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!
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