he did visit Ravello, walk the belvedere terrace and stare out at the divine coast. He hiked up from his Amalfi rest camp, a switchback retreat towards the end of the volume I’m reading. There’s even a faded pic of the terrace and what looks to be the same iron curl of railing where I leaned out a week ago. Catching up with the story as it unfolds, out on a tropic balcony now, four thousand miles from the yellow stone and marble of Ravello. And I almost left this book behind unfinished, baggage overloaded and the feeling it should find a new reader to follow its footsteps through Italy. I might never have known Spike made it. Sweet is chance.
