For the first time in many years the Easter bunny failed to deliver. That’s right; I didn't get one lousy chocolate egg this year. Not that it mattered; we had more than enough to occupy our time, mouths and stomachs over the Easter break. Here's an update. Get comfortable, we frolicked extensively.
My friend Tom arrived from London on the Wednesday before the Easter weekend.
Tom and I first met while working at BNL (Banca Nazionale del Lavoro), in the international money transfer section for BNL’s merchant banking headquarters in London. It’s paradoxical that I stepped off the plane from Thailand way back in 1994 into the arms of an Italian and an Italian banking job. Thankfully, to ease the pain of this double load of culture shock I received competent training and friendship from Tom during those initial months.
Tom and I haven’t seen much of each other since then. I could probably count the dinners and pub sessions on one hand. Nevertheless, the rare letter, later replaced by the ease and immediacy of emails kept us in touch. Since arriving in Europe last March, we have twice availed ourselves of Tom’s hospitality, invading his London flat and trying to invade his fridge only to find it sadly lacking. However, we are always so busy running around shopping, eating (everything that is not pasta or pizza) and catching up with a myriad of friends while in London that I’m afraid I’ve sadly neglected to spend any quality time with him.
Having nagged and nagged Tom to come and visit us in Naples he finally succumbed and booked his flights to take advantage of the long Easter break. I was both excited and nervous. It is one thing to be hit and run friends, but Tom was coming for 6 nights, a veritable lifetime in some regards.
Gigi went to meet him at the airport. Of course the evening traffic on a rainy day was a nightmare and in true Neapolitan style (read: underestimate the traffic and leave just later than you probably should have) he arrived at the airport some ten minutes after I received the first of Tom’s ‘I’m waiting at meeting point B’ text messages. Upon relaying this information to Gigi he told me ‘there is no such place as meeting place B’ and in fact even the security guards and taxi drivers at the airport shrugged when questioned about its location. Tom’s next text was something like this ‘Are you coming? Or am I in the wrong place?’
Just as I was starting to curse Gigi for being late, and Naples for it’s crap signage and myself for not having insisted on going personally my phone bleeped, ‘Got him, coming home now’.
The boys finally arrived home an 1½ hours later having waited in the rain for the airport bus which then slowly made its way down the hill only to drop them at Piazza Carlo III where they waited in the rain for the next bus.
And so, Tom’s visit to Naples began. As a good Neapolitan wife (well, not even close really) I had dinner ready and we finally sat down to eat close to 11pm. It seemed that for the next six nights we would eat late, enjoying the local wines and sharing as much of the local cuisine with Tom as possible. Perhaps too much it seems, as evidenced by my jeans and Tom’s lament that he’d need to get back to the gym.
On Thursday, we took Tom on what has now become one of the Jenny & Gigi tours of Naples’ historical centre. A new feature (at least for flatmate Dana and I)
was right across the road from our apartment building. Dodging the fresh fish stall and the scooters zipping up and down our street (Via Vergini), in both directions despite the fact that it’s a one-way street, we entered the cool serenity of Palazzo dello Spagnolo (Building of the Spanish). It is one of the many local historical secrets. Any misgivings I had that it was just another old building in the neighbourhood, were dismissed when my eyes took in the central staircase. Designed by Luigi Vanvitelli in the 1700’s in the Baroque style, the staircase is painted a soothing pale green and cream colour. The ornate decorations and sculptures above the doorways and clinging to the curved ceilings draw one’s eye away from the spatial effect created by the angles and arches. I felt like I could stand and study it for hours.
Through the courtyard, we spied the office for the portiere – the quintessential doorman. Almost every building has a door attendant, despite the fact that it costs the tenants/owners/residents a full salary for this person, ordinarily a man, to sit all day, doing very little. The portiere is responsible for the building’s security ensuring that visitors and guests are genuine. He will sign for deliveries and distribute the mail. The portiere at the Palazzo dello Spagnolo seemed to have closed shop, perhaps for an early lunch. However the faded, peeling red paint and pitted rendering of the courtyard corner, the motley collection of potted geraniums and palms, the hand written ‘Portiere’ sign swinging beneath the corrugated iron awning and leg of prosciuttto ham hanging beside it all begged closer inspection.
