Some deep thinking Neapolitans asked for my opinion recently.
Some of the questions asked:
1. If there was one thing that Naples needed to save what would it be?
My answer: the spirit of the people. It's what makes Naples the city that it is.
2. How would you compare the city of Bangkok and the city of Naples?
Bangkok is still a city of the third world. Naples, in my experience, is one of the few cities in Europe to be a third world city. Bangkok however the capital of a country that has never been colonised. Thailand has always retained its independence. Naples however has been constantly conquered and ruled by different groups - the Moors, the Greeks, Spanish, Austrians..the city is full of the legacy, influence, memory and blood of each group. Bangkok is a city that is very quickly changing. Naples changes incredibly slowly and reluctantly.
3. Would you agree that Australia is a country without soul?
With some 40 million years of Aboriginal history, a unique natural landscape and an incredible patchwork multicultural society made up of some 190 different nationalities I had to disagree.
What do you think?
Monday 31 July 2006
Opinions
Friday 28 July 2006
Odds and Ends
Odds and Ends
27 July 2006
Odd One
I have a new job, teaching English. I officially start in September, but this afternoon I went in to spend a few hours with the Director of Studies. InLingua (www.inlingua.com) is a franchise business. I think it originated in Italy but the headquarters are now in New York, with the European HQ in Switzerland. Locally, there are two schools in Naples, another at Caserta and one at Palermo. I have been contracted as a freelance teacher, with a guarantee of 20-25 hours a week, or a minimum of 80 hours a month. Of course this being Europe we get paid monthly. Nevertheless, I only want to work about ten hours a week…which is in fact about ten hours too many, but that’s another story.
I was interviewed by Katherine, a lovely English woman, who manages the Centro Direzionale school, in the business district. Today I met Roger, who is the Director of Studies. I was quite nervous about meeting him, but was pleasantly surprised to find myself chatting with a man originally from Catalonia, Spain, who moved to Cardiff, Wales via Majorca, and after meeting his Neapolitan wife-to-be in London moved to Naples about four years ago. He has a lovely soft accent, and a quick wit. He kept dropping the word ‘daft’ into the conversation which for some reason I found quite amusing.
It turns out he marked the Language Assessment test I submitted. I scored 73%. The pass mark is 70% but I was encouraged to hear that some applicants had received only 50%. Roger has asked me to spend some time brushing up on my verb tenses and conditionals…which is exactly what I had planned to do with the summer break! So, having finished the Dan Brown and lollypop girly reading on the bookshelf I will be immersing myself in Grammar guides in both English and Italian.
He ran through some housekeeping issues but these are the things that stuck:
• They understand the state of the traffic in Naples, so if I am running late just let reception know.
• Strictly not allowed to work for another English language school or to offer private tutoring to any of the students.
• Do not give your phone number to students (what if I want to date one?)
• I will not be required to change my Australian accent (phew!)
• No Italian language to be spoken in class (thank goodness coz I can’t speak it anyway…I realised today that Italian is actually my third language which is my excuse for still being so lousy at it)
• Roger is happy to take any and all questions (good coz I’ll have plenty)
• I also think he said he’s Taurean so I like him already
They also have a small library of English novels left behind by previous teachers, and an internet connection (plus all the usual reference texts and teaching aides), so I should be comfortable. Oh, and air conditioning. It was stinking hot today. I arrived at the school dripping sweat, wanting only to float in looking cool and crisp in my white linen shirt.
I’m feeling both excited about the challenge of teaching, meeting new people and moving my brain further away from accounting. But, at the same time, I’m feeling scared to death about the challenge of teaching and meeting new people…which is pretty normal for me. In fact the idea of teaching a group of six Italians is daunting. Just as daunting as I found the prospect of standing in front of forty friendly people at an AFS meeting on a Sunday afternoon each month.
Odd Two
The pharmacies are protesting in Italy. As I understand it, the new Prime Minister, Prodi, has introduced legislation that allows some non prescription medication, like paracetamol, to be sold at supermarkets, health centres etc. Under the old legislation chemists were the only retail outlets to sell these products. They are closing up every Wednesday to contest the changes to the laws.
I reckon it’s easier to buy hashish in Naples than it is to buy paracetamol. It’s probably cheaper too. If Prodi wants to introduce legislation that might help increase competition and reduce the price of a box of Panadol to less than €5 then I’m all for it.
Odd Three
I felt like a celebrity today. I came out of the train station, striding purposefully towards the 201 bus. With Robbie on my iPod and in my ears I could still hear the horns and wolf whistling around me (not all directed at me I might add modestly). As I crossed the road a man in a little white car beeped his horn, both furiously and suggestively if that’s possible. As he drove by he slowed right down and should’ve taken a picture to avoid the strain to his neck as he twisted in his seat to keep looking at me. I ignored him and walked on. He drove by again, real slow, pulling up some ten metres in front.
He was waiting for me, and out of the corner of my eye I could see him smiling broadly, maybe that should be lasciviously, at me, again honking as I pulled level with his bonnet. I have to tell you, this whole honking thing as a flirting technique does not cut it. He must have been mid forties, wearing a pale blue shirt over his amble belly (which made me think he might have been a bus driver), his scalp boldly clinging to some comb over attention from that morning.
Continuing with my purposeful striding I steered left towards the buses and away from the road. He continued to sit there, in his car, pulled up in the middle of the lane, other vehicles swerving around him.
Why did this make me feel like a celebrity? Well, know I know what it feels like to be stalked. I know what it feels like to be stalked when you know you look rumpled and limp from the heat. But it makes me wonder what is it that these men are after? Do they think there is a chance that I’m going to stop, look at him, and decide he’s the best thing I’ve seen since sliced bread and just walk over and get into his car? Would he be happy to know someone had done that to his daughter I wonder.
After finding a shady spot near the empty bus stop, in amongst the other riff raff (who were at least all a foot shorter than me and only eyeing me up out of boredom) I watched his car circle the bus depot. I half imagined he might park and get out of his car to come and look for me. But then it occurred to him that he was the laziest type of stalker, the type that can’t be bothered to get out of a car. He’s the type that can’t be bothered engaging his vocal chords so he lets the horn do the talking. However as I stood there waiting an eternity for the 201 I was visualising my knee to testes crushing motion in my head, just in case anyone invaded my personal, sweaty space.
Ends
Naples is experiencing maximums of about 30C or more now. We bought an esky, tea bags and instant coffee this week in preparation for Mum and Dad’s arrival.
I changed my hair colour yesterday. I was going for a bit lighter, but am dark, dark brown instead. The dangers of buying hair colour in a third language!
Oh, and Gi came home with the news that a friend owns land and a little shack near Sorrento, so I expect some late summer camping is on the cards. You’re invited too!
27 July 2006
Odd One
I have a new job, teaching English. I officially start in September, but this afternoon I went in to spend a few hours with the Director of Studies. InLingua (www.inlingua.com) is a franchise business. I think it originated in Italy but the headquarters are now in New York, with the European HQ in Switzerland. Locally, there are two schools in Naples, another at Caserta and one at Palermo. I have been contracted as a freelance teacher, with a guarantee of 20-25 hours a week, or a minimum of 80 hours a month. Of course this being Europe we get paid monthly. Nevertheless, I only want to work about ten hours a week…which is in fact about ten hours too many, but that’s another story.
I was interviewed by Katherine, a lovely English woman, who manages the Centro Direzionale school, in the business district. Today I met Roger, who is the Director of Studies. I was quite nervous about meeting him, but was pleasantly surprised to find myself chatting with a man originally from Catalonia, Spain, who moved to Cardiff, Wales via Majorca, and after meeting his Neapolitan wife-to-be in London moved to Naples about four years ago. He has a lovely soft accent, and a quick wit. He kept dropping the word ‘daft’ into the conversation which for some reason I found quite amusing.
It turns out he marked the Language Assessment test I submitted. I scored 73%. The pass mark is 70% but I was encouraged to hear that some applicants had received only 50%. Roger has asked me to spend some time brushing up on my verb tenses and conditionals…which is exactly what I had planned to do with the summer break! So, having finished the Dan Brown and lollypop girly reading on the bookshelf I will be immersing myself in Grammar guides in both English and Italian.
He ran through some housekeeping issues but these are the things that stuck:
• They understand the state of the traffic in Naples, so if I am running late just let reception know.
• Strictly not allowed to work for another English language school or to offer private tutoring to any of the students.
• Do not give your phone number to students (what if I want to date one?)
• I will not be required to change my Australian accent (phew!)
• No Italian language to be spoken in class (thank goodness coz I can’t speak it anyway…I realised today that Italian is actually my third language which is my excuse for still being so lousy at it)
• Roger is happy to take any and all questions (good coz I’ll have plenty)
• I also think he said he’s Taurean so I like him already
They also have a small library of English novels left behind by previous teachers, and an internet connection (plus all the usual reference texts and teaching aides), so I should be comfortable. Oh, and air conditioning. It was stinking hot today. I arrived at the school dripping sweat, wanting only to float in looking cool and crisp in my white linen shirt.
I’m feeling both excited about the challenge of teaching, meeting new people and moving my brain further away from accounting. But, at the same time, I’m feeling scared to death about the challenge of teaching and meeting new people…which is pretty normal for me. In fact the idea of teaching a group of six Italians is daunting. Just as daunting as I found the prospect of standing in front of forty friendly people at an AFS meeting on a Sunday afternoon each month.
Odd Two
The pharmacies are protesting in Italy. As I understand it, the new Prime Minister, Prodi, has introduced legislation that allows some non prescription medication, like paracetamol, to be sold at supermarkets, health centres etc. Under the old legislation chemists were the only retail outlets to sell these products. They are closing up every Wednesday to contest the changes to the laws.
I reckon it’s easier to buy hashish in Naples than it is to buy paracetamol. It’s probably cheaper too. If Prodi wants to introduce legislation that might help increase competition and reduce the price of a box of Panadol to less than €5 then I’m all for it.
Odd Three
I felt like a celebrity today. I came out of the train station, striding purposefully towards the 201 bus. With Robbie on my iPod and in my ears I could still hear the horns and wolf whistling around me (not all directed at me I might add modestly). As I crossed the road a man in a little white car beeped his horn, both furiously and suggestively if that’s possible. As he drove by he slowed right down and should’ve taken a picture to avoid the strain to his neck as he twisted in his seat to keep looking at me. I ignored him and walked on. He drove by again, real slow, pulling up some ten metres in front.
He was waiting for me, and out of the corner of my eye I could see him smiling broadly, maybe that should be lasciviously, at me, again honking as I pulled level with his bonnet. I have to tell you, this whole honking thing as a flirting technique does not cut it. He must have been mid forties, wearing a pale blue shirt over his amble belly (which made me think he might have been a bus driver), his scalp boldly clinging to some comb over attention from that morning.
Continuing with my purposeful striding I steered left towards the buses and away from the road. He continued to sit there, in his car, pulled up in the middle of the lane, other vehicles swerving around him.
Why did this make me feel like a celebrity? Well, know I know what it feels like to be stalked. I know what it feels like to be stalked when you know you look rumpled and limp from the heat. But it makes me wonder what is it that these men are after? Do they think there is a chance that I’m going to stop, look at him, and decide he’s the best thing I’ve seen since sliced bread and just walk over and get into his car? Would he be happy to know someone had done that to his daughter I wonder.
After finding a shady spot near the empty bus stop, in amongst the other riff raff (who were at least all a foot shorter than me and only eyeing me up out of boredom) I watched his car circle the bus depot. I half imagined he might park and get out of his car to come and look for me. But then it occurred to him that he was the laziest type of stalker, the type that can’t be bothered to get out of a car. He’s the type that can’t be bothered engaging his vocal chords so he lets the horn do the talking. However as I stood there waiting an eternity for the 201 I was visualising my knee to testes crushing motion in my head, just in case anyone invaded my personal, sweaty space.
Ends
Naples is experiencing maximums of about 30C or more now. We bought an esky, tea bags and instant coffee this week in preparation for Mum and Dad’s arrival.
I changed my hair colour yesterday. I was going for a bit lighter, but am dark, dark brown instead. The dangers of buying hair colour in a third language!
Oh, and Gi came home with the news that a friend owns land and a little shack near Sorrento, so I expect some late summer camping is on the cards. You’re invited too!
Threesome
20 July 2006
The traveller’s network came out of the box again last night.
First, let me back track a little. July is unfortunately a quiet month for many local businesses, with schools closed and families already trooping off for their summer holidays. Accordingly, the New Form Care clinic has experienced a slower period, and Gi has been directly impacted with less work.
Dora, the owner, went away for a long weekend with her family. Gi had been feeling dejected about not being busy enough and we talked over the weekend about all the things the clinic should do as a business to counteract some of the predictable July dip in trade. However, despite a growing list of ideas, it was necessary to recognise that without any action all the ideas in the world changed nothing. The other problem is that Naples is a place where things take time…it takes forever for people to start something, and then it takes another lot of forever for anything to be finished.
I suggested to Gi that he needed to stop focusing on helping Dora to improve ‘her’ business through brochures, price lists and advertising and focus more on promoting himself, as a contracted practitioner. To demonstrate, I prepared a voucher / flyer for a 20% discount on a session with Gi. The flyer is in English, with details about his Tui Na treatments, his Australian qualifications and his languages skills, thereby giving them the option to book an appointment at the clinic or call Gi direct (implying that non-Italian speaking clients can be easily accommodated).
I know that a lot of travellers and tourists come to Naples in order to visit Pompeii, Capri and the Amalfi Coast. I remember what it feels like to lug a backpack around for months. People often visit the south of Italy after they’ve travelled through the rest of Europe. Any ‘circling’ of Europe has usually already happened with Paris, Barcelona, Zurich and Berlin, common cities of interest. Once you get to Naples you either have to travel back up the boot, keep heading south, or jump on a ferry to cross the Mediterranean.
As you move through these countries and deal with the foreign languages I always noticed that anything written in English tended to jump off the wall begging to be read. I figured something written in English, offering a discount (backpackers are often on a budget but are prepared to indulge occasionally) for something that might alleviate some of that travel weariness, aches or a lingering health problem might just catch someone’s eye.
After some word smithing we printed off a few and delivered some to the hotel on Via Duomo half a block from the clinic. This place is listed in the Lonely Planet guide. The plan is to go through the accommodation, cafes and internet points listed in the Lonely Planet and drop off flyers wherever we can.
After dropping them off Gi’s initial expectation was that the receptionist would promptly drop them in the bin. However, some fifteen minutes after visiting the Duomo Hotel a friend of a girl who had hurt her neck, spied the flyer. They promptly marched down to the clinic to arrange a treatment with Gi.
Having received an urgent phone call from Dora (having done all of this over the weekend Dora didn’t know about the flyers and was in fact a bit annoyed, and razzed Gi complaining that she was working on more professional material…never mind the fact that we need to make rent this month…) Gi walked in and was greeted with a ‘G’day mate’. This was George, the husband of the ‘flyer spotting’ friend.
Gi came home sprouting off that he wanted to tell me something, but he didn’t want to tell me, his way of implying that something good had happened but I wasn’t to take any credit for it (yeah, right). The brochure had attracted the attention of Marie, and it was her friend Cindy who needed help with her neck. With the clinic less than a block from the hotel, and the price an attracted incentive it seems that my idea worked.
Maybe I should think about working in marketing….or, maybe not.
The three of them are Australians, from Sydney. Gi treated Cindy, of the damaged neck, and she was coming back in the following day. Cindy had slept badly on a fold up bed at the Hotel Duomo and was unable to join Marie, and her husband George for their day trip to Pompeii. Imagine coming all the way to Naples and then not making it to the ancient city of Pompeii only thirty minutes away!
