Whatever you have read about Naples, it doesn't prepare you for the reality. The taxi driver that I had booked turned up late, his car battered, reeking of cigarette smoke, skinny and slightly angry, this part of his character came out as soon as we entered into traffic. I was in for a ride. He had tattoos, symbols I'd never seen before, probably some sort of mafia art and for some reason he was uncomfortable in his seat and kept moving it up and down, backwards and forwards. If I'd have been Catholic I would have clutched my rosary beads and made the sign of the cross. He shoots in and out of the traffic, weaving his way and cursing when he had to stop but in the end, I made it in one piece to my hotel (even though upon arrival, you couldn't tell it was one but the driver assured me it was).
And it was. There were two huge doors with a smaller door opening up in one of the doors but it was so small I had to step over a step and bend down to get in. It was hobbit like. Internally it looked like it hadn't been renovated since WWII, (which is when Naples was heavily bombed) but I discovered an ancient creaking lift that jolted me up a couple of floors and there was a newly painted door and inside a beautiful series of rooms. This place would have been a palazzo once long ago and hopefully they'll continue to do these ancient beauties up. Looking out my window, there is colourful washing drying in the summer heat, noises of kids and the low hum of Vespas in the street. I feel like I'm in a movie.
I walk the streets and feel like I'm in Bangkok. I wander through the Spanish Quarter, full of little alleyways, washing draped across every available space, old ladies in black sitting on their tiny balconies, watching the world walk by below them. Guys and girls on their bikes, immobile, smoking, tattooed and looking incredibly cool. Young boys huddled in doorways, sharing cigarettes.
I've stepped back into the 50's; I can imagine Sophia Loren leaning out of a window, screaming in Napoletano to someone below. Tiny shops full of cheap clothes and junk. Hot and tired, I stop for the best gelato at Infante, pistachio which they serve with a dollop iced pistachio paste on top. It's a fascinating, dirty, run down place full of ancient medieval architecture that must have been stunning in their heyday and could be again if anyone cared. It is the biggest culture shock so far.
Later that night I dine at Trattoria Nanni on tiny succulent seafood and salad, watching a couple across from me flirting. She ,with black lustrous short curls framing her face, dark red lips, a floral off the shoulder dress displaying her tattoos; he in a tight black t shirt, leaning in towards her, playing with a curl of her hair. This is life being lived out loud. Outside the Vespas roar, music is playing in the apartments, cats are curled in doorways. The restaurant staff are friendly and playful. Am loving it here.
I remember stopping here once at the port ,on the way to Sicily, with my late husband and he warned me that this wasn't a safe place, as we ate big pieces of thick pizza topped with sweet tomatoes and basil and drizzled with oil. Maybe times have changed.
The next day, I'm excited to explore this city. I start my day with a croissant, filled with pistachio crema, my eyes closing in rapture at the flavours; along with a deadly macchiato and fresh orange juice at my now favourite cafe from yesterday.
Then I walk to one of the city's oldest remaining cafes, Cafe Gambrinus, 1860, a meeting place for intellectuals, artists and writers including Oscar Wilde and Ernest Hemingway. The front section is crowded with stand up Italians, drinking their coffee and buying beautiful boxes of cakes to take home. I go to the back to sit down and have another deadly coffee and a tiny hazelnut profiterole. I sit with other tourists and Italian mamas, taking in the beautiful surroundings, mirrors and paintings.
Caffeinated, I walked down to the bay, sweaty and hot from early morning heat to see the Fountain of Giants with Vesuvius in the background.
Walking back into the city, I admire the street artists, middle aged men mostly, salt and pepper hair in pony tails, big rings on their fingers, brushes in hand. The poor are settled into doorways, even in their poverty, proud of their clothes and their looks, like figures out of Renaissance paintings, little dogs with heads on their paws next to them.
I wander through the famous Galleria Umberto 1, built in 1887. The astrological mosaics on the are stunning. Music from buskers echoes through the colonnades and up into the large ceiling. How it wasn't destroyed during the war, is a miracle. It was the most heavily bombed Italian city during the last war.
I find another 1920's chocolate shop, Gay Odin and buy a couple of it's beautiful retro oval chocolate boxes and then it's time to have what Naples is most famous for - their pizza. Napoli en Bocca is the place to go. I'm early enough not to have to join a queue. They only serve two different types. I go for the Margherita, it is simple and superb. Sweet, tangy tomatoes, oozy soft mozzarella and big leaves of basil.
The afternoon is spent wandering via San Gregorio Armeno. This street is mind blowing. Here artisans create wooden nativity scenes, shop after shop, with artisans that have had their training passed down through the centuries. Antique shops with beautiful displays of hand painted tambourines are in between the Nativity shops. I happen upon a church where there's a huge Italianate wedding taking place, everyone fanning themselves in the heat, the bride in a voluminous lacy, frothed concoction.
I wander into the Gesu Nuovo church, the outside of which is made of three dimensional pyramid shapes. This was originally built as a palace but confiscated and made into a church a hundred years later. Internally it is over the top but stunning. Another strange church is the Church of Santa Maria delle Anime in Purgatory in Arco. Should have gone in, the church dates back from 600 and underneath there's a crypt where anonymous human remains are used as intermediaries for prays and requests.
There are cornicellos everywhere (large red chilli like objects), a sign of good luck; shops full of them, jewellery, keyrings, lamps. There are shops full of Taralli, a donut shaped biscuit made of white wine and fennel seeds, which I buy and eat on my discovery tour, only to find out later I should have dunked them in wine. There are tiny little antique bars everywhere. It's Saturday and all of Naples is out for their passagiata.
The heat is palpable as I walk back, my mind alive with images from this place. I dine at Biancomangiare, a traditional welcoming trattoria, saffron yellow walls and ancient kitchen utensils on the walls. I have stuffed squid and friarello, a bitter green with garlic and chilli and there's a little basket of homemade bread. I order wine and there's no line of demarcation here, it's full which is good because my mind is on overload. Tonight the daughter is meeting me, she's arriving from Nottingham, England and she said she didn't feel that safe there and yet I've wandered all parts of the inner city of Naples today and have felt safe, but I have been careful with my bag across my body.
There were huge delays for some reason at customs at the airport for the daughter so she's late but the taxi I ordered for her waited and has delivered her to the tiny door of my hotel. I go down to meet her and we have a laugh at the tiny doorway.
The next morning we're leaving but I take some of Naples with me. The scale of the old palazzos that are decaying, buildings left deserted from the war; looking into ancient courtyards where once horses and carriages would have carried the rich. The noisy vibrancy, the cool young crowd lounging on bikes, in doorways. The stunning artworks in chalk on the footpaths, the beautiful galleries that I will have to leave to my next visit. The rawness, the poverty, the craziness, at first confronts you and then draws you into it's web. I'll be back Napoli.
Comments