After weaving our way out of Via Vergini, Gigi and I strolled across the busy main road, with Dana trotting closely behind. Tom made it half way before getting stuck. He stood there, caught like a kangaroo blinded by the oncoming headlights, unable to step into the oncoming traffic, but potentially facing a lengthy wait for a gap. Gigi zipped back to the concrete island and guided Tom through the relentless flow of cars, vans, buses and motorbikes – surely one of the scariest and most overwhelming experiences for new visitors to Naples.
I used to stand on the side of the road, fighting my deeply ingrained childhood-based training to ‘look left, look right and look left again’, wait for a break, and then, only then cross the road. With my eyes darting left and right, stomach twisting with nerves and head telling me to ‘watch out, that car’s going to hit you’ I’d observe locals nonchalantly step off the sidewalk, into the oncoming assault and somehow find a path to the other side without breaking step or creating a five car pile up. Nothing seemed to faze them, and somehow they were able to judge which vehicles would slow down, and which would repeatedly honk clearly demonstrating their intention not to brake.
With time, I too have acquired these skills and it’s all a matter of subtleties. There is a system of nods and head gestures that lets the drivers know whether to drive in front or behind you. Catching the eye of approaching drivers also lets them know of your intention to walk across the road, and somehow despite the distractions of smoking, talking on the mobile, chatting to passengers and tending to children bouncing around unrestrained in the front seat, drivers know when to slow down. The other method is more apparent and often engaged by the elderly. A hand held up in the traditional stop sign, even when it’s by a four-foot-nothing grandmother in black stretch polyester carrying bags of groceries, manages to stop all manner of traffic. Moreover, women with fold up prams are ruthless as they fearlessly thrust child and pushchair onto the road, using both in what appears to be a ‘dare, double dare you to hit my baby’ mentality.
Having saved Tom from himself, we strolled down Via Duomo, stopping for the obligatory cappuccino and flaky croissant, before walking through the sunshine towards one of Naples oldest markets at Porta Nolana. Historically a fish and seafood market, it is an assault on the senses with the tubs of shellfish, snails, eels, fresh sardines, octopus and mussels and fishy water slopping around on the cobblestones underfoot. My favourite part of any street market though is the fresh fruit and vegetables. The vibrant reds of the cherry tomatoes, the purple and olive green artichokes, delicate yellow zucchini flowers and mounds of blood red oranges always catch my eye. Gigi can rarely resist the tomatoes, and purchased a kilogram of tasty red pomodorini, a bunch of bananas and friarielli, the leafy greens grown only in the rich soil of the Vesuvio.
Walking back towards the central train station the boys paused to inspect a window display of weapons and an appetising display of traditional Easter pies, made with grain and ricotta cheese, before wandering through the gypsy offerings laid out on the sidewalk. All manner of second hand odds and ends are scattered on sheets of plastic or old bed linen. Some of it looks like it’s come from the rubbish, and yet in amongst the trash there are treasures to be found.
With the intention of getting pizza for lunch we jumped on a bus, at my suggestion, only to realise it was travelling in the wrong direction. Alighting at the port, we connected onto a tram that took us towards the Castel Nuovo (New Castle), magnificent with the blue-sky backdrop and spring garden framing the 13th century handsome fortress. With the midday warmth causing us to shed our jackets and hunger flaming our appetites we walked up to Spaccanapoli and dived into some of the best pizzas in Naples at Lombardi’s restaurant.
The next day Gigi, Tom and I caught the train to Caserta. Stepping out of the train station, I wasn’t expecting to be able to see the focus of our visit, but there it was, already an impressive sight. With the sprawling front gardens undergoing work we circled around the block, all commenting on the extensive road works taking place in this town of 74,000.
The Palazzo Reale, more commonly known as the Reggia di Caserta, is one of Italy’s most visited historical sites. Neapolitan Luigi Vanvitelli (the very same who designed the staircase across the road from our apartment building) was commissioned as lead architect and began work in 1751. It was at the bequest of Charles III of Bourbon who wanted a palace that would emulate Versailles, one of Europe’s most famous.