Keen to have an English conversation with someone other than Gi I trotted down to the clinic on Friday to chat with Cindy before her 1pm appointment. After deciding that she was a nice, normal person and someone I would talk to under regular circumstances (I’ve started doing the strangest things to make new friends) I extended an invitation for them to meet us that evening for a local pizza.
The lovely thing about actually living in Naples instead of just visiting is that we are in a position to approach a virtual stranger and decide to spend some time and energy with them. The other delightful thing is the response we get. Travelling is sometimes a lonely or isolated business and getting a bit of an inside view on someone’s life in an extreme city like Naples is an opportunity in itself (I guess). Especially as many travellers have been warned about Naples - the traffic, the petty crime - and tend to not venture into the city itself much, shamefully, as Naples is such an incredible place.
At 8pm we met Cindy and her travelling companions, Marie and George at the front of the Hotel Duomo. The rest of the evening was spent enjoying a pizza at Lombardi’s Pizzeria in the heart of the city, the pizza ready in a speedy eight minutes thanks to the wood burning oven of some 200 years. We wandered around our favourite route taking in the alleyways, the piazzas, palace and castles. The travelling trio seemed genuinely surprised, somewhat unaware of the historical and architectural significance of Naples.
As we exchanged stories we discovered that Cindy is General Manager, Marketing for Vodafone. This explained why her mobile phone was more often than not the focus of her attention. She also has a laptop with roaming internet access, and when I asked, slightly jealously, how much it cost my envy rose when she explained it was a job benefit, and consequently free. I would kill for free, unlimited, roaming internet access…well maybe not kill, but I would mame, or at least leave a large bruise.
They are all of Lebanese background, and thanks to the influence of immigrating grandparents speak fluent Arabic. Marie and George have left their jobs in Sydney and are on a ten month sojourn around Europe. Cindy, on a month’s holiday, has joined them for the Croatia and Italy leg.
While Cindy was receiving a treatment from Gi and resting her neck, George and Marie had spent the day exploring Pompeii. The following day they all took a day trip to Capri. Initially they planned to spend two days in Naples but with a few recommendations it quickly stretched out to a five day stop over.
On Friday we borrowed Rosa’s car and cruised along the Amalfi Coast, stopping in Positano to cool down with a swim. It’s been years since I last visited Amalfi Coast and it was a pleasure to devour the picturesque views of the candy coloured cliff side villages. We took the freeway from Naples to Vietri and then followed the narrow, windy coastal road. Gi drives with confidence and expertise having the benefit of being accustomed to local driving idiosyncrasies and the knowledge of safe, assertive motoring. However, for our novice backseat drivers his ability to wind in and out of the freeway traffic, judge distances to the centimetre and accommodate other less skilled, less attentive drivers created moments of anxiety and the odd squeal.
The scariest part of this road though is confronting a touring coach coming in the opposite direction. The Amalfi Coast is a major tourist attraction and countless coaches cruise the cliff hugging road every day. They are driven by experts, who know which corners they cannot circumnavigate unless it is completely free of other traffic. However, it doesn’t make it any less intimidating to come around a blind corner to find a coach looming, creeping around another bend just in front. It calls for nerves of steel, and lots of deep breathing.
Marie and Cindy are keen sun worshippers, always looking for a day at the beach to work on their tans (already gorgeous with olive skinned toning) interspersed with refreshing dips in the sea. I also love the beach and the water but am still prone to sunburn so after a couple of hours in the sun, and with my sunscreen at an end I threw on my floppy red hat and sarong and wandered around the Positano beach and esplanade in search of postcard photos. It is an inspiring spot to photograph.
Two outcrops of luminous buildings separated by a small valley of green vegetation frame the beach. It’s the colours that make these coastal and island locations so completely gorgeous. Where else in the world do you find people who think nothing of painting their homes apricot, golden yellow, fairy floss pink and the soothing colour of unsalted butter? Turning 360 degrees I surveyed the beach, its dark gritty sand evolving into smooth pebbles as you approached the water. Looking in this direction it was a feast of blue. The sky was truly blue, completely clear, its intensity fading just slightly as it stretched down to greet the water. The Tyrrhenian Sea, an arm of the Mediterranean Sea, reflected the blue of my nieces’ eyes, its calmness occasionally disturbed by a passenger ferry. Dotted with white water craft, the water was chilly compared to the midday heat. The only disappointment was the smell of fuel, in the air and somehow in the water, a by product of being a popular spot easily accessed by boat.
After capturing the ‘Where’s Wally’ crowd on the beach, I photographed an artist painting by the beach, his easel, bare back, straw hat and grey beard the quintessential contrast to his watercolour. A faded pink Bed and Breakfast hanging onto the cliff was snapped, the steel staircase winding up to the front door providing a unique entrance, envious beach access and sweeping views for guests. Positano is well known for its clothing, jewellery and local ceramic, the shops and boutiques a riot of colour and texture. A rack of vibrant tunics and beachwear drew my eye, each garment a piece of artwork reflecting every semi precious gem hue you could imagine. Further up the laneway vendors were selling jewellery, their display trays attached to the rock walls and literally dripping with silver, coral and turquoise.
It was a delightful day; our new friends were suitably impressed with the natural beauty of the coast, asking one question after another about the local lifestyle and our lives. We joked and laughed, the day thick with sarcasm and irony. I became intensely aware of my longing for friends and the daily interaction of friendships as I filled up on the companionship of Cindy, Marie and George. The sightseeing was fun, but it’s the laughter that we shared that will stay with me.
Following the day at Positano they were eager for a second day at the beach and at our suggestion trained off to Sorrento, not returning to Naples until 10pm that night having enjoyed the beach location so much. Having left there luggage at the B&B Cavour they returned to find themselves locked out, and without keys having checked out that morning. Unfortunately the B&B was fully booked so the threesome also needed to find another, the third in Naples, place to sleep. The late hour, exhaustion from a day of swimming and sunning and skipped meal could have resulted in some anxiety but none of them seem particularly concerned.
Someone eventually let them into the small B&B to collect their bags, which were then lugged to the safety of our place while we searched the Lonely Planet Guide for accommodation. They had already contacted four hotels earlier in the day only to be told they were fully booked. It seems that while locals are leaving the city for holidays others are arriving. Hotel Bellini responded to the call for help, and Cindy advised them that they would be there in about an hour. The walk from our place wouldn’t take too long; it was about six blocks away.
I watched as they settled in, relaxing and cooling off, the laughter and teasing picking up from the previous day. Time crept along and I was afraid that Hotel Bellini might also lock its doors for the night. Eventually though we headed off, lugging and dragging backpacks and suitcases over the cobbled streets. The hotel is in the Forcella quarter, an area that Gigi avoids, especially after dark. There was no disguising the fact that we were foreigners though with the luggage and accents echoing off the walls. We passed a balding man standing in the street beside a pile of rubbish, his T-shirt barely stretching over his paunch. He was obviously selling something, something illicit, hashish perhaps or maybe something created in a laboratory.
Rounding the corner we entered Via San Paolo and eagerly searched for the hotel sign. Situated in a building that is 500 years old the hotel has been operating since 1968. The LP guide suggested checking out some of the wall paintings in the uniquely decorated rooms. I poked my head into the room to find a nondescript room with a double bed, small fridge, TV and standing air circulating unit (some Italians’ idea of an air conditioner). The walls were painted cream, with nothing unique or particularly charming to note. The only surprising thing was the location of the third bed, set up on a platform near the ceiling, accessed by a wooden ladder that appeared suspiciously rickety. Lucky George drew the short straw and spent the night shipwrecked up there; the hot summer air rose and settled around him.
The following day, Sunday, was Cindy’s birthday. They planned to travel to Rome to meet other friends and spend the night celebrating. We met them at 11.30am, both girls keen to indulge in a Neapolitan lunch having eaten mostly pizza since their arrival. Gi delivered the bad news that it was too early for restaurants. Their faces fell, and I suspect their stomachs grumbled having missed dinner the night before. We wandered around our local market, enjoying a cappuccino (served lukewarm to enable immediate consumption as you stand at the bar), while Gi bought some fish, fresh bread and small tomatoes to cook for dinner that night with his family.
In search of Cindy’s birthday cake, Marie eventually settled on buying some traditional Sunday sweets and pastries and these were delivered to our fridge before we strolled down Via Foria to a seafood restaurant. Gi ordered for the group and shortly the mussel entrée arrived, followed by spaghetti with mixed seafood and tomatoes baked in paper and butterfly shaped pasta with salmon and cream sauce. The spaghetti dish is always overwhelming, but Marie made a gallant effort working her way through the fresh prawns, mussels and shellfish. It’s a popular local spot for Sunday lunch and we were not the only group taking photos.
Back at our place, the afternoon creeping on, we performed the usual birthday customs with candles, song and cheer. Instead of birthday cake Gi and friends wolfed down the pastries, an addictively sweet ending to lunch. Cindy’s birthday speeches almost reduced us to tears (almost) accompanied by more photos and more laughter.
I suspect it was with reluctance that they said goodbye, trudging back to Hotel Bellini to collect their luggage before making their way to catch the train to Rome.
It was a strangely intense few days with Cindy, Marie and George. It was also very positive, reminding me that sometimes friendships literally fall out of the sky. The sort of connection where the small talk is quickly dispensed with and the dry wit, affectionate insults and repartee is rolled out.
I hope they enjoyed Naples as much as we enjoyed them.
Tuesday 25 July 2006
Oops
Sorry about the photo hiccup. Hopefully all is working now.
I still have to tell you about our day trip to Positano this last week, and the day we took Doeng to Procida island. Great spots of photography.
Cheers
Jenny
Friday 21 July 2006
New Form Care
July 19 2006 Photo Shoot
Gi and I recently went in and photographed the New Form Care clinic and staff in action. The owner, Dora, is working towards producing new brochures and advertising materials. These things happen very, very slowly here but after having another ‘friend’ who was a photographer come in, and being unsatisfied with the results I offered to have a go with my digital camera.
Here are some of the results. The staff include the owner Dora, Rosaria, Evelyn (lovely Polish physiotherapist) and Gi. The want-to-be model is the daughter of another friend of Dora’s, a Giovanna, who is 20 years old. We only discovered she spoke English, having studied it at university, at the end of the photo session!
I thought they might give you an idea of the clinic itself, and the ‘horrible’ conditions that Gi has to endure at work. We photographed Giovanna in the sauna, on the heated bed having a mud scrub, pretending to have a Turkish bath, and receiving treatments from all four practitioners.
The other interesting bit of news is that one of Gi’s new clients is a freelance writer. He works for National Geographic amongst others. He’s offered to answer any questions I might have about the industry, having been at it since he was seventeen. His first words of advice were to work for anyone except for the Italians, and to keep at it, if I really want to do work in that field it will happen. (I could sense the PS that it might take years but nevertheless…) At the very least he was encouraging, and only raised his eyebrows slightly when I told him I’d left an accounting/finance career after 15 years in that industry.
Enjoy!
Gi and I recently went in and photographed the New Form Care clinic and staff in action. The owner, Dora, is working towards producing new brochures and advertising materials. These things happen very, very slowly here but after having another ‘friend’ who was a photographer come in, and being unsatisfied with the results I offered to have a go with my digital camera.
Here are some of the results. The staff include the owner Dora, Rosaria, Evelyn (lovely Polish physiotherapist) and Gi. The want-to-be model is the daughter of another friend of Dora’s, a Giovanna, who is 20 years old. We only discovered she spoke English, having studied it at university, at the end of the photo session!
I thought they might give you an idea of the clinic itself, and the ‘horrible’ conditions that Gi has to endure at work. We photographed Giovanna in the sauna, on the heated bed having a mud scrub, pretending to have a Turkish bath, and receiving treatments from all four practitioners.
The other interesting bit of news is that one of Gi’s new clients is a freelance writer. He works for National Geographic amongst others. He’s offered to answer any questions I might have about the industry, having been at it since he was seventeen. His first words of advice were to work for anyone except for the Italians, and to keep at it, if I really want to do work in that field it will happen. (I could sense the PS that it might take years but nevertheless…) At the very least he was encouraging, and only raised his eyebrows slightly when I told him I’d left an accounting/finance career after 15 years in that industry.
Enjoy!
Hannah's tour photos
Where is that rotten egg?
The historical Castle of the Egg.
The lovely Hannah.
The portiere's chair.
The royal palace.
Locals at play in the bay.
My favourite view.
A bar inside the castle.
B&B Superstition
18 July 2006
It feels like a bad dream. Sometimes I’m prone to being superstitious, a habit I’ve absorbed from Gigi, but I’m trying to not think of it as a sign, good, bad or otherwise.
I sent an email to The Parents last night, advising that everything was in order, accommodation booked, the station wagon ready and waiting and the route mapped out to the last ‘turn left here...now…back there’.
We have booked a self contained apartment close to The Vatican, ‘cos where else would you want to stay when in Rome if not next door to His Holiness. It sleeps seven which is lucky because we’ve got three extras for the nights we are in Rome. Having booked it through the B&B Roma website we duly sent off the requested €43 as a deposit (against every instinct that tells me not to pay for anything in this country until it’s in your hot little hand), and received a flurry of informative confirmation emails.
What’s happened, you ask? The lovely, professional B&B Roma accommodation agency have emailed us to advise that, unfortunately, despite taking our booking and our money and sending three confirmations, that apartment is no longer available. It’s undergoing restoration work. Right, in the height of the main season, in the middle of summer when the builders, tilers, plumbers, painters and general fix-it-types all head to the beach with their cigarettes, mobiles phones and gaggle of children and relatives, they decide to renovate. So not only are they going to miss out on our almost €300 for only two nights but they are also forgoing other rental income, on the assumption that these renovations won’t be completed during the two days we booked.
The lovely, professional B&B Roma advised it was beyond their control (of course) but sent through four other suggestions based on our details. With no other option we reviewed them on the internet and decided they are all too small, shabby or inappropriately located.
Gi is half convinced, from the ‘we-don’t-accept-any-responsibility-at-this-late-stage’ disclaimer on their email, that if we can’t rebook through them, based on their suggestions, then we will lose the deposit. Now in a fairy world we could walk away from €43 without a thought, but this is Italy and there are no wands or glitter falling from the sky and €43 actually equates to about $72 in the land of kangaroos and surf lifesavers, which is about three weeks worth of groceries for us at the moment (yep, copious amounts of pasta, tomatoes, garlic and bread). The lovely, professional B&B Roma emails clearly indicated the cancellation policy, but that only applies if WE cancel. I will make a personal trip to the B&B Roma Call Centre, Administration Centre and then the police if they insist on keeping my (it’s mine, not ours, it came from my bank account) €43 deposit.
Besides, it doesn’t make sense that the proprietor would renovate in August so either he’s got family that need to stay and they only just told him, or he has a more profitable or longer term booking, or he’s having an affair and needs the place for his mid summer love trysts. Either way it’s not my problem. Unfortunately, poor Gigi was the one to cop my practice ‘I’m-the-customer-and-you-definitely-fucked-this-up’ speech of defiance. Quickly followed by, ‘I’ll take the refund in two 20’s and change thank you very much’ or ‘the-new-place-had-better-be-nicer-and-cheaper’.
Having discarded their suggestions we trawled their database for something suitable, close to public transport but not inconvenient for two trips in two days to two different airports where we could sneak in the additional guests. Two places fit the bill and Gi called (discarding the arms distance of email communication) to see if either of those apartments were available. Of course, they have to get back to us. God, how antiquated, all of this calling the proprietor to check instead of having it all on a database at the Call Centre operators finger tips.
