. I needn’t have worried. A cacophony of slurry male voices blasted from kitchen.
In the morning, a mountain of empty bottles and smashed bits of food covering the table gave evidence of the nocturnal festivities. Aside from that, the house was no worse for wear.
As much could not be said for those three.