Entering the colossal palace, I was struck by the grandeur and symmetry. The façade stretches 250 metres, and with 1200 rooms, 1790 windows and 34 staircases it is a striking structure. As we wandered through the entrance, Tom admired the brickwork. That’s right, the brick work. Tom is a quantity surveyor and it was with interest that we waited for Tom’s construction commentary over the next few days. The brickwork, you must understand, was extraordinarily tight, with very little mortar gap in between. This implied that the construction of each layer of bricks was incredibly precise, for any degree of unevenness would have affected each subsequent layer.
It’s fascinating seeing the world through someone else’s eyes.
The Reggia is probably the Italy’s last great Baroque building. Vanvitelli’s immense marble staircase is breathtaking. A life size sculpture of a lion in creamy marble greets you halfway, his ribs and flowing mane drawing the touch of passing fingers. We watched as one family group after another clambered onto his back, posing for photos. Climbing the rest of the wide staircase, we followed the route into the royal apartments.
My Lonely Planet guide had warned that the palace is ‘invaded by tourists in the holidays and by school groups during term time’ making a visit ‘a trial of patience’. With this in mind we were more than pleasantly surprised to find the royal apartments empty except for the room attendants that ‘stand guard’ over the treasures, spending most of their day sitting reading, or loudly chatting with colleagues.
Despite the grand archways, enormous doors and ornate marble of every possible colour it was the elaborate interior decorations, tapestries, crystal chandeliers and frescoed ceilings that drew our collective gasps and admiration. The hallway stretched gracefully to the left and right from the first room, where
the understated lighting accentuated the rich colours of the overhead fresco. Plump angels danced above Roman soldiers with feather plumes in their gold and silver helmets. Billowing robes partially covered lovers resting on lilac-tinted clouds, and sunrays streamed across the mural as though through a window on a bright winter’s morning. A gold sword glints, and when I later studied the photos I noticed the rose buds falling from upside down cherubs and white doves flying beside a giant open clamshell. The three of us stood in that room, our heads thrown back, trying to absorb the detail of such magnificent artwork.
As we meandered through the bedrooms, library room, games room, throne room and apartments, we were all focusing on different features. I loved the massive mirrors and the fabrics, in particular the tapestries covering the furniture and the silk wallpaper and heavy drapes. In the meantime, Tom was finding every flat surface possible to set up his camera on timer to photograph the columns, priceless chandeliers and intricate carved ceilings and friezes along the top of the walls. Gigi was providing commentary, translating the historical details, and pointing out the gold leaf decor, patterned floors and paintings depicting the Vesuvio and events of historical significance. A few of the rooms were decorated with Venetian chandeliers, the clear glass combined with blue, pink and yellow floral forms. The delicate and fanciful shapes distinctly demonstrated Italy’s supremacy in the industry until the 1700’s. My initial reaction was that these opulent candleholders are gaudy and excessive. Yet, their splendour, intricate beauty and the workmanship fit perfectly into richly decorated spaces. I have to admit though, while the glass droplets and lace-like detail glinted with the afternoon sun, my parting thought was ‘thank goodness I don’t have to clean them’.
As we headed down the grand staircase, Tom recalled reading that the palace had been used for interior shots of Queen Amidala’s royal residence in Star Wars 1: The Phantom Menace. It was certainly an inspired location.
Leaving the coolness of the royal apartments we walked towards the gardens, the imposing arched doorway framing the view of the fountains, the harsh sunlight contrasting starkly with the shaded courtyard.
Bursting into the sun we slowed to give way to a horse and trap as its driver joined the line of waiting buggies, much like empty taxis at a rank.
Vanvitelli paid special attention to the gardens and grounds, designing the Parco Reale (Royal Park) to complement the palace, a place of tranquillity with curative effect. A three kilometre straight stretch of water features and fishponds, like a wide stately avenue, leads you to a waterfall and the fountain of Diana. Vanvitelli’s aqueduct design brings the water from the adjacent hill down using only gravitational pull.
Halfway along we threw ourselves onto a grass patch in the shade and pulled out the picnic supplies. Before I could unwrap the bread rolls Tom was removing his shoes, basking in the sun and making me a daisy chain. The simplicity of the lunch, the spring warmth and our easy banter were delightful.