So, we wait. I’m trying not to be superstitious. It’s just a minor set back. Never mind that it’s ridiculously impossible finding suitably priced accommodation with air conditioning (The Parents special request, and rightly so), a kitchen and an elevator (they list some nice places with everything you could need, except they are on the top floor … read, eight flights up….without a lift because the buildings that the Romans built didn’t always have modern cons like lifts on the drawing plan some 1500 years ago, go figure) at the best of times. But to be scrambling around only two weeks before the August holidays start is truly disheartening.
I reckon the bloody B&B Roma Call Centre and Administration Office staff will also close and take holidays at a crowded, pebbly, smoky beach in August. I already know the police will be there, out of uniform except for their white leather gun holsters which will sit alluringly over their yellow (and slightly see through) or orange (I’ve been told it’s The with a capital T, colour this summer) dick togs. So even if I do go and demand a refund I’ll have to go back in September when they open up again, and by then they will have lost the paperwork and inform that their refund policy only allows two weeks which will have well and truly passed.
I don’t want to sound superstitious but I can’t help it. For those of you that understand I’m sitting here scratching my right thigh, in an effort to dispel the bad luck that even thinking, let alone typing, these scenarios is attracting to me right now. For those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about...come to Naples and I’ll show you sometime.
It feels like a bad dream. Sometimes I’m prone to being superstitious, a habit I’ve absorbed from Gigi, but I’m trying to not think of it as a sign, good, bad or otherwise.
I sent an email to The Parents last night, advising that everything was in order, accommodation booked, the station wagon ready and waiting and the route mapped out to the last ‘turn left here...now…back there’.
We have booked a self contained apartment close to The Vatican, ‘cos where else would you want to stay when in Rome if not next door to His Holiness. It sleeps seven which is lucky because we’ve got three extras for the nights we are in Rome. Having booked it through the B&B Roma website we duly sent off the requested €43 as a deposit (against every instinct that tells me not to pay for anything in this country until it’s in your hot little hand), and received a flurry of informative confirmation emails.
What’s happened, you ask? The lovely, professional B&B Roma accommodation agency have emailed us to advise that, unfortunately, despite taking our booking and our money and sending three confirmations, that apartment is no longer available. It’s undergoing restoration work. Right, in the height of the main season, in the middle of summer when the builders, tilers, plumbers, painters and general fix-it-types all head to the beach with their cigarettes, mobiles phones and gaggle of children and relatives, they decide to renovate. So not only are they going to miss out on our almost €300 for only two nights but they are also forgoing other rental income, on the assumption that these renovations won’t be completed during the two days we booked.
The lovely, professional B&B Roma advised it was beyond their control (of course) but sent through four other suggestions based on our details. With no other option we reviewed them on the internet and decided they are all too small, shabby or inappropriately located.
Gi is half convinced, from the ‘we-don’t-accept-any-responsibility-at-this-late-stage’ disclaimer on their email, that if we can’t rebook through them, based on their suggestions, then we will lose the deposit. Now in a fairy world we could walk away from €43 without a thought, but this is Italy and there are no wands or glitter falling from the sky and €43 actually equates to about $72 in the land of kangaroos and surf lifesavers, which is about three weeks worth of groceries for us at the moment (yep, copious amounts of pasta, tomatoes, garlic and bread). The lovely, professional B&B Roma emails clearly indicated the cancellation policy, but that only applies if WE cancel. I will make a personal trip to the B&B Roma Call Centre, Administration Centre and then the police if they insist on keeping my (it’s mine, not ours, it came from my bank account) €43 deposit.
Besides, it doesn’t make sense that the proprietor would renovate in August so either he’s got family that need to stay and they only just told him, or he has a more profitable or longer term booking, or he’s having an affair and needs the place for his mid summer love trysts. Either way it’s not my problem. Unfortunately, poor Gigi was the one to cop my practice ‘I’m-the-customer-and-you-definitely-fucked-this-up’ speech of defiance. Quickly followed by, ‘I’ll take the refund in two 20’s and change thank you very much’ or ‘the-new-place-had-better-be-nicer-and-cheaper’.
Having discarded their suggestions we trawled their database for something suitable, close to public transport but not inconvenient for two trips in two days to two different airports where we could sneak in the additional guests. Two places fit the bill and Gi called (discarding the arms distance of email communication) to see if either of those apartments were available. Of course, they have to get back to us. God, how antiquated, all of this calling the proprietor to check instead of having it all on a database at the Call Centre operators finger tips.
So, we wait. I’m trying not to be superstitious. It’s just a minor set back. Never mind that it’s ridiculously impossible finding suitably priced accommodation with air conditioning (The Parents special request, and rightly so), a kitchen and an elevator (they list some nice places with everything you could need, except they are on the top floor … read, eight flights up….without a lift because the buildings that the Romans built didn’t always have modern cons like lifts on the drawing plan some 1500 years ago, go figure) at the best of times. But to be scrambling around only two weeks before the August holidays start is truly disheartening.
I reckon the bloody B&B Roma Call Centre and Administration Office staff will also close and take holidays at a crowded, pebbly, smoky beach in August. I already know the police will be there, out of uniform except for their white leather gun holsters which will sit alluringly over their yellow (and slightly see through) or orange (I’ve been told it’s The with a capital T, colour this summer) dick togs. So even if I do go and demand a refund I’ll have to go back in September when they open up again, and by then they will have lost the paperwork and inform that their refund policy only allows two weeks which will have well and truly passed.
I don’t want to sound superstitious but I can’t help it. For those of you that understand I’m sitting here scratching my right thigh, in an effort to dispel the bad luck that even thinking, let alone typing, these scenarios is attracting to me right now. For those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about...come to Naples and I’ll show you sometime.
Hannah's Tour of Duty
21 June 2006 Warning: this is about eight pages long! See above for photos.
Hannah is a trooper. She doesn’t complain. She is undemanding, unfussy and polite. She is so undemanding, unfussy and polite that it is almost annoying. Perhaps that opinion is more a reflection of my state of mind, or even worse, my current state of being, than anything else. (Yes, I find my alter ego is more often than not demanding, fussy and rude, just when I should be on my best, representing-my-nation-and-my-family, behaviour).
Hannah is the teenager who, whenever given a choice, would answer ‘whatever, I don’t mind’. When asked what she didn’t like to eat, she answered ‘sultanas’, although only after making her way through a breakfast of muesli.
Hannah’s saving grace? Her kind of annoying is the easiest kind of annoying to tolerate.
We picked Hannah up at the Naples International Airport on Monday night, after receiving a phone call from Sardinia that her flight had been delayed and that she’d left her mobile phone at her host family’s house. The flight landed just after 9pm. I waited at the arrival gate, with Gi parked outside, and watched as three plane loads of people poured out. I watched a stiff formal greeting from a man in a suit representing a hotel at Positano, on the Amalfi Coast, for some weary looking backpackers speaking English. They just looked glad to see their names written on a piece of cardboard. There was also the mother holding a huge bouquet of flowers, fresh from the florist, eagerly awaiting the arrival of her grown daughter, her tell tale bulge hinting at pregnancy. A couple of girlfriends hiding behind billboards, waiting to surprise their respective beaus by following them outside before hitting them with the goods, breasts uplifted, hair styled and battle faces made up. I watched fathers waiting for sons and sons waiting for fathers. Some of them wrapping each other in hugs, warmly kissing both cheeks, directly meeting the others eyes, enquiring after their health, the trip, other relatives, if they’d eaten. Others who barely greeted each other before grabbing a piece of luggage to better occupy their hands. Hands that knew they should have been busy with face stroking, hugging and welcoming pats on the back.
Airport arrivals are always fascinating soap operas, but there is something unique about watching Neapolitans waiting for loved ones. There is a spirit to this place, unbridled emotions mixed up with old fashioned codes of conduct that still linger. There is nothing private about witnessing a wife jump for joy as her husband bursts through those swinging doors. But still as she smothers him with kisses, scattering terms of affection like confetti at a wedding, you feel both compelled to watch and simultaneously embarrassed to do so. Like you are looking through the window of someone’s bedroom and peeping on a real life love story. And then there is the small boy of four, striding confidently yet shyly into the path of emerging passengers. He knows it’s his right to stand just there, where he can see exactly what’s going on, because he’s waiting for someone important. Someone that he’s missed, the attention, the smothering cuddles that he recently started to push away (now that he’s a big boy), the kisses that are stolen from his lips with two fingers pinched together even if he doesn’t want to give them away. Someone that should have known better than to abandon him just when he’s got new words to try out, swings to be pushed and ice creams to be bought. And then she appears, his grandmother. She’s not as old as you might expect, but in Italy grandmothers often aren’t. She’s round in all the right places, making her all the more comfortable for grandchildren to clamber upon. Her face lights up at the sight of him, and even as his dad is warning him not to go forward any further, but to wait, wait for her to come out, you can see the small boy literally filling up with feeling for her. And then they collide, a mash of soft little arms and slightly weathered older ones. He’s grown in the time that she’s been away, and it makes her heart lurch to realise that she’s missed something. But pretty soon they’ll be back to working on that ever growing list of words, and maybe even progress from the swings to the monkey bars. But the ice creams, well she’ll be buying him ice creams for the rest of her days.
Just as I was giving up hope, thinking that Hannah had already been kidnapped having officially been my responsibility for all of twenty minutes, did she finally appear. I’d been looking out for a small girl pushing a trolley loaded with luggage. Instead, there was Hannah, slightly filled out since we last met, dragging a suitcase behind her, smiling with relief and exasperation. The suitcase was almost bigger than Hannah and within seconds she was telling me it was 15 kilograms over her baggage limit. She’d managed to sweet talk her way out of the airport at Sardinia, enlightening the guy at the check in counter that she herself was only small and didn’t weigh much. She had a point, especially when you compare her to the size of some of the other air travel passengers who squeeze their bulk into only one seat. ‘Surely you can let my bag go through’, she implored. A phone call later, and it was all smiles, nods and relief, her accented ‘Grazie’ insulting his Sardinian ears.
I only wish I could use that one the next time I want to check in too much luggage.
We piled into the car and Gi raced us through the streets towards home, Hannah explaining that in the rush to leave the house to get to the airport on time she forgot her mobile phone. It’s ironic that she’d forgotten her lifeline to the world, and wouldn’t get it back for three weeks when she meets up with other exchange students from Sardinia in Rome, just a day before they all fly home.
I later teased her that it was the perfect way to drop off the AFS radar, and was surprised to have to explain it to her. In the history of exchange student programs, around the world, I would guess (and know some personally) that there has been countless students drop out of contact for the last few weeks of their exchange. Suddenly, the rules don’t apply anymore, for what does it matter if you get busted and sent home only a week or so earlier than your formal return date. And perhaps the organisation won’t even bother dealing with changing the flights anyway. And that’s all assuming that they locate you before you turn up at the train station or wherever it is that you have to reappear to join the group to go home. So, they drop out of sight, skip school, travel independently, party with friends, fail to inform their families where they are or glaze the truth with something else, blow the rest of their money, or hole up with someone who has managed to infiltrate their heart, their mind, their pants and bed; celebrating the business of being young in a foreign country.
Ironically, as we were talking about skipping the AFS radar my mobile phone rang and some woman was blathering on, speaking too quickly, asking for Anna Luisa. The nearby traffic and the unknown voice confused me so I passed the phone to Gi. He was just about to hang up, having told her adamantly that she had the wrong number, no definitely the wrong number, there is no Anna Luisa here, when Hannah jumped in. "It’s probably for me", she exclaimed. We both looked at her like she was mad. It turned out to be the AFS lady in Sardinia who was horrified to think she had the wrong number and no way to contact Hannah. Anna Luisa is another exchange student living in Sardinia near Hannah, and apparently this lady gets them mixed up all the time. Hannah imparts this like it is perfectly okay, like it is completely understandable. She tells us like she’s an exchange student who is used to being called anything other than her real name. She runs through the list of names, strange versions of Hannah, some of them dialect, others given in jest. None of them sound like they belong to her really, and I’m surprised that the Italians haven’t just taken to calling her Anna.
Hannah has passed through the city of Naples before, at the airport, at the train station, but AFS and her various host families have all been against her coming into the city. ‘It’s too dangerous’ and ‘you’re too little’, they explained through a haze of fear and ignorance. But that night she has reluctantly been given permission to stay in Naples, in transit between one host family in Sardinia and a another one in Sarno. Perhaps it’s because I’m an ex-AFS chair of a local chapter in Australia. Perhaps it’s because arriving at 9pm there was no other option as the last train to Sarno has already left. Perhaps it’s because they just can’t be bothered saying ‘No’ and then dealing with the consequences.
So, as promised we plied her with the real thing. The list was extensive but she quickly made her decision, something of a seasoned player now. I ordered and suddenly she was changing her order to match mine, suddenly remembering the alternatives. We dragged her luggage into the urban cave, and Gi soon followed with the goods. Hot off the street, a naughty pleasure of life in Naples. Pizza! Boxes were flipped open, the lids tucked under the bases. There was no thought of plates, besides the pizzas wouldn’t fit. Already roughly cut into four gigantic slices, these get folded over again. The trick is to shove a good bite into your mouth before the melted mozzarella cheese, fresh tomato base and olive oil begin their slippery slide descent down. Gi demolished his in record speed, Hannah and I took a little longer but pretty soon the table held just three empty pizza boxes and an assortment of napkins stained with the memory.
Hannah confirmed, appropriately so, that it is the best pizza she’s ever had. Mission accomplished.
We then emptied our pockets of valuables, leaving the cameras at home and headed out for a late night stroll around the historical centre. Dodging the traffic on Via Foria, the busy street on the other side of our local piazza, we walked down Via Costantinopoli, passing the lovely Piazza Bellini, pausing briefly in front of the excavated ruins in the centre of the square. Gigi talks about some of the historical significance of the squares, churches and statues as we take in Piazza del Gesú nuovo, Spaccanapoli, Piazza Dante, Port’Alba, Piazza San Domenico Maggiore and the Duomo. It’s quiet in the historical centre at this time of night; the pause after family dinner and before the younger crowd re-emerges to hang out.
Gi and I both listen as Hannah’s accent changed in a matter of hours. She got off the plane speaking English with a decidedly twangy accent, perhaps influenced by other AFS students or the English taught at school. Pretty quickly her accent was softening and absorbing some of our residual Australian tone. We had to keep reminding her to lower her voice, it growing louder in excitement as she relived a story or talked about an experience. She occasionally rattled off in Italian, speaking quickly and confidently, but generally using the infinitive form of the verb.
Apart from that Hannah looks like a girl who has become a young woman. She has turned 17 while in Italy and like most exchange students has gained a little weight. However on her small slim stature it suits her, giving her some curves. She looks like she fits better in her skin. Having changed families four times, and moved from the mainland to the island of Sardinia Hannah has no doubt learnt a lot about dealing with change, communication, patience, independence and problem solving. She is certainly different to the quiet, somewhat shy, young girl I remembered from a couple of years ago.
The next morning we prepared for battle. It was going to be a hot day. Gi went off to work and Hannah and I walked the length of Via Roma, sometimes called Via Toledo, the main shopping strip in the centre. Somehow Hannah kept up, as we swept past a plethora of shops many of them chain stores that she recognised. I felt a little embarrassed that she was familiar with so many of the names, most of them still being completely foreign to me. Towards the end of Via Roma we stopped at the entrance of the Galleria Umberto, a majestic shopping arcade with a glass atrium, mosaic floors and sculptured angels in each corner of the domed ceiling, opened in 1900. Hannah has seen photos of this in the house of her host family and spent some time marvelling at the beauty, the sunlight highlighting the intricacies and height of the atrium above our heads. Across from the side entrance of the Galleria is the Real Teatro San Carlo, the royal theatre and Italy’s largest opera house. To the right is Palazzo Reale, the former royal palace. Hannah asked me about the numerous statues standing imposingly in alcoves along the front of the palace and I confirm that they were former kings. The palace, built around 1600, looks out onto the grand Piazza del Plebiscito. Across the piazza is the beautiful Chiesa di San Francesco di Paola, it’s round dome structure based on the Pantheon, but today it’s obscured by scaffolding and equipment in preparation for an upcoming concert.
