Sunrise in Sorrento was nice. Although I never saw it because I was busy sleeping 14 hours to recover from jet lag.

I awake around midmorning. The inn staff snickers when I come downstairs for my complimentary coffee.

“Perhaps you are looking for a comb for your hair, signore?” says a young female staff person.

I glance in a nearby mirror. I looked like Elsa Lanchester as the bride of Frankenstein.

Big dumb American, sloppy and unkempt.

So I take a shower. There is an open porthole in my shower stall, facing the street. It’s literally a hole in the wall so I can see what’s going on below me.

I overhear children and merchants shouting and laughing down below as I scrub my armpits. People are speaking Italian loudly. It is a singsong language. The inflections of the sentences have a definite meter and melody.

When I wash my hair, I notice something is wrong with the complimentary shampoo. It smells funky. I inspect the bottle and find that it is labeled “intimate cleanser.”

Big dumb American. Washing his hair with private-parts soap.

Soon, my wife and I are wandering the City of Gardens. The sun is painting the sides of the old stone walls, some of which date back to ancient Greek times. The stucco villas are adorned with open shutters and iron balconies. The windows are open, with people leaning outside, hanging wash. I hear an old man singing.

Meantime, tourists are meandering the narrow streets in throngs, like the Children of Israel, shoulder to shoulder.

Ever since the pandemic, Sorrento has seen an uptick in visitors. Some estimate as much as a 65 percent rise in tourism. They’ve always been a tourism mecca, with about 90 percent of the local population working in the tourism sector. The other 10 percent are in cemeteries.

This is why on the streets of Sorrento you can hear every language being spoken by visitors. Mandarin, Spanish, Arab, French. They come from all over to eat, shop, and above all, to buy overpriced leather goods.

And almost everyone here has a story they are happy to share with random redheaded American writers.

Big dumb American. Doesn’t know a stranger.

I met a man from Germany who is here celebrating because he just graduated from college after his mom died.

An older woman from Scotland who is here with her childhood girlfriends, after her husband decided he wanted a younger woman.

A middle-aged man from Quebec, here on his honeymoon.

A family of Swedes, all with white-blond hair, who come here once per year to celebrate everyone’s birthdays at once. Everyone has a story if you listen.

We stop at a ristorante for a late breakfast. The restaurant is basically a cave. There is a large older woman in a kitchen, wearing an apron and a rag over her hair. She appears to be chopping up a small mammal with a meat cleaver.

“Ciao,” she says with a smile. “Sedersi ovunque.”

We have no idea what she’s saying but by her hand gestures we know she’s telling us to have a seat.

So we do.

This place looks like one of those old pirate taverns, with stone walls, alcoves, bottle-bottom windows, and cobbled floors that look older than the Punic Wars.

The lady does not bring a menu, only a large bottle of beer and a loaf of hot bread.

“It is 9 in the morning,” I point out to my wife, who is already pouring beer.

“When in Sorrento,” says the old woman in broken English.

The woman takes our order, which isn’t really an order at all. It’s basically her telling us what she’s about to bring. Again, we have no idea what she’s saying, so we just nod a lot and say, “Grazie, grazie.”

It’s some sort of sandwich. It has friarelli and salsiccia and other things I’ve never heard of. We take a bite and the older woman is watching for our reaction.

We moan to show our appreciation, and it’s no act. It’s one heckuva sandwich. Actually, to call this a “sandwich” would be doing it a disservice; like calling the Titanic a Jon boat. We just watched this woman make this bread from scratch. We saw her steam the vegetables to order. This is a far cry from Subway.

When we are finished, we pay a few Euros. We try to leave a tip, but she only looks at us and smiles. She says, “You do not tip in Italy.”

We are back on the streets again. We are experiencing a warm, post-meal glow. We can’t explain why.

Next, we see a crowd gathered around something that’s happening in the middle of the street. So we join the fray.

A young man is on his knees and he’s proposing to a young woman. In Spanish. She covers her mouth. People are videoing with iPhones. Everyone applauds when she says yes.

We applaud too. And I’m genuinely moved, almost to tears. Maybe it’s the jet lag. Maybe it’s the beer. Or maybe it’s just that I’m a big dumb American in Sorrento.