Rousing ourselves, I trailed a grandfather wheeling his granddaughter around on his bike, catching them on film as he pointed out the goldfish amongst the reeds. We endured a gaggle of foreign teenage girls in front of one sculptured fountain. I must be getting old – I swear they all had the same hairstyle. Tom became enamoured with the fish, leaning over the green water to waggle his fingers in. ‘They don’t bite, they just come up to nibble’ he advised, trying to encourage me to do likewise. At one set of fountains, Gi pointed out that what appeared to be a backdrop of natural caves and boulders was in fact all designed by Vanvitelli, and all handcrafted.
We finally reached the end of the ponds and stood watching the streamlets of water gently cascading down the moss-covered slope into the Fontana di Diana (Fountain of Diana), Vanvitelli’s creation paying homage to the Latin goddess Diana the guardian of springs and streams and the protector of wild animals.
An elaborate gate to our right led into the famous Giardino Inglese (English Gardens) with its elaborate pathways, exotic collection of flora and little lakes. Unfortunately, Gi needed to return to Naples for a work appointment so we’ll explore them on our next visit.
Naples and its surroundings continue to delight and enchant me with places as gorgeous at Reggia di Caserta. It was appropriately recognised as a UNESCO World Heritage in 1997.
Architect Vanvitelli managed to perfectly blend the palatial building with the aqueduct and landscaped grounds instilling a strong sense of tension that helps create the drama and motion characteristic of Baroque architecture. It feels like you’re a million miles away from the chaos of Naples rather than just 22 short kilometres and an easy train ride.
Easter Saturday saw us on the road early. Gigi had borrowed his mother’s car the previous night, taking Tom along for company in true Italian fashion (why do something alone when you can have a companion!) At seven o’clock, our normally frantic street was quiet, and almost empty. The fishmonger was just starting to set up. The rubbish collectors had been through overnight and the industrial bins stood empty ready for the day’s activity that would have them overflowing by noon. Taking advantage of the hour Gigi popped into the bar and bought everyone fresh croissants. Still warm from the ovens and filled with Nutella chocolate we quickly devoured them, flakes of pastry and globules of chocolate spilling onto our clothes and the smooth cobblestone street.
Hitting the highway we drove to the far end of the Amalfi Coast to the town of Vietri sul Mare, stopping briefly to take in the first views of the Amalfi Coast strip. Vietri sul Mare is set on a rise and has a fantastic view of its neighbour Salerno. I especially like this view with the three imposing Mediterranean pines in the foreground, the predominantly white buildings of Vietri sprawling across the hill leading your eye up to the rocky peak of Monte dell’Avvocata (Defender Mountain).
The Amalfi Coast road is unique. I can unashamedly say that I would not be able to drive it. In contrast, Gigi is a confident driver, easily navigating the 50 kilometres of narrow road as it winds along cliffs, passing through buzzing coastal villages and giving way to the towering tourist coaches that nonchalantly take over both lanes as they inch around the hairpin bends and press on through the tight tunnels. Tom and Dana where both holding their breath at different times, the odd squeal of concern emitted only when Dana was concentrating on Gi’s driving instead of the view.
The trick to enjoying the Amalfi Coast is to let the driver do the driving and just focus on the experience. The views are stupendous and with 50 kilometres of
spectacular limestone cliffs, sparking waters, pastel coloured villages clinging to the rocks and spilling down to the beaches, locally produced ceramics and huge Sorrento lemons stacked in wooden crates beneath clusters of hanging chillies and tiny tomatoes there is hardly any reason to look at the road. Besides, why ruin the day by worrying about the apparently impossibly narrow road, imposing oncoming traffic, scooters flying past in both directions with little regards for lane usage, haphazard netting affixed to the rock wall to prevent falling boulders from crashing onto the road and never ending line of vehicles arbitrarily parked on the road? Let the driver do the worrying, it makes for a much more enjoyable, anxiety-free day.
