People of Amalfi, do not fear death, you are already in Paradise.

Let’s talk Amalfi. Not just the coast — though yes, it is that famous stretch of glittering, cliff-hugging road you’ve seen in a hundred postcards and at least one James Bond movie. I’m talking about the actual town of Amalfi — the tiny, charming, impossibly romantic spot that gives the whole coast its name.

Amalfi isn’t trying to be flashy. It doesn’t need to be. It just is. You step off the ferry (or brave the snaky mountain roads by car — bless your nerves) and boom: you’re in a sun-drenched piazza where laundry flutters from balconies and the smell of espresso and lemon zest floats on the breeze.

Here’s the thing about Amalfi: it’s slow in the best possible way. You don’t come here to tick boxes or “do all the things.” You come here to sit on a café terrace with a spritz in hand, watching the world go by while debating whether to order your third gelato of the day. (You should. Always say yes to more gelato.)