Crossing the expanse of the piazza and to the left is one side of the palace, the faded red painted walls offsetting the magenta bougainvillea. Looking to our right we had a view of Mount Somma and the Vesuvio volcano behind the marina. In the foreground was a red clay tennis court. We were above all of this, standing on a road that runs up to the piazza, above a tunnel. I photographed this view, just like I did the last time I was here, capturing a tennis match in progress, the summer blooms and haze.
Next stop was the nearby Castel Nuovo. Charles I of Anjou undertook to convert a Franciscan convent into a castle, as part of his program to expand the port and city walls following his takeover of Naples. The castle, also known as Maschio Angioino, stands in Piazza Municipio, and was completed in three years in 1281. Much of the building that Hannah and I admired is ‘the result of renovations by the Aragonese two centuries later, and meticulous restoration’ (Lonely Planet) work before WWII. It’s most impressive features being its crenellated round towers, and the Renaissance arch at the entrance, stark white against the dark tower bricks, commemorating the ‘triumphal entry of Alfonso I of Aragon into Naples in 1443’.
The other thing I love about this castle is that it really looks like a castle. Crossing the bridge, which would once have been a draw bridge, we looked down into what was originally a moat inhabited with crocodiles. Unromantically, it is now the staff car park. Ironically, centuries later, the fetid waters may be gone but the local reptiles live on, the creepy, leathery skinned creatures, with snaky characteristics, long snouts and protruding eyes, prone to cold blooded exploits…oh, sorry I was thinking of the Neapolitan petty thief and sleave bags!
Next to the castle we paused at some ruin exposed following excavation work for the new Metro line being installed under the city. I pointed out the housing foundations, Roman road and floor paving visible from the street, Hannah capturing the oddity of the building work, party excavated ruins and historical castle on her digital camera.
Circling the Piazza, we dodged the traffic, and arrived at the main port, alive with ferries, hydrofoils, boats, tour buses, cruise ships and the array of enterprising individuals that are always attracted to an area dense with tourists. Standing on the corner contemplating this commotion we decided it was time for refreshments. Gelato was the order of the day, mine in a cone, Hannah’s in a small cardboard cup. We waited in the shade as we enjoyed them, the midday sun a known terrorist threat for ice cream.
Via Acton and Via N Sauro form part of the esplanade that stretches along the bay at Santa Lucia. We strolled past a surprising number of people stretched out on the rocks and concrete used as fore shore reinforcement. School holidays had commenced, teenagers mingled with deeply tanned pensioners and locals looking to get a jump start on the summer tanning process. Kids were enjoying the bay water, although Hannah and I both commented on the dubious cleanliness of any water that serves so much marine traffic, commercial and private. I was fascinated by the older people, their tans glowing, completely at home on the uneven surfaces, their small swimming briefs and bikinis leaving nothing to the imagination. I figured if those bodies could be exposed in public then perhaps I too should invest in a little two piece with which to mimic the spilled stomachs and flaunting of dimpled (read cellulite) thighs.
Hannah continued to gallantly trot beside me, her little legs doing double time to keep up with my longer stride. We walked by the elegant bay side hotels and residences, and Castel dell’Ovo came into view just as I thought Hannah (or maybe it was me) might collapse from heat exhaustion. Hannah had asked about the ‘egg castle’ the day before, having heard the tale that the castle was built upon an egg. In fact the site itself was important centuries before the birth of Christ, initially fortified by early settlers and later, in order to protect the bay, a major stronghold was established and duly celebrated by Virgil.
Who’s Virgil? Virgil (70-19 B.C.), full name Publius Vergilius Maro, is considered the greatest poet of ancient Rome. He wrote the Aeneid, a mythological epic and a classical Latin masterpiece of world literature, during the last 11 years of his life. He was thoroughly educated in Greek and Roman literature, rhetoric, and philosophy at Cremona, Milan, Rome, and Naples and spent the greater part of his life at or near Naples and Nola (a neighbouring town, behind the Vesuvio).
As Hannah had heard, legend has it that during his stay in Naples, Virgil hid a magic egg inside an amphora (a two-handled earthenware jar/vase/jug with narrow neck and round body sometimes used to carry wine and olive oil), which was put into an iron cage, that was hung on the truss of a crypt under the castle. The enchanted egg held mystical powers, and legend dictates that if the egg falls or breaks, it will mean the ruin of the castle and consequently the city of Naples will also collapse.
Legends aside, the Castle is nestled on the small rocky island outcrop, known as Borgo Marinaro and was built in the 12th century on the site of the villa of Lucullus, the Roman general and philosopher. In 476 the Villa was used as a home in exile for the last of the western Roman Emperors, Romulus Augustulus. You can still see columns of Lucullus's villa in the dungeons.
It is one of the most historical spots in Naples and the Castle has always marked the political and historical changes in the city. It has housed monks, exiles, and royals. It’s been used as a fortress, prison, military centre and mill house.
The square, angular castle, the colour of sandstone, seems to be floating on the blue bay waters, embraced by the paler blue of the Mediterranean sky. It’s an iconic image of Naples. Seeking an escape from the heat we wandered inside, and circled up through the cool interiors to the top where we looked out across at the three levels of the city, and behind to the hazy outline of the isle of Capri. A bulky looking structure, the cannons on the roof confirmed its historical role as a key fortress in the defence of the region.
We backtracked to make use of the bathroom facilities, and both chatted to one of the portieres (door men employed to watch the comings and goings, part security, part information point, part underemployed). Sitting comfortably on his wooden chair, having discovered that I was an Australian married to a Neapolitan, he asked me where my husband was. ‘At work’, I told him. Eyebrows raised, he asked was my husband not jealous of me being out alone, obviously implying that he should be. To my firm ‘No’, he then asked wasn’t he, Gigi, lonely being left on his own, without our company? (Italians, but especially Neapolitans, always prefer to do everything, anything, in the company of others rather than alone.) The clear message was that I was supposed to know where my husband was at all times, and who he was with, the same principle to be reciprocated in return.
He then proceeded to inform me that Australians are a much colder, closed people than Neapolitans. It’s true that culturally we are not as ‘spirited’, favouring more balanced, reasonable behaviour. But retrospectively I wondered if he had not mistaken Australian for Austrian, as so many Italians do. That would certainly explain the use of the words ‘cold’ and ‘closed’, when normally to be Australian is to be considered a creature from another world, where everything is beautiful and golden.
Braving the incessant sun we left the Castle of the Egg, still not sure where the egg was, past a tour bus of Japanese, some of the women covered up with luxurious scarves and sunglasses, and walked west down Via Partenope to the ‘Villa Comunale’. A set of public gardens, extending for more than a kilometre; it’s a place of peace, shade and quiet in a city with few green spaces. The gardens were built by King Ferdinand IV of Bourbon (grandson of Philip V of Spain who founded the Italian House of Bourbon and youngest son of Charles IV, King of Naples and Sicily) who envisioned the gardens as a promenade and meeting point, created for the enjoyment of Neapolitan aristocracy. The Villa was first opened in 1781.
Some 225 years later, we settled on the grass under the tree to wait for Gi, and watched a couple of tourists nearby sprawled out on a picnic rug enjoying some afternoon amore. A nearby water bubbler was a popular spot as people partook of the cool, natural spring water. A gypsy mother used it to wash her two skinny children, before drying them off with their clothes and re dressing them. Just as we were finding some solace, an elderly man on a bicycle came pedalling towards us, his bell bling blinging across the park. As he approached us I suggested to Hannah that we should pretend not to speak any Italian, a tactic for those moments of apathy and exhaustion that can result in any number of outcomes. He was a park official, and was busy shooing people off the grassy areas. Pointing us in the direction of the benches ‘conveniently’ situated in the middle of the central boulevard in the scorching sun, and consequently empty in the heat of the day, he spoke only Neapolitan dialect. Feigning indifference and misunderstanding we sat watching as he persisted, telling us it was forbidden to sit on the grass and that we had to leave. What was the point of a park where you can’t sit on the grass was the only thing I could think, noticing the only other ground surface was unaccommodating gravel. What was more interesting though was that the park administration employed this old man and his bicycle to ride around yelling at people to move off the grass. At one point in his lecture he asked us, in Neapolitan, if we understood Neapolitan. To this I answered ‘No’, by this stage no longer able to ignore him, but wondering if he would pick up that I must have understood the question to be able to answer it. Eventually, after a significant amount of gesturing and standing unreasonably close, we ‘got the hint’ and picked up to leave, slyly relocating to another grassy knoll some twenty metres away, as he went off to harangue the tourist lovers.
Gi arrived in his mother’s car and rescued us from further harassment, the heat of the day and the increasing dampness of the grass. Dinner was a domestic affair of pasta, ridiculously fresh bread followed by the prized local speciality: buffalo milk mozzarella. Gi served it, each soft squishy ball oozing white watery liquid (always reminds me of a lactating mother’s breast). Simply cut in half, it is lightly seasoned with salt and freshly cracked pepper and a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil you slice off mouth size pieces and mop up the juice with bread. Like the best of Neapolitan food it doesn’t get any simpler, or any better.
Hannah’s biggest challenge of the day was still ahead of her. Having already discarded clothes in Sardinia she conceded that she needed to have a second crack at it. Slowly and steadily she went through her suitcase. Each article of clothing was held up, examined and considered. She sought advice on a few occasions. She should dump the jeans that had holes in the crutch, having worn them every day to school for the last ten months, right? She should only take clothes that she liked, right? Knowing that even though these shirts were gifts they would never be worn. She wouldn’t need all these winter clothes in Brisbane, would she? We talked about the boxes of stuff she’d already sent home. I reminisced about the Thai clothes and memorabilia that I’d hung on to for years, only recently parting from the last of it, with the realisation that the most important thing was the experience, the relationships, closely followed by photos and diaries.
I was impressed; Hannah discarded a huge bag of clothes, which were later rifled through by Gi’s sister who is a similar size, before we left them out on the street, certain that the gypsies or others would recycle them (in the absence of Lifeline or St Vinny outlets).
We slept in the next morning and with the suitcase repacked and at least 5 kilograms lighter we strolled around the local markets. Reluctantly we hauled Hannah’s luggage back out through the laneway, down the cobblestone alleyway where it was once again heaved into the boot. Gi delivered us to the central train station, concerned for our safety before we even alighted from the car. No sooner were we making a bee line for the platform when he called, seeking assurances that we would be on our guard, that we were not to talk to anyone, and that we would go straight to the platform to wait for the train. Yes Gigi, don’t worry. We’ll be fine.
The man at the ticket office advised that the train for Sarno was just about to leave. By the time he fumbled with Hannah’s change and we threw ourselves and her cases down the stairs (the escalators either don’t exist, or are constantly under repair) the train was pulling out, its red tail lights winking a cheery goodbye. The train to Sarno departs every half hour so we sat on the platform, standing guard over her belongings, warily watching anyone who approached the marble bench to sit down. On the other side of the platform a four carriage train bound for Pompeii shunted in, and a kaleidoscope of tourists and pick pockets boarded, keen to explore the ancient city or someone’s pockets.
The Sarno train arrived, and after unceremoniously lugging everything on board we hugged, her tiny frame fitting awkwardly against mine of height and curves. It wasn’t goodbye, she promised to come back to Naples to visit again before heading home in three weeks. At the very least another pizza was on the cards.
In true exchange student style it wasn’t to be. Hannah lost my mobile number, and not wanting to impinge on her last days with family, friends and her Italian experience I didn’t call until the day I thought she was due to go to Rome. She hadn’t thought to get my number from my many emails, and in fact hadn’t accessed her emails since leaving Sardinia. In accordance with all normal AFS experiences her host family was suffering new internal dramas that relegated her last few precious days as background noise.
Nevertheless she sounded in good spirits during our brief phone conversation, and had enjoyed seeing friends and Sarno one last time. She assured me that she was only going home for a week and then she’d be right back; like I haven’t heard (or thought) that one before. Sometimes the most difficult part of being on exchange, living overseas and away from home is not the language, the culture shock, home sickness, or the rollercoaster ride. It’s the coming home, fitting in again, finding your place, and realising that everyone around you stayed on the tread mill and now expect that you’ll pick up where you left off.
Hannah is home again now. Although forever more I know ‘home’ will simultaneously mean two very different places. I don’t know what happened with the lost mobile phone. I know that some of her discarded clothes have gone to a good home. Likewise the felt pens and colouring pencils she left behind have been put to artistic use for my nieces and nephews. Even if she doesn’t come back next week, or next year, Hannah can know that she has left a piece of herself in Italy. And Italy has left a piece (probably a disproportionably big piece compared to her slight stature) of itself in Hannah. The size will grow and wane as the years pass, but it’s locked in now.
I know she’ll come back to Naples. It will be waiting for her. The spirit of the people will remain constant. The castles will be a bit older. Hannah herself will be a little different, but the pizza will still be as good.
PS: I exchanged some lively text messages with Hannah and her mother during the course of the World Cup. While I was standing in the grand Piazza Plebiscito with thousands of Italian supporters waving flags, letting off fireworks and holding their breaths for the penalty shoot out to be over and claim victory Hannah was awake in the early hours of a winter morning, watching the TV wrapped in pyjamas and a blanket, cheering for Italy. Her younger sister had the audacity to support the (losing) French team! The last SMS from her mother, Jennifer, read, and I quote, "Hannah is going wild. Is getting her belly button pierced to celebrate. It must have been nerve wrecking (think they meant wracking) in that shoot out. Love to u and gi X".
Yes the penalty shoot out was nerve wrecking. So were the firework bombs unexpectedly (read stupidly, ignorantly, dangerously) exploding in the middle of the crowd. But not as nerve wrecking as the idea of getting a belly button piercing!
Hannah is a trooper. She doesn’t complain. She is undemanding, unfussy and polite. She is so undemanding, unfussy and polite that it is almost annoying. Perhaps that opinion is more a reflection of my state of mind, or even worse, my current state of being, than anything else. (Yes, I find my alter ego is more often than not demanding, fussy and rude, just when I should be on my best, representing-my-nation-and-my-family, behaviour).
Hannah is the teenager who, whenever given a choice, would answer ‘whatever, I don’t mind’. When asked what she didn’t like to eat, she answered ‘sultanas’, although only after making her way through a breakfast of muesli.
Hannah’s saving grace? Her kind of annoying is the easiest kind of annoying to tolerate.
We picked Hannah up at the Naples International Airport on Monday night, after receiving a phone call from Sardinia that her flight had been delayed and that she’d left her mobile phone at her host family’s house. The flight landed just after 9pm. I waited at the arrival gate, with Gi parked outside, and watched as three plane loads of people poured out. I watched a stiff formal greeting from a man in a suit representing a hotel at Positano, on the Amalfi Coast, for some weary looking backpackers speaking English. They just looked glad to see their names written on a piece of cardboard. There was also the mother holding a huge bouquet of flowers, fresh from the florist, eagerly awaiting the arrival of her grown daughter, her tell tale bulge hinting at pregnancy. A couple of girlfriends hiding behind billboards, waiting to surprise their respective beaus by following them outside before hitting them with the goods, breasts uplifted, hair styled and battle faces made up. I watched fathers waiting for sons and sons waiting for fathers. Some of them wrapping each other in hugs, warmly kissing both cheeks, directly meeting the others eyes, enquiring after their health, the trip, other relatives, if they’d eaten. Others who barely greeted each other before grabbing a piece of luggage to better occupy their hands. Hands that knew they should have been busy with face stroking, hugging and welcoming pats on the back.