Just like the Reggia di Caserta, the Amalfi Coast was recognised as a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1997. Leaving Vietri sul Mare behind we followed the road through Maiori and Minori (literally bigger and smaller) stopping to photograph the dramatic limestone cliffs and terraced hillsides established centuries ago to support vineyards, citrus and vegetable crops. Upon arriving in the town of Amalfi, we drove along the esplanade, the mature palms and Mediterranean pines stately against the washed out colour of the buildings. Amalfi, once a maritime superpower, is now a small fishing port with 5,700 residents, but come summer it is a major tourist resort. Amalfi is yet another place that deserves a more thorough exploration when we have time.
We were directed out of Amalfi by one of the numerous Municipality Police traffic controllers that are dotted along the long stretch of road at key junctions, corners or bottlenecks. A short way out of town we pulled over to survey the coastline.
A nearby hotel was under restoration, its
apricot paint fresh but its sign still needing attention. Looming above was a stone tower, erect and arresting, set against an old stonewall repaired with licks of cement rendering. In the opposite direction was the Hotel S. Caterina. With its white grandeur built into the cliff, the rooms would have sweeping views of the Mediterranean Sea. A lift gripped the side of the rock face transporting guests down to the private beach below, blue and white deck chairs invitingly splayed out as though worshipping the sun. Leaning over the rail, Tom expressed what we were all thinking “wouldn’t it be a fantastic spot for a holiday?” I’m afraid though that my Neapolitan husband would rather holiday in any number of alternate exotic destinations before Amalfi.
It was mid morning, and a haze was starting to settle. After driving through a series of tunnels, we approached the town of Positano. Instead of driving into town as we’d done on previous visits we stopped and parked before reaching Positano and continued on foot, hoping to avoid the exorbitant parking fees and slow moving one way traffic. It was a good idea as we walked into the township from the eastern side, providing a new perspective on what is truly a postcard picturesque place. The sun was glinting off the sea, scooters were tightly packed against stonewalls and the locals looked out from the balconies with a resigned indifference to the tourists milling around, photographing and filming every cute abode and breath taking panorama.
Where the bougainvillea were flowering on our last visit, this time I admired the wisteria, the early spring warmth having encouraged vines to reveal their delicate lilac flowers
ahead of schedule. I know it’s a cliché but I also love the geraniums, especially along the Amalfi Coast. Every variety and colour can be found potted up on someone’s balcony or adorning the front of a restaurant or church. As we strolled down Via G Marconi past B&B’s, boutiques and private homes, I had to stop and study a beautifully variegated geranium. Its pale pink petals outlined with dark red looked simply lovely against the vivid green foliage, sitting on a white ledge with the bluest of blue seas behind. It doesn’t get any prettier, or simpler, but it perfectly sums up this part of the world.
We wandered down some of Positano’s extensive steps to the Spiaggia Grande, the main beach. With only a few people on the beach, and no one in the water, Tom decided to take the opportunity for a swim. So, while Dana
strolled along the pebble beach collecting for a mosaic she would never make, Tom changed into his Hawaii print board shorts and went swimming. It was surely cold, too cold for me, but the English seem prepared to swim in anything that is above freezing. After drying out in the sun, his tall, solid frame luminous white against the grey pebbles and dark sand Tom dressed and we returned to the car…to find a parking ticket. Despite the lack of signage it appears that without a resident sticker, there is no parking along the SS163 near Positano, with its highly industrial parking officials.
Leaving Positano, we abandoned the coast road and drove up into the interior of the peninsula, which points directly at the Isle of Capri. Winding up the hill, we pulled over at a lookout and set up lunch on a stonewall, overlooking a strange collection of cars parked in a field. The previous night I’d prepared eggplant marinated in balsamic vinegar, and marinated zucchini. This was layered onto bread rolls with salami, soft cheese and flavoursome tomatoes, washed down with Peroni beer (except for the driver who doesn’t drink anyway). As the oranges were ripped open to reveal the sweet blood red flesh, Tom commented on the manner of litter lying around. It appeared that our lunch spot was something of a lover’s lane at night.
