Last summer I had a quick glimpse of Positano from the window of a bus. Winding along narrow roads etched into the cliff-sides, I remembered the clustered pastel villages stretched vertically between mountains and white beaches, crammed with little cars and people, steep alleys, crumbling churches and loads of bougainvillea. Luxury hotels were hidden along the cliffs, their tiny elevators whisking the mega-rich down a dozen stories into the rock to reach private, sandy coves. Although high above the village in a humble little hostel, this time around I stayed long enough to unpack my bag, lucky to have free room and board for a week. Between making the morning coffee and pancakes at 8am, staying up with the bar until 3am and working on a guide to Phnom Penh, I enjoyed my time: a day-trip to Pompeii, a boat ride along coast to empty beaches hemmed in with limestone cliffs and plenty nights spent on the hostel's balcony with a couple good waves of travelers.