Today marks the two-week point of the Epic European Journey and I find myself in the cushy lobby of our hotel in Naples. Because this lovely Mediterranean city is known affectionately as the Crime Capitol of Italy, Shannon and I opted for a safe, central hotel as opposed to the many other somewhat-more-sketchy options for housing.
Besides the safety factor, it has felt incredible to have a single bed to sleep in multiple nights in a row. Having a constant home base to return to as we adventure about, one where we are not limited in sleeping hours or ever-changing roommates, is quite welcome. In addition this certain hotel has an insane terrace looking over the bay of Naples to Mount Vesuvius, upon which a truly decadent complimentary breakfast is served every morning. We've taken to stocking up on free (O, how I love the sound of that word!) fruit, yogurt, marmalade cake, croissants, tea, and fresh-baked Italian pastries with unpronounceable names.
We rolled in to this city late late late on Thursday night, having sadly flown out of Marseille and hopping a train from our landing in Rome to Italy's third city. We saw just enough of Rome on our stopover to get scalped on some pizza that was worth it, sit in a Roman square where we were hit on by passersby and overshadowed by ornate atlases and cartydids, and see the hippodrome as we flew over. Our train between the two was predictably late and sketchy, the only way for an Italian train to be (no thanks to Benito Mussolini, whose regime had lasting impact only in the latter attribute and not the former). Salesmen wandered between the cars, shoving sleep masks and wilted roses under our tired faces until we made enough grousing noises to head them off to another cluster of seats.
The Italian countryside was pitch dark and thus we were unable to see much of it until the following morning when we threw open the curtains of our eighth-story room to reveal the aforementioned panorama of Vesuvius, volcanic farmlands, red-tiled roofs, majestic domed churches and a few very imposing castle-type things jutting out into the bay. We had learned the night before, much to our extreme delight, that the final races in the America's Cup world series would be taking place that day on the bay. America's Cup is a serialized sailing race that is run yearly on the seas of the world, belying its name. Teams of five sailors maneuver their ultra-light multi-hulled boats around a rather intricate course, with the wind tipping them nearly on beam-ends and making it one heck of a spectator sport. After our leisurely breakfast, we made our way through the city to find he boardwalk and a spot for the race.
I can't begin to do justice to Naples without pictures. Though it is reportedly the dirtiest city in Europe, behind the piles of trash and destroyed masonry lurk fantastic buildings from every style between now and the Romans. It has its share of renaissance churches and baroque storefronts, intricate gated villas and massive buildings that once served as bishops' palaces/arsenals/bureaucratic edifices of state/pretty much anything else. I purposely stay far afield of Italian history because it tends to be one of those subjects that scholars care about much too much; I once ran across a multi-volume debate between some of the brightest minds in the discipline arguing over the merit of the calves on a statue of Hercules housed, consequently, in the Naples Museum of Archeology. One scholar thought that these calves were ideal pieces of art while another opined that the tendons were too prominent by half; a third submitted that their structure was too massive and were an outrage against the tradition of perfect Italian sculpture. Even Goethe weighed in on the negative side, and when Goethe writes about something you know it's a big deal. Anyway, that kind of significance attached to a pair of marble calves unnerves the historian in me and makes me fear for what scholars of Italian history might do when given the significance of a battle, a king, a technological discovery of note. If there exists that volume and pitch of research and drama about a pair of calves, what might they do with something ha actually matters? Most likely beat it to death and expect everyone to know why, i'd wager.
But I digress! I meant to say, before the controversial calves interlude, that Naples was so fascinating and beautiful as to arrest my interest and make me want to know more, despite my aversion to its national past.
One extremely impressive sight all throughout the city is the abundance of gallerias (covered markets with vast, echoing interiors and magnificent decoration) that spring out of city blocks like camouflaged elephants. One minute you're strolling down the street, eating some stracchiatella gelato and musing over which sailboat has the right of way when they share a tack (the windward one, obviously) when you run smack-dab into a five-story behemoth of filigree and glass, with wee angels skipping about above your head and peaceful tile horses grazing across a mosaic below your feet. You weren't looking for this massive structure, per se, but now that you've seen it you'll be recognizing them left and right for the rest of your time in the city. Much like those elephants I mentioned before, you realize that they were not hidden very well at all, as such a large entity is difficult to conceal, and that these huge lovely things are quite obviously prevalent despite the attempts a few city planners to disguise them with the rest of the storefronts.
At any rate, we wandered this incredible city for most of our first morning there, getting our bearings and being endlessly bombarded by street vendors and random Neapolitans to buy things, take photos with them, go into their places of business, marry them... Overall, i would say that Italians (or, Neapolitans at least) are exponentially more friendly than their Gallic brethren. Besides that fact Naples could almost be mistaken for Marseille in some regards. They share general plans of architecture and climate, and the culture is dictated by proximity to the Mediterranean more than by national affiliation. Sometimes the only noticeable difference was the exchange of rues for vias, patisseries for patisserias, and bonjour for boun jiorno. But going back to the people, we made a surprising number of friends who just wanted to shoot the breeze for a while, a new feature of this country when compared to others.
After lunch (in the native city of pizza, it was only natural that we eat it) we took off for the waterfront and, after perusing the impressive dockside display of America's Cup swag, found a comfy seawall to sit on and watch the race. It was absolutely mesmerizing to watch the teams of sailors, hardly visible across wind-chopped waves, run across their boats and back again, cranking at sails and leaning to counterbalance the tilt of the vessel. Sailing is a notoriously difficult sport to watch from shore and I felt rather like this for the better part of the race:
http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=1bngGgqdtVg
That evening, we cruised one if the swanky club districts but did not go clubbing at all.