Duly satiated we bundled back into the car and after driving around semi-lost and trying to get reception on the mobile phones we found our way to the B&B where we’d spent the night with my parents last summer. Now friends with the proprietor Alessandra she had invited us to visit anytime over the Easter break. We arrived to find her farewelling last night’s guests and about to collect the new arrivals. Gi helped
Alessandra prepare the room while Dana, Tom and I collapsed onto the lawn with 180º views to nap and soak up the sun. With his earlier sun exposure at Positano, Tom quickly started to turn pink and resorted to lying in the shade of the clothes rack. We idly chatted, waiting for Alessandra’s four year-old daughter Camilla to finish her lunch, as the fresh laundry flapped and Camilla’s father read the sports pages.
We had planned to spend the night at a friend’s tiny cottage up on a nearby mountain at the village Alberi, however with plenty of daylight we decided to return home, to the comfort of beds and showers. I don’t remember what I cooked Easter weekend, but I do remember constantly being in the kitchen with Tom administering wine and watching as the preparations progressed.
Easter Sunday was another day trip. Having secured the car overnight we wanted to make the most of our mobility, and by mid morning we were retracing our steps along the A3, scooting in front of the Vesuvio hidden by the haze, towards Salerno. The SS18 led us passed Battipaglia and through the countryside where the water buffalo roam and some of Italy’s best fresh mozzarella is produced. Unfortunately, due to the holidays, many of the caseifici (creameries - although this is an inadequate translation for the factories that hand-make mozzarella, ricotta and associated products) were closed. Finding one open, we bought enough of the soft white balls for lunch and dinner. Split into two lots (to save Gigi from eating it all for lunch) the fist -sized balls floated around in milky water to preserve them, for fresh mozzarella is high perishable.
It was almost a year ago that Gigi and I last visited the Greek temples at Paestum for my birthday. It was interesting wandering around the trio of beautifully preserved temples, one of which dates back to the 6th century BC. Tom’s quantity surveyor eye was active again. However, it was the tiny lizards darting around that caught Dana’s attention. Spotted brown and beige to blend in with the ruins and rocks each lizard had a florescent green back, helping it disappear into the grass.
We strolled through the residential area, amphitheatre, around the swimming pool and the three temples.
The columns, mosaics floors, stonework and roads created from enormous grey stones, smooth with the passage of time, really give you a sense of the trading post that was initially established by the Greek settlers before falling under Roman control in 273BC. However, it’s the temples themselves - Temple of Ceres (dedicated to the goddess of agriculture), Temple of Neptune (generally recognised as the god of the sea, but originally the god of springs and streams) and the Temple of Hera (Queen of the gods, goddess of marriage and the protector of women) - that give the site its romance and atmosphere of poignancy.
The weather was once again ideal for photos and after capturing the Paestum temples in all their glory we turned the cameras on ourselves for some group shots, action photos and one special one of Tom hugging a tree.
With stomachs grumbling we left the UNESCO World Heritage site in search of somewhere for a picnic lunch. Heading up the nearest mountain, Monte Cicerale, we turned left somewhere and found ourselves entering the village of Erédita. Quaint hardly describes this place. Nestled on the side of the mountain there are fabulous views of the countryside and sea from the central piazza. We settled in front of a commemorative statue to local heroes who had fallen protecting the village from the Nazis during WWII. As we unpacked the mozzarella, cracked open some beer and began assembling our sandwiches we watched the social interactions going on around.
The piazza was full of young people, dressed up and parading around. Relatives and friends milled around, greeting each other effusively with double kisses. Many people had obviously arrived in town that morning to join their families for Sunday Easter lunch, a traditional affair. We overheard groups talking about going off to lunch, that they were expected, that their mothers were waiting, taking chase up calls on their mobiles, all the while showing no sign of moving from their prized position in the game of ‘see and be seen’.
Dana and I watched two young women enter the piazza, hips and hair swaying. They headed straight for a group of preening young men, obviously friends from out of town. One woman was wearing the tightest, whitest jeans I have ever seen. Teamed with a killer pair of heels she looked incredibly uncomfortable. The jeans were too tight and too white to sit down, so instead she perched preciously on the side of the railing.
