When John Steinbeck visited the Amalfi Coast, Italy, in the 1950s, he found ‘a dream place that isn’t quite real when you are there and becomes beckoningly real after you have gone’. Entirely captivated, he wrote a paean to Positano for Harper’s Bazaar, shrugging away concerns about publicising its beauty to the vacationing hordes because ‘there is no room…the cliffs are all taken…and there is no way for the organdie-and-white linen tourist to get anywhere without climbing.’
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