Airport arrivals are always fascinating soap operas, but there is something unique about watching Neapolitans waiting for loved ones. There is a spirit to this place, unbridled emotions mixed up with old fashioned codes of conduct that still linger. There is nothing private about witnessing a wife jump for joy as her husband bursts through those swinging doors. But still as she smothers him with kisses, scattering terms of affection like confetti at a wedding, you feel both compelled to watch and simultaneously embarrassed to do so. Like you are looking through the window of someone’s bedroom and peeping on a real life love story. And then there is the small boy of four, striding confidently yet shyly into the path of emerging passengers. He knows it’s his right to stand just there, where he can see exactly what’s going on, because he’s waiting for someone important. Someone that he’s missed, the attention, the smothering cuddles that he recently started to push away (now that he’s a big boy), the kisses that are stolen from his lips with two fingers pinched together even if he doesn’t want to give them away. Someone that should have known better than to abandon him just when he’s got new words to try out, swings to be pushed and ice creams to be bought. And then she appears, his grandmother. She’s not as old as you might expect, but in Italy grandmothers often aren’t. She’s round in all the right places, making her all the more comfortable for grandchildren to clamber upon. Her face lights up at the sight of him, and even as his dad is warning him not to go forward any further, but to wait, wait for her to come out, you can see the small boy literally filling up with feeling for her. And then they collide, a mash of soft little arms and slightly weathered older ones. He’s grown in the time that she’s been away, and it makes her heart lurch to realise that she’s missed something. But pretty soon they’ll be back to working on that ever growing list of words, and maybe even progress from the swings to the monkey bars. But the ice creams, well she’ll be buying him ice creams for the rest of her days.
Just as I was giving up hope, thinking that Hannah had already been kidnapped having officially been my responsibility for all of twenty minutes, did she finally appear. I’d been looking out for a small girl pushing a trolley loaded with luggage. Instead, there was Hannah, slightly filled out since we last met, dragging a suitcase behind her, smiling with relief and exasperation. The suitcase was almost bigger than Hannah and within seconds she was telling me it was 15 kilograms over her baggage limit. She’d managed to sweet talk her way out of the airport at Sardinia, enlightening the guy at the check in counter that she herself was only small and didn’t weigh much. She had a point, especially when you compare her to the size of some of the other air travel passengers who squeeze their bulk into only one seat. ‘Surely you can let my bag go through’, she implored. A phone call later, and it was all smiles, nods and relief, her accented ‘Grazie’ insulting his Sardinian ears.
I only wish I could use that one the next time I want to check in too much luggage.
We piled into the car and Gi raced us through the streets towards home, Hannah explaining that in the rush to leave the house to get to the airport on time she forgot her mobile phone. It’s ironic that she’d forgotten her lifeline to the world, and wouldn’t get it back for three weeks when she meets up with other exchange students from Sardinia in Rome, just a day before they all fly home.
I later teased her that it was the perfect way to drop off the AFS radar, and was surprised to have to explain it to her. In the history of exchange student programs, around the world, I would guess (and know some personally) that there has been countless students drop out of contact for the last few weeks of their exchange. Suddenly, the rules don’t apply anymore, for what does it matter if you get busted and sent home only a week or so earlier than your formal return date. And perhaps the organisation won’t even bother dealing with changing the flights anyway. And that’s all assuming that they locate you before you turn up at the train station or wherever it is that you have to reappear to join the group to go home. So, they drop out of sight, skip school, travel independently, party with friends, fail to inform their families where they are or glaze the truth with something else, blow the rest of their money, or hole up with someone who has managed to infiltrate their heart, their mind, their pants and bed; celebrating the business of being young in a foreign country.
Ironically, as we were talking about skipping the AFS radar my mobile phone rang and some woman was blathering on, speaking too quickly, asking for Anna Luisa. The nearby traffic and the unknown voice confused me so I passed the phone to Gi. He was just about to hang up, having told her adamantly that she had the wrong number, no definitely the wrong number, there is no Anna Luisa here, when Hannah jumped in. "It’s probably for me", she exclaimed. We both looked at her like she was mad. It turned out to be the AFS lady in Sardinia who was horrified to think she had the wrong number and no way to contact Hannah. Anna Luisa is another exchange student living in Sardinia near Hannah, and apparently this lady gets them mixed up all the time. Hannah imparts this like it is perfectly okay, like it is completely understandable. She tells us like she’s an exchange student who is used to being called anything other than her real name. She runs through the list of names, strange versions of Hannah, some of them dialect, others given in jest. None of them sound like they belong to her really, and I’m surprised that the Italians haven’t just taken to calling her Anna.
Hannah has passed through the city of Naples before, at the airport, at the train station, but AFS and her various host families have all been against her coming into the city. ‘It’s too dangerous’ and ‘you’re too little’, they explained through a haze of fear and ignorance. But that night she has reluctantly been given permission to stay in Naples, in transit between one host family in Sardinia and a another one in Sarno. Perhaps it’s because I’m an ex-AFS chair of a local chapter in Australia. Perhaps it’s because arriving at 9pm there was no other option as the last train to Sarno has already left. Perhaps it’s because they just can’t be bothered saying ‘No’ and then dealing with the consequences.
So, as promised we plied her with the real thing. The list was extensive but she quickly made her decision, something of a seasoned player now. I ordered and suddenly she was changing her order to match mine, suddenly remembering the alternatives. We dragged her luggage into the urban cave, and Gi soon followed with the goods. Hot off the street, a naughty pleasure of life in Naples. Pizza! Boxes were flipped open, the lids tucked under the bases. There was no thought of plates, besides the pizzas wouldn’t fit. Already roughly cut into four gigantic slices, these get folded over again. The trick is to shove a good bite into your mouth before the melted mozzarella cheese, fresh tomato base and olive oil begin their slippery slide descent down. Gi demolished his in record speed, Hannah and I took a little longer but pretty soon the table held just three empty pizza boxes and an assortment of napkins stained with the memory.
Hannah confirmed, appropriately so, that it is the best pizza she’s ever had. Mission accomplished.
We then emptied our pockets of valuables, leaving the cameras at home and headed out for a late night stroll around the historical centre. Dodging the traffic on Via Foria, the busy street on the other side of our local piazza, we walked down Via Costantinopoli, passing the lovely Piazza Bellini, pausing briefly in front of the excavated ruins in the centre of the square. Gigi talks about some of the historical significance of the squares, churches and statues as we take in Piazza del Gesú nuovo, Spaccanapoli, Piazza Dante, Port’Alba, Piazza San Domenico Maggiore and the Duomo. It’s quiet in the historical centre at this time of night; the pause after family dinner and before the younger crowd re-emerges to hang out.
Gi and I both listen as Hannah’s accent changed in a matter of hours. She got off the plane speaking English with a decidedly twangy accent, perhaps influenced by other AFS students or the English taught at school. Pretty quickly her accent was softening and absorbing some of our residual Australian tone. We had to keep reminding her to lower her voice, it growing louder in excitement as she relived a story or talked about an experience. She occasionally rattled off in Italian, speaking quickly and confidently, but generally using the infinitive form of the verb.
Apart from that Hannah looks like a girl who has become a young woman. She has turned 17 while in Italy and like most exchange students has gained a little weight. However on her small slim stature it suits her, giving her some curves. She looks like she fits better in her skin. Having changed families four times, and moved from the mainland to the island of Sardinia Hannah has no doubt learnt a lot about dealing with change, communication, patience, independence and problem solving. She is certainly different to the quiet, somewhat shy, young girl I remembered from a couple of years ago.
The next morning we prepared for battle. It was going to be a hot day. Gi went off to work and Hannah and I walked the length of Via Roma, sometimes called Via Toledo, the main shopping strip in the centre. Somehow Hannah kept up, as we swept past a plethora of shops many of them chain stores that she recognised. I felt a little embarrassed that she was familiar with so many of the names, most of them still being completely foreign to me. Towards the end of Via Roma we stopped at the entrance of the Galleria Umberto, a majestic shopping arcade with a glass atrium, mosaic floors and sculptured angels in each corner of the domed ceiling, opened in 1900. Hannah has seen photos of this in the house of her host family and spent some time marvelling at the beauty, the sunlight highlighting the intricacies and height of the atrium above our heads. Across from the side entrance of the Galleria is the Real Teatro San Carlo, the royal theatre and Italy’s largest opera house. To the right is Palazzo Reale, the former royal palace. Hannah asked me about the numerous statues standing imposingly in alcoves along the front of the palace and I confirm that they were former kings. The palace, built around 1600, looks out onto the grand Piazza del Plebiscito. Across the piazza is the beautiful Chiesa di San Francesco di Paola, it’s round dome structure based on the Pantheon, but today it’s obscured by scaffolding and equipment in preparation for an upcoming concert.
Crossing the expanse of the piazza and to the left is one side of the palace, the faded red painted walls offsetting the magenta bougainvillea. Looking to our right we had a view of Mount Somma and the Vesuvio volcano behind the marina. In the foreground was a red clay tennis court. We were above all of this, standing on a road that runs up to the piazza, above a tunnel. I photographed this view, just like I did the last time I was here, capturing a tennis match in progress, the summer blooms and haze.
Next stop was the nearby Castel Nuovo. Charles I of Anjou undertook to convert a Franciscan convent into a castle, as part of his program to expand the port and city walls following his takeover of Naples. The castle, also known as Maschio Angioino, stands in Piazza Municipio, and was completed in three years in 1281. Much of the building that Hannah and I admired is ‘the result of renovations by the Aragonese two centuries later, and meticulous restoration’ (Lonely Planet) work before WWII. It’s most impressive features being its crenellated round towers, and the Renaissance arch at the entrance, stark white against the dark tower bricks, commemorating the ‘triumphal entry of Alfonso I of Aragon into Naples in 1443’.
The other thing I love about this castle is that it really looks like a castle. Crossing the bridge, which would once have been a draw bridge, we looked down into what was originally a moat inhabited with crocodiles. Unromantically, it is now the staff car park. Ironically, centuries later, the fetid waters may be gone but the local reptiles live on, the creepy, leathery skinned creatures, with snaky characteristics, long snouts and protruding eyes, prone to cold blooded exploits…oh, sorry I was thinking of the Neapolitan petty thief and sleave bags!
Next to the castle we paused at some ruin exposed following excavation work for the new Metro line being installed under the city. I pointed out the housing foundations, Roman road and floor paving visible from the street, Hannah capturing the oddity of the building work, party excavated ruins and historical castle on her digital camera.
Circling the Piazza, we dodged the traffic, and arrived at the main port, alive with ferries, hydrofoils, boats, tour buses, cruise ships and the array of enterprising individuals that are always attracted to an area dense with tourists. Standing on the corner contemplating this commotion we decided it was time for refreshments. Gelato was the order of the day, mine in a cone, Hannah’s in a small cardboard cup. We waited in the shade as we enjoyed them, the midday sun a known terrorist threat for ice cream.
Via Acton and Via N Sauro form part of the esplanade that stretches along the bay at Santa Lucia. We strolled past a surprising number of people stretched out on the rocks and concrete used as fore shore reinforcement. School holidays had commenced, teenagers mingled with deeply tanned pensioners and locals looking to get a jump start on the summer tanning process. Kids were enjoying the bay water, although Hannah and I both commented on the dubious cleanliness of any water that serves so much marine traffic, commercial and private. I was fascinated by the older people, their tans glowing, completely at home on the uneven surfaces, their small swimming briefs and bikinis leaving nothing to the imagination. I figured if those bodies could be exposed in public then perhaps I too should invest in a little two piece with which to mimic the spilled stomachs and flaunting of dimpled (read cellulite) thighs.
Hannah continued to gallantly trot beside me, her little legs doing double time to keep up with my longer stride. We walked by the elegant bay side hotels and residences, and Castel dell’Ovo came into view just as I thought Hannah (or maybe it was me) might collapse from heat exhaustion. Hannah had asked about the ‘egg castle’ the day before, having heard the tale that the castle was built upon an egg. In fact the site itself was important centuries before the birth of Christ, initially fortified by early settlers and later, in order to protect the bay, a major stronghold was established and duly celebrated by Virgil.
Who’s Virgil? Virgil (70-19 B.C.), full name Publius Vergilius Maro, is considered the greatest poet of ancient Rome. He wrote the Aeneid, a mythological epic and a classical Latin masterpiece of world literature, during the last 11 years of his life. He was thoroughly educated in Greek and Roman literature, rhetoric, and philosophy at Cremona, Milan, Rome, and Naples and spent the greater part of his life at or near Naples and Nola (a neighbouring town, behind the Vesuvio).
As Hannah had heard, legend has it that during his stay in Naples, Virgil hid a magic egg inside an amphora (a two-handled earthenware jar/vase/jug with narrow neck and round body sometimes used to carry wine and olive oil), which was put into an iron cage, that was hung on the truss of a crypt under the castle. The enchanted egg held mystical powers, and legend dictates that if the egg falls or breaks, it will mean the ruin of the castle and consequently the city of Naples will also collapse.
Legends aside, the Castle is nestled on the small rocky island outcrop, known as Borgo Marinaro and was built in the 12th century on the site of the villa of Lucullus, the Roman general and philosopher. In 476 the Villa was used as a home in exile for the last of the western Roman Emperors, Romulus Augustulus. You can still see columns of Lucullus's villa in the dungeons.
It is one of the most historical spots in Naples and the Castle has always marked the political and historical changes in the city. It has housed monks, exiles, and royals. It’s been used as a fortress, prison, military centre and mill house.
The square, angular castle, the colour of sandstone, seems to be floating on the blue bay waters, embraced by the paler blue of the Mediterranean sky. It’s an iconic image of Naples. Seeking an escape from the heat we wandered inside, and circled up through the cool interiors to the top where we looked out across at the three levels of the city, and behind to the hazy outline of the isle of Capri. A bulky looking structure, the cannons on the roof confirmed its historical role as a key fortress in the defence of the region.
We backtracked to make use of the bathroom facilities, and both chatted to one of the portieres (door men employed to watch the comings and goings, part security, part information point, part underemployed). Sitting comfortably on his wooden chair, having discovered that I was an Australian married to a Neapolitan, he asked me where my husband was. ‘At work’, I told him. Eyebrows raised, he asked was my husband not jealous of me being out alone, obviously implying that he should be. To my firm ‘No’, he then asked wasn’t he, Gigi, lonely being left on his own, without our company? (Italians, but especially Neapolitans, always prefer to do everything, anything, in the company of others rather than alone.) The clear message was that I was supposed to know where my husband was at all times, and who he was with, the same principle to be reciprocated in return.
He then proceeded to inform me that Australians are a much colder, closed people than Neapolitans. It’s true that culturally we are not as ‘spirited’, favouring more balanced, reasonable behaviour. But retrospectively I wondered if he had not mistaken Australian for Austrian, as so many Italians do. That would certainly explain the use of the words ‘cold’ and ‘closed’, when normally to be Australian is to be considered a creature from another world, where everything is beautiful and golden.
Braving the incessant sun we left the Castle of the Egg, still not sure where the egg was, past a tour bus of Japanese, some of the women covered up with luxurious scarves and sunglasses, and walked west down Via Partenope to the ‘Villa Comunale’. A set of public gardens, extending for more than a kilometre; it’s a place of peace, shade and quiet in a city with few green spaces. The gardens were built by King Ferdinand IV of Bourbon (grandson of Philip V of Spain who founded the Italian House of Bourbon and youngest son of Charles IV, King of Naples and Sicily) who envisioned the gardens as a promenade and meeting point, created for the enjoyment of Neapolitan aristocracy. The Villa was first opened in 1781.