As the others packed up, I snuck down to the church, just in time to see the faithful spilling out at the end of mass. With the heavy clang of the bells overhead, children tumbled down the stairs while their grandparents, slower and dressed mostly in black, carefully navigated the steps arm in arm. With a light breeze ruffling the women’s skirts and the men buttoning their dark jackets and straightening their ties I felt like I was watching a movie.
Back in Naples, Gigi dropped Tom, Dana and I at the apartment before going to pick up his mother and sister. They joined us for dinner. Gigi cooked pasta with eggplant and tomato, bits of mozzarella thrown in at the last minute. The second course was simply globes of mozzarella with ground pepper and a green salad. Neapolitan cuisine is so delicious because of its simplicity. After Irene cracked open her Easter egg, and coffee was served, Tom, Dana and I settled on the white leather lounges for limoncello, the liqueur made from lemons grown in Sorrento. At some later stage Tom decided to mix vodka, limoncello and lemonade, fuelling the late night conversation. I followed Gigi to bed sometime after midnight, but Dana and Tom continued talking (and drinking) til five o’clock in the morning.
Very irresponsible behaviour for someone in Tom’s position (read: age).
Easter Monday I slept until 10 am. With the rest of the house still asleep I decided to tackle the washing up, not realising that Tom, sleeping in the lounge room, had effectively only just gone to bed. The clanking of plates and cutlery eventually woke him, and he was certainly not as bright and sparkly as he had been on previous mornings. He later described his condition as delicate. I asked both Dana and Tom if they were feeling ‘seedy’, only to have their faces reflect no understanding of what must be a colloquialism.
We spent the afternoon on another Jenny & Gigi tour,
catching a bus up the hill to the Vomero. Ordinarily a busy suburb it was eerily quiet due to the public holiday. It was warm and clear, encouraging us to go to Castel Sant’Elmo. Gigi has recently worked out how to get on to the top of this star-shaped castle without incurring the entry fee (a good example of what Neapolitans furbo which translates to cunning/clever/smart and encapsulates what the locals try to do in almost every situation to get around the rules and ‘obstacles’). From the rooftop we had a 360º view of Naples and the bay. There is a villa across the road from the castle, and from the rooftop it is a picture of stately elegance, traditional Pompeiian red and light grey with white trims and shutters of forest green. It is lovingly maintained, reminding me of something from a pop up storybook.
We went up in an elevator, but descended by an internal ramp, passing dank stonewalled rooms, before exiting through two enormous wooden doors, reinforced with original studding and bars. Another tufa stone ramp led us down to the car park where we left the castle grounds looking like any ticket paying group of tourists.
Boarding the C28 bus we rumbled down the hill towards the esplanade. At Gi’s beckoning we alighted and within a block I had photographed a Greek aqueduct and an art deco building stark white against the blue sky like a ship at sea. Followed by an apartment block that was once a mini castle where Gi’s high school English teacher lived (perhaps lives) and a banged up red car jammed up against a blue and silver Smart car. After strolling through the esteemed suburb of Mergellina we left the shadows of ancient alleyways for the dazzling sun of the seaside. The boulevard was awash with people, many of them from outside of Naples according to Gi’s observations of their accents, dialects and dress sense.
As we made our way along the esplanade,
with the 12th century Castel dell’ovo (Castle of the Egg) in view, I had the feeling that we were fish swimming against the tide. It seemed that the normally humming Vomero was deserted because everyone had come down to the water. We headed away from the chaos towards the elegant shopping avenue of Via Chiaia, which ends at Piazza del Plebiscito (Square of the People). This is truly one of my favourite spots in Naples. The piazza is a wonderful half moon shape, enclosed by the Palazzo Reale (Royal Palace), Chiesa di San Francesco di Paola (a church based on the Pantheon in Rome), the Carabinieri Police headquarters and the stylish fountain in Piazza Trieste e Trento. It is also an inspiring place to people watch; small boys play soccer, tourists pose for photos, weary fathers push baby buggies, grandparents watch ice creams topple off cones and teenagers watch each other.
The luminous Galleria Umberto I, a glass atrium opened in 1900, was our last stop. The symmetry, the hundreds of glass panels, the carved angels floating from each corner all beg to be photographed, especially on such a fine day with the sunlight revealing every intricate detail. A bus ride returned us to Piazza Cavour, where we dropped into the Indian supermarket for groceries. Thai food was on the menu that evening, followed by a relatively early night after the previous evening’s indulgences.