The next morning we ventured to the other half of the city, with our sights set on the Museum of Archeology, the Botanical Garden, catacombs, and Saint Chiara's monastery and church. We had to go leaping down a few winding, cobbled streets no wider than my kneecap at some points, often sharing these byways with speeding vespas and/or shouting storekeepers. This detouring allowed us some spectacular views of the city and access to some exceptional hidden gelaterias. We eventually made our way to the museum, which had an impressive collection of statuary and artifacts from those illustrious years before Christ, and were summarily followed by a docent who didn't want us putting our unclean American paws on the time-honored toe of some Hercules or Laocoon. Docent aside it was a phenomenal display of art and history and the portrait hall at the top of the museum had the single most ridiculously spectacular fresco that I have ever had the pleasure of seeing. It made the ceiling look ornately carved, whereby in reality it was merely painted. As Shannon opined, it must have been a Renaissance version of a very bad drug trip.
I could probably have stared up at it for an age or more, but it was too fair a day to spend wandering the halls of a gallery at length. Our stops at the botanical gardens and catacombs, however, were summarily truncated when both were found to be closed. Closed! On a saturday in April! I had never seen the like. Only in Naples would this happen.
At any rate we did get to wander the impressive grounds of Saint Chiara's before heading back into the main part of town. It is a complex and intricate religious center and peers over the rest of the city with as much grace as a building can. We caught dinner at a lovely streetside pizzeria with a very creepy waiter who would not cease and desist in staring into my eyes for protracted periods of time whilst pouring our drinks or bringing out our pizza. Which brings me to the next point in this post:
Naples was sketchy.
Now that we have a few countries between my back and the sunny streets of Napoli I can safely and without bias pass judgment on it. My judgment is this: while beautiful, there were certainly a few things about Naples that made it shiftier, darker, less certain than the other cities we have so far graced with our presence.
An illustrative anecdote, you demand? Why, it would be my pleasure. The moral of the story is that we came out alive, with only minimal damage sustained to our confidence. The climax of the story comes with our dashing escape from a restaurant with a creeper mounted on a vespa and a smitten waiter in hot pursuit. Frankly the general impression of sketchiness came from the (large) number of men who shouted at us, followed us, or tried to coerce us into going places we wished not to go. shannon and I handled ourselves extremely well given the sheer temerity of these people but it made for a number of experiences I would prefer not to repeat. At one point we were trying to make our way towards a plaza that had been highly recommended as a place for evening entertainment. We asked the receptionist at the hotel just how one would best walk to the piazza Bellini, only ten minutes distant from the hotel doorstep.
The receptionist blanched.
"you cannot walk to the piazza Bellini!" she cried. "You are two young ladies! It is not safe for you to walk!"
The receptionist ripped a map off of her notepad of maps and drew for us circles around the parts of the city that were dangerous, crimeridden, hazardous, verboten. Sure enough, it seemed we could not get to Bellini without chancing our luck with the Camorra, drug dealers, gangsters, or all three.
We ended up going back to the waterfront and partaking in the concert and dance being given by the America's Cup sponsors, which was lovely, but the specter of almost having wandered, blissfully ignorant, into a veritable pit of snakes was haunting.
Which had me come to a conclusion as I was lying awake Saturday night.
I had planned to spend Sunday making a pilgrimage to the shrine of Saint Philomena, my patron saint. I had it all planned out: find the Napoli train station, railroad to Baiano, transfer to a blue bus at 10:30, hike the last half hour to the sanctuary and reach it in time for mass. It was, in fact, the reason that I chose Naples as the Italian stop on this trip. It was to be the highlight of Eurotrip 2013, one for the record books, a proper pilgrimage.
But I chickened out.
Collioure, my last pilgrimage, had been different. In France I could speak with the locals and read my train tickets. I could always use the Mediterranean as an easy landmark in the case of a dearth of maps and there was no clear and present danger from organized crime or overly flirtatious men. In Italy it was all quite different: getting lost, getting taken, and getting seriously crept on were all likely eventualities. Also, I speak no Italian whatsoever. When I looked at the map given us by the receptionist, the train station was strait ahead through at least two of the no-go zones.
So I chickened out.
One day I will return to Naples, one day when I am old enough to rent a car and do this pilgrimage thing right. On a day when I am twenty-five and can speak a decent hello/excuse me/thank you in Italian and not depend upon the kindness of strangers to get from point a to point b I will finally make it to the tiny hill town of Mugnano del Cardinale.
That day did not come during this trip.
Thus, I did not spend my Sunday afternoon running around the hills of Avellino. Instead we had our last day in Naples and spent it perusing street fairs, visiting churches, readying for the next stops on our journey, and viewing the final race and awards ceremony for America's Cup. Really, we could not have timed our stay in Naples better for seeing all there is to see of world-class sailboat racing, which I suppose is a sop to my wounded expectations for Southern Italy adventures.
Overall, Naples was stunning, full of surprises and daring escapes, and had incredible food to rival even that of France. I have vowed to return someday to do what I came to do in the first place, and the mountains, shrines, villas, blue sea, pizza margherita, gelato, ships, fountains, and limoncello can wait for me. After all, many of these things have hung around down on the ankle of the boot since pre-Roman times; they're not going anywhere.
On Monday we woke up as the sun rose over Vesuvius and hurried to our airport car... In a clear downpour. Looking out over the city one would never guess that it was raining sheets, but we were drenched by the time we reached the shelter of the backseat. The sky was light with new sun and not a cloud darkened the horizon, but somehow we left Naples in a sun shower that soaked the red-tile roofs and washed the piles of garbage away.
Classic Naples, classic. Only in this city of both beauty and crime, blessed antiquities and mountains of refuse would the sun rain down on us as a goodbye.
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