Some 225 years later, we settled on the grass under the tree to wait for Gi, and watched a couple of tourists nearby sprawled out on a picnic rug enjoying some afternoon amore. A nearby water bubbler was a popular spot as people partook of the cool, natural spring water. A gypsy mother used it to wash her two skinny children, before drying them off with their clothes and re dressing them. Just as we were finding some solace, an elderly man on a bicycle came pedalling towards us, his bell bling blinging across the park. As he approached us I suggested to Hannah that we should pretend not to speak any Italian, a tactic for those moments of apathy and exhaustion that can result in any number of outcomes. He was a park official, and was busy shooing people off the grassy areas. Pointing us in the direction of the benches ‘conveniently’ situated in the middle of the central boulevard in the scorching sun, and consequently empty in the heat of the day, he spoke only Neapolitan dialect. Feigning indifference and misunderstanding we sat watching as he persisted, telling us it was forbidden to sit on the grass and that we had to leave. What was the point of a park where you can’t sit on the grass was the only thing I could think, noticing the only other ground surface was unaccommodating gravel. What was more interesting though was that the park administration employed this old man and his bicycle to ride around yelling at people to move off the grass. At one point in his lecture he asked us, in Neapolitan, if we understood Neapolitan. To this I answered ‘No’, by this stage no longer able to ignore him, but wondering if he would pick up that I must have understood the question to be able to answer it. Eventually, after a significant amount of gesturing and standing unreasonably close, we ‘got the hint’ and picked up to leave, slyly relocating to another grassy knoll some twenty metres away, as he went off to harangue the tourist lovers.
Gi arrived in his mother’s car and rescued us from further harassment, the heat of the day and the increasing dampness of the grass. Dinner was a domestic affair of pasta, ridiculously fresh bread followed by the prized local speciality: buffalo milk mozzarella. Gi served it, each soft squishy ball oozing white watery liquid (always reminds me of a lactating mother’s breast). Simply cut in half, it is lightly seasoned with salt and freshly cracked pepper and a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil you slice off mouth size pieces and mop up the juice with bread. Like the best of Neapolitan food it doesn’t get any simpler, or any better.
Hannah’s biggest challenge of the day was still ahead of her. Having already discarded clothes in Sardinia she conceded that she needed to have a second crack at it. Slowly and steadily she went through her suitcase. Each article of clothing was held up, examined and considered. She sought advice on a few occasions. She should dump the jeans that had holes in the crutch, having worn them every day to school for the last ten months, right? She should only take clothes that she liked, right? Knowing that even though these shirts were gifts they would never be worn. She wouldn’t need all these winter clothes in Brisbane, would she? We talked about the boxes of stuff she’d already sent home. I reminisced about the Thai clothes and memorabilia that I’d hung on to for years, only recently parting from the last of it, with the realisation that the most important thing was the experience, the relationships, closely followed by photos and diaries.
I was impressed; Hannah discarded a huge bag of clothes, which were later rifled through by Gi’s sister who is a similar size, before we left them out on the street, certain that the gypsies or others would recycle them (in the absence of Lifeline or St Vinny outlets).
We slept in the next morning and with the suitcase repacked and at least 5 kilograms lighter we strolled around the local markets. Reluctantly we hauled Hannah’s luggage back out through the laneway, down the cobblestone alleyway where it was once again heaved into the boot. Gi delivered us to the central train station, concerned for our safety before we even alighted from the car. No sooner were we making a bee line for the platform when he called, seeking assurances that we would be on our guard, that we were not to talk to anyone, and that we would go straight to the platform to wait for the train. Yes Gigi, don’t worry. We’ll be fine.
The man at the ticket office advised that the train for Sarno was just about to leave. By the time he fumbled with Hannah’s change and we threw ourselves and her cases down the stairs (the escalators either don’t exist, or are constantly under repair) the train was pulling out, its red tail lights winking a cheery goodbye. The train to Sarno departs every half hour so we sat on the platform, standing guard over her belongings, warily watching anyone who approached the marble bench to sit down. On the other side of the platform a four carriage train bound for Pompeii shunted in, and a kaleidoscope of tourists and pick pockets boarded, keen to explore the ancient city or someone’s pockets.
The Sarno train arrived, and after unceremoniously lugging everything on board we hugged, her tiny frame fitting awkwardly against mine of height and curves. It wasn’t goodbye, she promised to come back to Naples to visit again before heading home in three weeks. At the very least another pizza was on the cards.
In true exchange student style it wasn’t to be. Hannah lost my mobile number, and not wanting to impinge on her last days with family, friends and her Italian experience I didn’t call until the day I thought she was due to go to Rome. She hadn’t thought to get my number from my many emails, and in fact hadn’t accessed her emails since leaving Sardinia. In accordance with all normal AFS experiences her host family was suffering new internal dramas that relegated her last few precious days as background noise.
Nevertheless she sounded in good spirits during our brief phone conversation, and had enjoyed seeing friends and Sarno one last time. She assured me that she was only going home for a week and then she’d be right back; like I haven’t heard (or thought) that one before. Sometimes the most difficult part of being on exchange, living overseas and away from home is not the language, the culture shock, home sickness, or the rollercoaster ride. It’s the coming home, fitting in again, finding your place, and realising that everyone around you stayed on the tread mill and now expect that you’ll pick up where you left off.
Hannah is home again now. Although forever more I know ‘home’ will simultaneously mean two very different places. I don’t know what happened with the lost mobile phone. I know that some of her discarded clothes have gone to a good home. Likewise the felt pens and colouring pencils she left behind have been put to artistic use for my nieces and nephews. Even if she doesn’t come back next week, or next year, Hannah can know that she has left a piece of herself in Italy. And Italy has left a piece (probably a disproportionably big piece compared to her slight stature) of itself in Hannah. The size will grow and wane as the years pass, but it’s locked in now.
I know she’ll come back to Naples. It will be waiting for her. The spirit of the people will remain constant. The castles will be a bit older. Hannah herself will be a little different, but the pizza will still be as good.
PS: I exchanged some lively text messages with Hannah and her mother during the course of the World Cup. While I was standing in the grand Piazza Plebiscito with thousands of Italian supporters waving flags, letting off fireworks and holding their breaths for the penalty shoot out to be over and claim victory Hannah was awake in the early hours of a winter morning, watching the TV wrapped in pyjamas and a blanket, cheering for Italy. Her younger sister had the audacity to support the (losing) French team! The last SMS from her mother, Jennifer, read, and I quote, "Hannah is going wild. Is getting her belly button pierced to celebrate. It must have been nerve wrecking (think they meant wracking) in that shoot out. Love to u and gi X".
Yes the penalty shoot out was nerve wrecking. So were the firework bombs unexpectedly (read stupidly, ignorantly, dangerously) exploding in the middle of the crowd. But not as nerve wrecking as the idea of getting a belly button piercing!
Local Bouquet
4 July 2006
The smell of daily life floats up to greet you in the courtyards of our urban cave complex. Past the initial musty passageway leading in from the front gate the light fills the first courtyard. A collection of couples from Eastern Europe live here, crammed into boxy bedrooms and compact kitchen. They wash by hand, scrubbing at clothes and linen in blue plastic tubs, the soapy water splashing onto the cobblestones underfoot. After a busy morning, once the washing is hanging up on a length of wire against the crumbly walls or pegged to the collapsible drying racks, it’s the smell of washing powder that lingers. The memory of walking into my mother’s laundry pops into my head, but you won’t find the luxuries of a washing machine or clothes dryer in this courtyard.
There is usually someone smoking in the courtyard, the whiff of burning tobacco curling skywards. Smoking is a national past time, and there is no escaping it.
Evenings and weekends cause the clatter of saucepans and cutlery. The smoke from hot oil greasing up the air, is rancid and insidious. Soon, a hint of frying fish takes over, the oil animated as it splitters and splutters. Or perhaps its eggplant, potato or zucchini, battered and protected, that slides into the oily cauldron.
Unless it has recently rained there is always the dust. It permeates the cracks and crannies, settles on every flat surface, and some that are vertical. Dust has a peculiar dry smell as though your olfactory nerve senses each individual dust particle. The dust is everywhere in Naples, much like cigarette smoke there is no hiding from it. Some days it has a tang to it, the heat, sweating bodies and decaying rubbish attached to each speck.
Occasionally we come home, unlock the front gate, and as it swings open on its squeaky hinges an odour of sewerage infiltrates our noses. It seems to loiter for a couple of days, like a hooker at a bachelor party, only to suddenly disappear again. Every time leaves your face screwed up as though that will help close your nostrils, the stench a welcome and farewell you could do without.
Outside, on the street, I always look around with surprise when someone walks by leaving a trail of perfume behind. These moments are like gifts, a chance for your nose to delight in its capabilities, as it lifts to capture more of the fragrance.
Walk into the local bread shop and know that you are alive. Breathe in deeply; the waft of freshly baked loaves is straight from heaven and before we are out the door the brown paper is unwrapped and the still warm crust is ripped open revealing the softness within. Similarly the smell of warm chocolate filling floats around as we stroll by the pastry shop, its cakes and local delights crammed into the display cabinet tempting everyone. Gi can rarely resist, but sometimes walking away with just the sweet scent of the pasticceria filling my head is almost too much.
It’s a city of spirit; a city of history and sites. Naples is famously a city of flavours but quietly, discreetly it’s also a city of smells, and long after the photos and taste buds fade it’s the sense of smell that will hang onto the memories the longest.
The smell of daily life floats up to greet you in the courtyards of our urban cave complex. Past the initial musty passageway leading in from the front gate the light fills the first courtyard. A collection of couples from Eastern Europe live here, crammed into boxy bedrooms and compact kitchen. They wash by hand, scrubbing at clothes and linen in blue plastic tubs, the soapy water splashing onto the cobblestones underfoot. After a busy morning, once the washing is hanging up on a length of wire against the crumbly walls or pegged to the collapsible drying racks, it’s the smell of washing powder that lingers. The memory of walking into my mother’s laundry pops into my head, but you won’t find the luxuries of a washing machine or clothes dryer in this courtyard.
There is usually someone smoking in the courtyard, the whiff of burning tobacco curling skywards. Smoking is a national past time, and there is no escaping it.
Evenings and weekends cause the clatter of saucepans and cutlery. The smoke from hot oil greasing up the air, is rancid and insidious. Soon, a hint of frying fish takes over, the oil animated as it splitters and splutters. Or perhaps its eggplant, potato or zucchini, battered and protected, that slides into the oily cauldron.
Unless it has recently rained there is always the dust. It permeates the cracks and crannies, settles on every flat surface, and some that are vertical. Dust has a peculiar dry smell as though your olfactory nerve senses each individual dust particle. The dust is everywhere in Naples, much like cigarette smoke there is no hiding from it. Some days it has a tang to it, the heat, sweating bodies and decaying rubbish attached to each speck.
Occasionally we come home, unlock the front gate, and as it swings open on its squeaky hinges an odour of sewerage infiltrates our noses. It seems to loiter for a couple of days, like a hooker at a bachelor party, only to suddenly disappear again. Every time leaves your face screwed up as though that will help close your nostrils, the stench a welcome and farewell you could do without.
Outside, on the street, I always look around with surprise when someone walks by leaving a trail of perfume behind. These moments are like gifts, a chance for your nose to delight in its capabilities, as it lifts to capture more of the fragrance.
Walk into the local bread shop and know that you are alive. Breathe in deeply; the waft of freshly baked loaves is straight from heaven and before we are out the door the brown paper is unwrapped and the still warm crust is ripped open revealing the softness within. Similarly the smell of warm chocolate filling floats around as we stroll by the pastry shop, its cakes and local delights crammed into the display cabinet tempting everyone. Gi can rarely resist, but sometimes walking away with just the sweet scent of the pasticceria filling my head is almost too much.
It’s a city of spirit; a city of history and sites. Naples is famously a city of flavours but quietly, discreetly it’s also a city of smells, and long after the photos and taste buds fade it’s the sense of smell that will hang onto the memories the longest.
Tuesday 18 July 2006
Countdown
It's only 16 sleeps until my Mum and Dad fly into town. We have a top class itinerary planned, hotels and cosy (read cheap) B&Bs all booked and a station wagon awaiting collection. It promises to be 18 full on days of travel, eating, sight seeing, translating and remembering why we don't all live together. I can't wait.
I will buy an esky in preparation for the trip (we already have a thermos), and will have a wet face washer and frozen water bottle at the ready (essentials for any summer travelling according to mother, and she's absolutely right). It will be stinking hot, and we will bless every air conditioning unit we meet, and curse every hotel room that promised such a modern function but fails to deliver.
August is shaping up to be a big month. Just as we drop the folks at the airport in Rome we have our AFS daughter Lucie (yep, I have a daughter, two actually) from Switzerland flying in, and another just-finished-school friend from Oz Cieon (what a wicked name), and maybe Gi's sister, Irene (why do I never call her my sister-in-law?) to juggle. We will do Rome a bit and then Lucie and Cieon are in Naples with us for a few days.
After that I am not taking any calls. We will both collapse in a state of exhaustion, and no doubt be completely broke (read - in debt to Mr Visa Card).
Sept is going to be busy for Gi with a Tui Na course commencing and hopefully a pick up in the massage once everyone returns from the summer 2 month hiatus (ridiculous country almost completely closes down unless it is a beach side or mountain location). I should be starting work teaching English, but it depends if I can pass the grammar test!!
I expect it will be heads down, hard work, hello visitors, and then a break at Xmas time when I am secretly conspiring to visit another part of the continent...but don't tell Gigi.
I will buy an esky in preparation for the trip (we already have a thermos), and will have a wet face washer and frozen water bottle at the ready (essentials for any summer travelling according to mother, and she's absolutely right). It will be stinking hot, and we will bless every air conditioning unit we meet, and curse every hotel room that promised such a modern function but fails to deliver.
August is shaping up to be a big month. Just as we drop the folks at the airport in Rome we have our AFS daughter Lucie (yep, I have a daughter, two actually) from Switzerland flying in, and another just-finished-school friend from Oz Cieon (what a wicked name), and maybe Gi's sister, Irene (why do I never call her my sister-in-law?) to juggle. We will do Rome a bit and then Lucie and Cieon are in Naples with us for a few days.
After that I am not taking any calls. We will both collapse in a state of exhaustion, and no doubt be completely broke (read - in debt to Mr Visa Card).
Sept is going to be busy for Gi with a Tui Na course commencing and hopefully a pick up in the massage once everyone returns from the summer 2 month hiatus (ridiculous country almost completely closes down unless it is a beach side or mountain location). I should be starting work teaching English, but it depends if I can pass the grammar test!!
I expect it will be heads down, hard work, hello visitors, and then a break at Xmas time when I am secretly conspiring to visit another part of the continent...but don't tell Gigi.
Our three sent-by-sea-mail boxes are still missing. We sent them in January, were told it would take 3 months, and have now been told that under International Law the Italian post office has two months before they need to respond to our 'where-the-hell-are-they?' query. It's only slightly worse than being pregnant, being way overdue and waiting, waiting. Why is it worse? Well, I already know what is in the boxes so there is no surprise to look forward to, and frankly I reckon a pregnant lady is more likely to deliver a baby than the Italian post office is likely to find our boxes. It's a deep ocean, and there are several thousand postal workers who might have decided the boxes looked far too interesting to be left alone.