Tuesday morning Gigi went to work and Tom and I explored Chiesa del Gesú Nuovo (Church of the New Jesus), the Neapolitan baroque style interior heavily ornate in comparison to the simpler medieval Basilica di Santa Chiara, predominantly white,
wood beams and stain glass windows. I personally prefer the Basilica of Saint Clair, as it reminds me of country churches from my childhood. Gigi joined us to wander along Spaccanapoli in the midday sun through the heart of Naples old town. A left turn onto Via San Gregorio Armeno guided us into an alleyway most famous for the nativity scenes (presepe) handmade by the artisans. Busy all year, it is particular hectic at Christmas time when visitors from across Europe come to purchase new pieces for their nativity scenes at home.
Tom’s plane was scheduled to depart at 5.30pm, so after a quick lunch of pasta with a garlic, chilli and anchovy flavoured olive oil sauce we caught the bus to the airport. Arriving early, Tom and I had a coffee upstairs before deciding to check his luggage in as his flight was delayed, resulting in only 25 minutes for his connection out of Milan. The moody Alitalia desk attendant changed his flights. Instead of flying to Milan, he would now fly to Rome, arriving at Heathrow at 11pm. After re-ticketing we returned to the eatery and shopping area as Tom’s flight was not leaving until 7:30pm.
The delay gave us plenty of time to chat and really catch up, which with our busy day trips and Dana and Gi’s company had at times been lacking. We were so deeply in conversation that it was 6:50pm before I checked the time and suggested that perhaps he should make a move towards security. Reluctantly, we returned to the pandemonium that is the Naples airport check-in area to find a very lengthy queue waiting to pass through the security checks. I farewelled Tom, feeling slightly guilty at abandoning him in that fray, but knowing I couldn’t enter.
Later that night, as I was restoring the apartment to order and thinking about the sleep I badly needed to catch up on I received a text from Tom. His plane out of Naples had been delayed, to the point where they had missed the connection to London. He sent three subsequent messages that they were staying at the Airport Hilton in Rome overnight, and that he was surrounded by a lot of very unhappy, very vocal Italians.
Tom finally got to work sometime Wednesday afternoon, his monthly reports waiting. His first email expressed how much he had enjoyed the break with us and that London seemed dull and boring in comparison to Naples.
In hindsight the six nights scurried by before I was ready. The four of us enjoyed both the collective and individual companionship and as always I love exploring Naples and surrounds, especially when we have fresh eyes along for the ride. To visit Naples and take it on first impressions is a mistake. This is a city, a province, which is like a blood red orange. Once you remove the pithy peel its centre is deep in colour, sweet and occasionally biting on the tongue. Each segment holds a new discovery, a new taste, a different story, a different reality.
Tom has threatened to return. We certainly hope that he does.
The following day, a week after Tom’s arrival, my long time Thai friend of twenty years, Doeng, arrived in Rome and caught the train to Naples. This was Doeng’s third visit to Naples, yet still there is always room for a new twist on the Jenny and Gigi tour. After two delightful days with Doeng I took him to the train station as he was on duty as a steward with Thai Airways that day, only to find the trains on strike. The only train leaving Naples that day was going to Milan, stopping in Rome. However, it didn’t’ depart til 10:30am, arriving in Rome at 12:33pm. Doeng’s pick up time was 12.30pm, so after a number of phone calls and negotiation he arranged for private transport direct to the plane.
We had arrived at the train station before 8am so I again found myself waiting for delayed transport. Doeng managed to make the flight, and was on duty, avoiding the severe penalties incurred should he miss work. He called me the following day from Bangkok, having enjoyed a few de-stressing alcoholic beverages after farewelling his wife and daughters who were going to Japan. I was flattered when he confided that he always loves coming to visit, and that he feels he can really be himself when he’s with me.
Surely there is no greater compliment from a friend.
Perhaps Naples was also enjoying the friendship of Tom and Doeng, demonstrating this by holding them hostage for just a few hours longer. The city just didn’t want them to leave.
Neither did I.