Thank goodness it's only stuff, and not my left hand. By the way, the right hand is 100% again, told you I didn't need a doctor!
Signs
19 June 2006Some of the signs that you are living in a city of more than one million people!
Naples: they empty the rubbish skips on the streets every night
Brisbane: household rubbish is collected once a week, recyclables once a fortnight (if you remember to put your bin out)
Naples: parking is bumper to bumper and ingenuity is expected
Brisbane: please park only within the allocated spaces.
Naples: twenty four hour outlets for the essentials include curb side cigarette vending machines, 24 hour dvd/video stores (like an ATM), all nite coffee and fresh croissants & self service fuel with automated machine for payment.
Brisbane: instant coffee, soggy sausage rolls and over priced cigarettes available from 7-11 stores in every suburb.
Naples: scooters and motorbikes are common place, often ridden by children or transporting a family of four.
Brisbane: Still notice someone riding a scooter, and drivers still fail to be aware of motorbikes.
Naples: Your public transport options include: ANM bus (inner city) – regular, ANM bus (local community) – small and narrow (to fit the small, narrow alleyways), CTP bus (city to outer suburbs), the Metro (construction to be finished by 2011), train, Funicolare (like a cable car, you know the song "Funicoli, funicola, funicoli, funicolaaaa"), ferries, Circumvesuviana train (literally circles the volcano) and trams.
Brisbane: Your public transport options include bus (possibly banana, and engineering marvel), trains, City cats and slow ferries.
Naples: Take a number at the post office and pasticceria (pastry shop).
Brisbane: take a number at government offices.
Naples: Traffic lights flash amber on Sundays to stop people running red lights.
Brisbane: Traffic lights flash amber after an electrical storm causes severe damage or blackout.
Naples: The central government/business district was built in the 1980’s after reclaiming a whole residential suburb.
Brisbane: Brisbane’s CBD is still being constructed, some 150 years after they began.
Naples: The Greeks arrived about 4500 years ago and left a lot behind.
Brisbane: The Greeks arrived about 100 years ago and are just now settling in.
Naples has three castles and two palaces.
Brisbane, at last count, has no castles and zero palaces.
Friday 14 July 2006
Raining buses
8 July 2006
Naples
It rained yesterday. The kind of rain that made it seem like it was the skies first time. First times often lack a certain grace, a certain ease, and a competence that only comes with practice. This was no gently falling, showering precipitation. The grey clouds amassed, the sky opened up awkwardly, and then they (the rain gods) threw down great buckets of water, here and there, sloshing it about. Stopping and starting, just when some ventured outside it would pour down once again. The thunder rolled around, echoing through our building, like a marching band that can neither march in a straight line, nor perform the music cohesively.
It was a strange day, nestled in amongst a plethora of glorious early summer days, filled with sunshine, rising humidity and evening mosquitoes. Gi returned from work in a depressed mood, a raging headache and a sense of melancholy, a longing for that place where he isn’t, where it probably wasn’t raining, and where he probably wouldn’t have such a horrendous headache; Brisbane.
I spent the afternoon on public transport. I always have this strange desire to get on buses and journey along the entire route. It doesn’t matter if I’m in Bangkok or Brisbane. Often, my reality is that I don’t have the time, and appease my curiosity by looking the route up on the internet or referring to the timetable flyer. The other curbing factor is the cost, but in Naples you can often ride for free.
A couple of days ago I told Gi I’d like to see exactly, that’s it you see, to experience the exactness, where the CS bus goes. It pulls up at the front of our piazza, and from the sign there I can see it goes to the downtown Piazza Dante (named after the writer and co founder of the Italian language, Dante), Piazza Caritá (meaning charity), the shopping street Corso Umberto I (the boulevard named after the King of Italy, 1878-1900, and the son of Italy’s first king Vittorio Emanuele II) and then Piazza Garibaldi (named after Giuseppe Garibaldi, Italian nationalist revolutionary and the leader in the struggle for the unification of Italy and its liberation from Austro-Hungarian rule). However, after that point the listed stops were largely a mystery to me.
The rain appeared to have drifted out across to sea, so armed with an umbrella I didn’t need, I jumped on the CS. It trundled down the main down town shopping street Via Roma, turned left at Piazza Caritá and sweeps past the huge, curved central post office. Along Corso Umberto I, where I must spend some time getting more familiar with the shops, the bus passed one of the University of Naples campuses, where I hope to sneak in sometime and check out the library. Following that road it comes to Piazza Garibaldi, and the central train station, the seedy part of town that Gi avoids like the plague. Many of the passengers disembarked, and then it swung down through an area that always gives me an unsettled feeling. We drove by the immigration office (mental note to self to catch this bus next March when I need to extend my visa) and through the suburb crawling with Chinese outlets selling handbags and who knows what else as I wouldn’t go inside without Gi’s company. It’s a strange industrial part of town, there is nothing pretty about it, and you’d only come down here for a particular reason. I was quickly disorientated as the bus turned left, and right and right again, but then realised we were at the port, the enormous cranes and navy blue shipping containers giving the game away. This road runs along the front of the bay and I knew it would eventually lead to the castles.
Just as I was wondering if the bus wasn’t going to do the complete route as a loop, it pulled into a small bus deposit, where five other orange beasts were sitting idle. The last three passengers got off, and I followed a woman who crossed the road and jumped on the next tram, No 29. I haven’t been on a tram in Naples for years. It was interesting to be inside as it rattled along, honking shallowly at cars and scooters that blocked the tram line. It turned right, and as I was thinking I was lost again the tram quietly glided past the Circumvesuviana train station (the train we catch to visit Gi’s family), and soon pulled up at Piazza Garibaldi. I swapped onto bus 201 which sat for ten minutes filling up with afternoon commuters.
Many of the buses in Naples are now equipped to hook into the overhead electricity lines, like the trams. Obviously, they are not restricted to using the tram lines but when using electricity they do tend to drive towards the right of the lane, closest to the bus stops. The 201, a bus we regularly catch from the central station to home, drives around the piazza on diesel, and then pauses at the corner and spends about thirty seconds converting to electricity power. As the diesel engines die I always relax a little, and then wait to sense the bus antennas bond with the electricity lines above, knowing that for a while our trip will be quieter and less pollutant.
At every stop people got on. When two shabby women got on, entering through the exit door, demanding that everyone move up and make room, someone called out that there was no more room, and besides they’d broken the local etiquette by getting on through the exit doors. The trick with buses in Naples is that the front and rear doors are for getting on. The middle door is for getting off. Thus, as you approach your stop you begin to manoeuvre towards the middle doors, always politely asking the person in front, inevitably blocking your path, if they too are getting off at the next stop. This question will then determine if you wait behind them, or need to shimmy past them, somehow squeezing yourself between the bulk of the grandmother dressed in black and her shopping trolley without stepping on the small boy or the tan leather shoes of the beautifully suited gentleman.
At my stop, Piazza Cavour, the reason for this process became very obvious. The two shabby women were making a practice of getting off the bus to allow disembarking passengers the opportunity to indeed disembark, then quickly remounting and taking up their positions by the folding doors. I was near the door, but across from it by the window, jammed in like a Melbourne Cup winner after the race. There was a young woman beside me, short purposely mess hair, dyed orangey red. She too was watching the internal soap opera of a Neapolitan bus with interest. At Piazza Cavour she lifted up a backpack (that I had failed to notice in the crush) and in a feeble, trying to be polite-but-I-don’t-really-speak-the-language, voice asked for permission to move through. Everyone ignored her. I had been resigned to the fact that I could get off at the next stop, only twenty metres away and walk back through the piazza.
Changing my mind I tried to do as the locals do and raised my voice, throwing out the appropriate word with authority and a there-is-no-other-option tone. The crowd began to part, and an opening appeared (and where it did not I find the gentle application of elbows, hands to shoulders that are inevitably lower than mine and assertive hips always helps). I almost fell out of the bus, and the backpack carrying girl followed, throwing me a smile of relief as if to say ‘god, even the bus here is an adventure’.
She’d be right; every day is an experience in Naples. The buses are a soap opera stage. And indeed, even the rain seems to be seeking attention and self gratification.
Naples
It rained yesterday. The kind of rain that made it seem like it was the skies first time. First times often lack a certain grace, a certain ease, and a competence that only comes with practice. This was no gently falling, showering precipitation. The grey clouds amassed, the sky opened up awkwardly, and then they (the rain gods) threw down great buckets of water, here and there, sloshing it about. Stopping and starting, just when some ventured outside it would pour down once again. The thunder rolled around, echoing through our building, like a marching band that can neither march in a straight line, nor perform the music cohesively.
It was a strange day, nestled in amongst a plethora of glorious early summer days, filled with sunshine, rising humidity and evening mosquitoes. Gi returned from work in a depressed mood, a raging headache and a sense of melancholy, a longing for that place where he isn’t, where it probably wasn’t raining, and where he probably wouldn’t have such a horrendous headache; Brisbane.
I spent the afternoon on public transport. I always have this strange desire to get on buses and journey along the entire route. It doesn’t matter if I’m in Bangkok or Brisbane. Often, my reality is that I don’t have the time, and appease my curiosity by looking the route up on the internet or referring to the timetable flyer. The other curbing factor is the cost, but in Naples you can often ride for free.
A couple of days ago I told Gi I’d like to see exactly, that’s it you see, to experience the exactness, where the CS bus goes. It pulls up at the front of our piazza, and from the sign there I can see it goes to the downtown Piazza Dante (named after the writer and co founder of the Italian language, Dante), Piazza Caritá (meaning charity), the shopping street Corso Umberto I (the boulevard named after the King of Italy, 1878-1900, and the son of Italy’s first king Vittorio Emanuele II) and then Piazza Garibaldi (named after Giuseppe Garibaldi, Italian nationalist revolutionary and the leader in the struggle for the unification of Italy and its liberation from Austro-Hungarian rule). However, after that point the listed stops were largely a mystery to me.
The rain appeared to have drifted out across to sea, so armed with an umbrella I didn’t need, I jumped on the CS. It trundled down the main down town shopping street Via Roma, turned left at Piazza Caritá and sweeps past the huge, curved central post office. Along Corso Umberto I, where I must spend some time getting more familiar with the shops, the bus passed one of the University of Naples campuses, where I hope to sneak in sometime and check out the library. Following that road it comes to Piazza Garibaldi, and the central train station, the seedy part of town that Gi avoids like the plague. Many of the passengers disembarked, and then it swung down through an area that always gives me an unsettled feeling. We drove by the immigration office (mental note to self to catch this bus next March when I need to extend my visa) and through the suburb crawling with Chinese outlets selling handbags and who knows what else as I wouldn’t go inside without Gi’s company. It’s a strange industrial part of town, there is nothing pretty about it, and you’d only come down here for a particular reason. I was quickly disorientated as the bus turned left, and right and right again, but then realised we were at the port, the enormous cranes and navy blue shipping containers giving the game away. This road runs along the front of the bay and I knew it would eventually lead to the castles.
Just as I was wondering if the bus wasn’t going to do the complete route as a loop, it pulled into a small bus deposit, where five other orange beasts were sitting idle. The last three passengers got off, and I followed a woman who crossed the road and jumped on the next tram, No 29. I haven’t been on a tram in Naples for years. It was interesting to be inside as it rattled along, honking shallowly at cars and scooters that blocked the tram line. It turned right, and as I was thinking I was lost again the tram quietly glided past the Circumvesuviana train station (the train we catch to visit Gi’s family), and soon pulled up at Piazza Garibaldi. I swapped onto bus 201 which sat for ten minutes filling up with afternoon commuters.
Many of the buses in Naples are now equipped to hook into the overhead electricity lines, like the trams. Obviously, they are not restricted to using the tram lines but when using electricity they do tend to drive towards the right of the lane, closest to the bus stops. The 201, a bus we regularly catch from the central station to home, drives around the piazza on diesel, and then pauses at the corner and spends about thirty seconds converting to electricity power. As the diesel engines die I always relax a little, and then wait to sense the bus antennas bond with the electricity lines above, knowing that for a while our trip will be quieter and less pollutant.
At every stop people got on. When two shabby women got on, entering through the exit door, demanding that everyone move up and make room, someone called out that there was no more room, and besides they’d broken the local etiquette by getting on through the exit doors. The trick with buses in Naples is that the front and rear doors are for getting on. The middle door is for getting off. Thus, as you approach your stop you begin to manoeuvre towards the middle doors, always politely asking the person in front, inevitably blocking your path, if they too are getting off at the next stop. This question will then determine if you wait behind them, or need to shimmy past them, somehow squeezing yourself between the bulk of the grandmother dressed in black and her shopping trolley without stepping on the small boy or the tan leather shoes of the beautifully suited gentleman.
At my stop, Piazza Cavour, the reason for this process became very obvious. The two shabby women were making a practice of getting off the bus to allow disembarking passengers the opportunity to indeed disembark, then quickly remounting and taking up their positions by the folding doors. I was near the door, but across from it by the window, jammed in like a Melbourne Cup winner after the race. There was a young woman beside me, short purposely mess hair, dyed orangey red. She too was watching the internal soap opera of a Neapolitan bus with interest. At Piazza Cavour she lifted up a backpack (that I had failed to notice in the crush) and in a feeble, trying to be polite-but-I-don’t-really-speak-the-language, voice asked for permission to move through. Everyone ignored her. I had been resigned to the fact that I could get off at the next stop, only twenty metres away and walk back through the piazza.
Changing my mind I tried to do as the locals do and raised my voice, throwing out the appropriate word with authority and a there-is-no-other-option tone. The crowd began to part, and an opening appeared (and where it did not I find the gentle application of elbows, hands to shoulders that are inevitably lower than mine and assertive hips always helps). I almost fell out of the bus, and the backpack carrying girl followed, throwing me a smile of relief as if to say ‘god, even the bus here is an adventure’.
She’d be right; every day is an experience in Naples. The buses are a soap opera stage. And indeed, even the rain seems to be seeking attention and self gratification.
Daily Soap Opera
11 July 2006
I feel like I’ve lived a lifetime of Neapolitan experiences already today, and it’s only midday.
At my suggestion Gi approached the owner of the health centre, Dora, and had their internet upgraded to a better unlimited service. We have found it impossible to get internet connection to our urban cave without being prepared to invest in installing a phone line and dealing with god knows what telecommunication company bureaucracy. There doesn’t seem to be the focus and customer service that we are accustomed to as residential clients in Australia. However, if you are a business customer it’s a different story. Dora agreed to the upgrade and Gi arranged it over the phone. They advised it could take up to ten days (!!) but it was ready the following morning. So, we are kicking in about half of the monthly cost, on the condition that we can use it for my work and incidental personal use. We were just spending too much at the local internet place and always on the clock.
Of course now we have to establish when is a good time for me to be there without interrupting the business. They generally don’t open until about 10 a.m. so this morning we went in at 9 a.m. At that time I’ll also be able to chat with friends in Australia. Gi is starting to practice Chi Gung of a morning, at about 7am so I’m hoping I can sneak in at that time and have a few hours to myself researching and emailing.
I called my sister Kim this morning. For those of you that haven’t been reading the local community papers she has built a child care centre at Victoria Point. They opened for business on 3 July. My youngest sister is the general manager. They are both former teachers, and owning a child care centre has been Kim’s dream for years. It’s a bit strange that mum, dad and myself are all away at such a momentous occasion, especially as both girls have been working incredibly long hours, and looking after their children. In fact, as I was talking to her what I really wanted to say was that I’d be on the first plane home to help. Unfortunately my bank balance isn’t in accordance with such an impulsive idea. Not to mention my husband. Kim actually lives in Melbourne, with her husband Noel and their two sons. Josh is turning three in August (can that be right, my diary says he was born in 2003 but he seems at least four in my head) and Lachlan was born in February this year. Noel has recently started consulting and that has kept him in Melbourne, although he was in Perth last week. Their household is usually all systems go but I must say the current status of activity is unprecedented, even for Kim.
I can’t wait to get home to see the centre. She has yet to put photos on the website www.firstlearnings.com.au. But if you know anyone in the Redlands / Victoria Point area who is looking for quality child care with a difference, they are ready for you.
After the phone call, which ate up the remainder of the funds on my YHA phone card (a brilliant gift from friends which can be topped up by internet if you have been searching for that perfect gift idea), I jumped on a bus. As usual it was crowded. Standing in the aisle, hanging on to the bar above my head (the joys of being taller than the city average), I endured at least ten minutes of mild sexual harassment. A skinny, craggy faced middle aged man (I can’t use the word ‘gentleman’, it just doesn’t apply) decided to enjoy his morning bus ride by repeatedly rubbing his crotch up against my buttocks or my thigh. Every time the bus stopped and people off loaded I moved, attempting to escape his charms. Just as I started to relax and tune into my daily episode of ‘Naples Street Soap Opera’ the bumping and grinding would start again, and there he was right behind me again. A few death stares seem to have no effect, in fact I think they may have encouraged him. I was trying to work out how to ‘unintentionally’ hurt him, thinking my elbows are sharper now than ever before. Unfortunately my elbows were not in a position to connect with his crutch, and he had no bulky stomach for me to dig into with the motion of the bus. I wasn’t wearing shoes that would deliver the message either (maybe that’s why so many of the women here were incredibly impractical stilettos and three stories high platforms). The only thing I could think of was to grab his rubbing equipment and twist but even writing it now makes me feel queasy. He probably would have thought it was a definite come on besides.
I floated out of the bus, still dwelling on the problem for next time. Gi will no doubt give me advice about what to say to him, but frankly sometimes that only makes it worse as my accent certainly gives me away as foreign (so does your face, Jenny) and I really don’t want him to think a conversation is on the cards.
Walking around the bus, only metres away I was stunned to see two bus drivers start to beat each other up. This is the third time I’ve seen two men on the street hitting each other, whacking each other in the face and head, pushing and yelling. The pair was immediately pulled apart by a dozen men in blue shirts, fellow bus drivers, but the cursing and threatening continued.
Taking a straight line along the pedestrian path that cuts through the bus area towards the central station, I managed to avoid the plethora of unscrupulous and risky men (again ‘gentlemen’ is not appropriate) that gather in that area. Gi truly hates the central station zone, and will avoid coming whenever possible. The last thing he said to me this morning was ‘be careful’. He never uses expressions like that, unless I’m going to Piazza Garibaldi. I was on a mission though. On the opposite side of the piazza, turning left onto the road Corso Giuseppe Garibaldi (across from MacDonald which is the only way I can get my sense of direction in that piazza), is a shop selling Asian food. We need tofu, and soy sauce. As I waited to pay for my items, having also grabbed some coconut milk, instant noodles and fresh bean sprouts I watched as the diminutive, slightly surly Chinese lady served a tall, burly African man. He was buying taro. After weighing the vegetables she pointed at the screen indicating how much he needed to pay. He stood there. She then told him it would by Euro 2.10. He repeated "€2.10?" Their accents were as bad as mine. Ignoring him she indicated for me to move forward and began tallying up my shopping, as he dug around in his deep pockets and finally produced two coins, repeating "€2.10" as he tossed them onto the counter. As she told me the total, he told her, didn’t ask her, to ‘Put them in a bag’. After bagging my shopping and taking my money, she then slowly turned, found a bag and placed his taro inside.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen such disparate cultures reluctantly engaging in a commercial transaction before. There was no friendliness, hardly any words spoken, and no indication that either of them was interested in repeating the process, ever.
Crossing the road, I entered the station and was verbally harassed, and then followed, by some guy who either wanted to go to the beach ‘mare’ or was telling me I wasn’t too bad ‘male’. My second mission of the morning was to visit the various newsagent outlets inside the station to assess what international newspapers and magazines they sell. I’m starting to research possible publications to approach with article ideas, and the first step is to get my hands on the real thing if possible. The best range I’ve seen in Naples was at the airport, which is not far from the centre where we live, but requires two different buses. As I left the station, having purchased an Italian magazine, but better informed about the variety and cost available of English language publications, I was whistled at, hissed at, spoken to, and physically assessed countless times. Of course variations of this behaviour happen elsewhere in the world, but here in Naples they seem to have a special flair for it. There are two things in particular that I find the most disturbing.
One is the old man, usually much shorter than me, his head (and therefore his watery, squinting eyes) coming level with my bust, who will unashamedly stop mid stride and gawk, as though his invitation to touch and taste will be delivered momentarily. The old guys really get an eyeful, no holds barred, no subtlety, no quick flick of the eyes to your breasts and then back up to your face. This is a buy a ticket, let-me-show-you-to-your-seat, ‘would you like a coffee, or perhaps something to nibble on?’ type ogling. It feels invasive and intimidating. They are not embarrassed to be caught out, in fact to look them in the eyes sometimes results in them pursing their lips, a hand to the stubbly chin, deciding what will happen if they ‘reach out and touch someone’. Elbows are undeniably valuable tools for such occasions.
The other is the man, of any particular age, who walks past, in any direction, and makes an ‘oohh’ noise at you (like ‘oohh’ in the word sue). Sometimes it’s more of an ‘O!’ sound (like ‘O’ in the word ‘ho’ according to Santa, or the American slang for whore which somehow seems more apt). Now oohh’s and O’s of themselves aren’t too bad, but it’s the surprise factor that gets me. They sneak into your ear, and with both parties on the move it is not always possible to determine who the aggressor is without stopping. They also have a practice of following you; more of the oohh’s or O’s echoing behind you, like a little persistence is going to get them a date.
The final local experience for the morning was back on the bus. In fact every time I get on a bus it happens. I don’t know if it’s the heat, or the crowds or the time of year with everyone overdue for a holiday. Inevitably there is an argument on the bus. Perhaps it’s a space issue. Maybe it’s something else. Any age, gender or social standing, it just needs two people, and then a third, fourth and fifth who try to intervene by either talking sense or out yelling everyone else. These arguments flare up, faces redden, hands wave around, spittle goes flying. It’s like being in the middle of an episode of ‘Days of our Lives’ when Hope’s evil twin decides to confront Marlene with Beau watching, interjecting inanely.
I have to tell you, I’m getting much better at handling all of this. I cross the road every day now without any hint of getting run over. I catch the buses without getting robbed. I watch and listen to the fighting with interest like everyone else, staying a safe distance away nonetheless. I routinely ignore the sexual harassment and innuendo, most of it sliding straight off (sometimes a trace of it sticks and I resent having to be the subject of what amounts to predatory behaviour). I go from place to place with a sense of purpose, instead of wandering around like a lost tourist.
Best of all though, I return home everyday having been inspired to write.
At my suggestion Gi approached the owner of the health centre, Dora, and had their internet upgraded to a better unlimited service. We have found it impossible to get internet connection to our urban cave without being prepared to invest in installing a phone line and dealing with god knows what telecommunication company bureaucracy. There doesn’t seem to be the focus and customer service that we are accustomed to as residential clients in Australia. However, if you are a business customer it’s a different story. Dora agreed to the upgrade and Gi arranged it over the phone. They advised it could take up to ten days (!!) but it was ready the following morning. So, we are kicking in about half of the monthly cost, on the condition that we can use it for my work and incidental personal use. We were just spending too much at the local internet place and always on the clock.
Of course now we have to establish when is a good time for me to be there without interrupting the business. They generally don’t open until about 10 a.m. so this morning we went in at 9 a.m. At that time I’ll also be able to chat with friends in Australia. Gi is starting to practice Chi Gung of a morning, at about 7am so I’m hoping I can sneak in at that time and have a few hours to myself researching and emailing.
I called my sister Kim this morning. For those of you that haven’t been reading the local community papers she has built a child care centre at Victoria Point. They opened for business on 3 July. My youngest sister is the general manager. They are both former teachers, and owning a child care centre has been Kim’s dream for years. It’s a bit strange that mum, dad and myself are all away at such a momentous occasion, especially as both girls have been working incredibly long hours, and looking after their children. In fact, as I was talking to her what I really wanted to say was that I’d be on the first plane home to help. Unfortunately my bank balance isn’t in accordance with such an impulsive idea. Not to mention my husband. Kim actually lives in Melbourne, with her husband Noel and their two sons. Josh is turning three in August (can that be right, my diary says he was born in 2003 but he seems at least four in my head) and Lachlan was born in February this year. Noel has recently started consulting and that has kept him in Melbourne, although he was in Perth last week. Their household is usually all systems go but I must say the current status of activity is unprecedented, even for Kim.
I can’t wait to get home to see the centre. She has yet to put photos on the website www.firstlearnings.com.au. But if you know anyone in the Redlands / Victoria Point area who is looking for quality child care with a difference, they are ready for you.
After the phone call, which ate up the remainder of the funds on my YHA phone card (a brilliant gift from friends which can be topped up by internet if you have been searching for that perfect gift idea), I jumped on a bus. As usual it was crowded. Standing in the aisle, hanging on to the bar above my head (the joys of being taller than the city average), I endured at least ten minutes of mild sexual harassment. A skinny, craggy faced middle aged man (I can’t use the word ‘gentleman’, it just doesn’t apply) decided to enjoy his morning bus ride by repeatedly rubbing his crotch up against my buttocks or my thigh. Every time the bus stopped and people off loaded I moved, attempting to escape his charms. Just as I started to relax and tune into my daily episode of ‘Naples Street Soap Opera’ the bumping and grinding would start again, and there he was right behind me again. A few death stares seem to have no effect, in fact I think they may have encouraged him. I was trying to work out how to ‘unintentionally’ hurt him, thinking my elbows are sharper now than ever before. Unfortunately my elbows were not in a position to connect with his crutch, and he had no bulky stomach for me to dig into with the motion of the bus. I wasn’t wearing shoes that would deliver the message either (maybe that’s why so many of the women here were incredibly impractical stilettos and three stories high platforms). The only thing I could think of was to grab his rubbing equipment and twist but even writing it now makes me feel queasy. He probably would have thought it was a definite come on besides.
I floated out of the bus, still dwelling on the problem for next time. Gi will no doubt give me advice about what to say to him, but frankly sometimes that only makes it worse as my accent certainly gives me away as foreign (so does your face, Jenny) and I really don’t want him to think a conversation is on the cards.
Walking around the bus, only metres away I was stunned to see two bus drivers start to beat each other up. This is the third time I’ve seen two men on the street hitting each other, whacking each other in the face and head, pushing and yelling. The pair was immediately pulled apart by a dozen men in blue shirts, fellow bus drivers, but the cursing and threatening continued.
Taking a straight line along the pedestrian path that cuts through the bus area towards the central station, I managed to avoid the plethora of unscrupulous and risky men (again ‘gentlemen’ is not appropriate) that gather in that area. Gi truly hates the central station zone, and will avoid coming whenever possible. The last thing he said to me this morning was ‘be careful’. He never uses expressions like that, unless I’m going to Piazza Garibaldi. I was on a mission though. On the opposite side of the piazza, turning left onto the road Corso Giuseppe Garibaldi (across from MacDonald which is the only way I can get my sense of direction in that piazza), is a shop selling Asian food. We need tofu, and soy sauce. As I waited to pay for my items, having also grabbed some coconut milk, instant noodles and fresh bean sprouts I watched as the diminutive, slightly surly Chinese lady served a tall, burly African man. He was buying taro. After weighing the vegetables she pointed at the screen indicating how much he needed to pay. He stood there. She then told him it would by Euro 2.10. He repeated "€2.10?" Their accents were as bad as mine. Ignoring him she indicated for me to move forward and began tallying up my shopping, as he dug around in his deep pockets and finally produced two coins, repeating "€2.10" as he tossed them onto the counter. As she told me the total, he told her, didn’t ask her, to ‘Put them in a bag’. After bagging my shopping and taking my money, she then slowly turned, found a bag and placed his taro inside.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen such disparate cultures reluctantly engaging in a commercial transaction before. There was no friendliness, hardly any words spoken, and no indication that either of them was interested in repeating the process, ever.
Crossing the road, I entered the station and was verbally harassed, and then followed, by some guy who either wanted to go to the beach ‘mare’ or was telling me I wasn’t too bad ‘male’. My second mission of the morning was to visit the various newsagent outlets inside the station to assess what international newspapers and magazines they sell. I’m starting to research possible publications to approach with article ideas, and the first step is to get my hands on the real thing if possible. The best range I’ve seen in Naples was at the airport, which is not far from the centre where we live, but requires two different buses. As I left the station, having purchased an Italian magazine, but better informed about the variety and cost available of English language publications, I was whistled at, hissed at, spoken to, and physically assessed countless times. Of course variations of this behaviour happen elsewhere in the world, but here in Naples they seem to have a special flair for it. There are two things in particular that I find the most disturbing.
One is the old man, usually much shorter than me, his head (and therefore his watery, squinting eyes) coming level with my bust, who will unashamedly stop mid stride and gawk, as though his invitation to touch and taste will be delivered momentarily. The old guys really get an eyeful, no holds barred, no subtlety, no quick flick of the eyes to your breasts and then back up to your face. This is a buy a ticket, let-me-show-you-to-your-seat, ‘would you like a coffee, or perhaps something to nibble on?’ type ogling. It feels invasive and intimidating. They are not embarrassed to be caught out, in fact to look them in the eyes sometimes results in them pursing their lips, a hand to the stubbly chin, deciding what will happen if they ‘reach out and touch someone’. Elbows are undeniably valuable tools for such occasions.
The other is the man, of any particular age, who walks past, in any direction, and makes an ‘oohh’ noise at you (like ‘oohh’ in the word sue). Sometimes it’s more of an ‘O!’ sound (like ‘O’ in the word ‘ho’ according to Santa, or the American slang for whore which somehow seems more apt). Now oohh’s and O’s of themselves aren’t too bad, but it’s the surprise factor that gets me. They sneak into your ear, and with both parties on the move it is not always possible to determine who the aggressor is without stopping. They also have a practice of following you; more of the oohh’s or O’s echoing behind you, like a little persistence is going to get them a date.
The final local experience for the morning was back on the bus. In fact every time I get on a bus it happens. I don’t know if it’s the heat, or the crowds or the time of year with everyone overdue for a holiday. Inevitably there is an argument on the bus. Perhaps it’s a space issue. Maybe it’s something else. Any age, gender or social standing, it just needs two people, and then a third, fourth and fifth who try to intervene by either talking sense or out yelling everyone else. These arguments flare up, faces redden, hands wave around, spittle goes flying. It’s like being in the middle of an episode of ‘Days of our Lives’ when Hope’s evil twin decides to confront Marlene with Beau watching, interjecting inanely.
I have to tell you, I’m getting much better at handling all of this. I cross the road every day now without any hint of getting run over. I catch the buses without getting robbed. I watch and listen to the fighting with interest like everyone else, staying a safe distance away nonetheless. I routinely ignore the sexual harassment and innuendo, most of it sliding straight off (sometimes a trace of it sticks and I resent having to be the subject of what amounts to predatory behaviour). I go from place to place with a sense of purpose, instead of wandering around like a lost tourist.
Best of all though, I return home everyday having been inspired to write.
PS: after mentioning the crotch rubber on the bus to a friend she advised that in Naples the mothers give their daughters a needle to carry with them on the bus. A quick jab is all it takes to keep the offending party away apparently. I will let you know if it works for me.
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