4 July 2006
The smell of daily life floats up to greet you in the courtyards of our urban cave complex. Past the initial musty passageway leading in from the front gate the light fills the first courtyard. A collection of couples from Eastern Europe live here, crammed into boxy bedrooms and compact kitchen. They wash by hand, scrubbing at clothes and linen in blue plastic tubs, the soapy water splashing onto the cobblestones underfoot. After a busy morning, once the washing is hanging up on a length of wire against the crumbly walls or pegged to the collapsible drying racks, it’s the smell of washing powder that lingers. The memory of walking into my mother’s laundry pops into my head, but you won’t find the luxuries of a washing machine or clothes dryer in this courtyard.
There is usually someone smoking in the courtyard, the whiff of burning tobacco curling skywards. Smoking is a national past time, and there is no escaping it.
Evenings and weekends cause the clatter of saucepans and cutlery. The smoke from hot oil greasing up the air, is rancid and insidious. Soon, a hint of frying fish takes over, the oil animated as it splitters and splutters. Or perhaps its eggplant, potato or zucchini, battered and protected, that slides into the oily cauldron.
Unless it has recently rained there is always the dust. It permeates the cracks and crannies, settles on every flat surface, and some that are vertical. Dust has a peculiar dry smell as though your olfactory nerve senses each individual dust particle. The dust is everywhere in Naples, much like cigarette smoke there is no hiding from it. Some days it has a tang to it, the heat, sweating bodies and decaying rubbish attached to each speck.
Occasionally we come home, unlock the front gate, and as it swings open on its squeaky hinges an odour of sewerage infiltrates our noses. It seems to loiter for a couple of days, like a hooker at a bachelor party, only to suddenly disappear again. Every time leaves your face screwed up as though that will help close your nostrils, the stench a welcome and farewell you could do without.
Outside, on the street, I always look around with surprise when someone walks by leaving a trail of perfume behind. These moments are like gifts, a chance for your nose to delight in its capabilities, as it lifts to capture more of the fragrance.
Walk into the local bread shop and know that you are alive. Breathe in deeply; the waft of freshly baked loaves is straight from heaven and before we are out the door the brown paper is unwrapped and the still warm crust is ripped open revealing the softness within. Similarly the smell of warm chocolate filling floats around as we stroll by the pastry shop, its cakes and local delights crammed into the display cabinet tempting everyone. Gi can rarely resist, but sometimes walking away with just the sweet scent of the pasticceria filling my head is almost too much.
It’s a city of spirit; a city of history and sites. Naples is famously a city of flavours but quietly, discreetly it’s also a city of smells, and long after the photos and taste buds fade it’s the sense of smell that will hang onto the memories the longest.
The smell of daily life floats up to greet you in the courtyards of our urban cave complex. Past the initial musty passageway leading in from the front gate the light fills the first courtyard. A collection of couples from Eastern Europe live here, crammed into boxy bedrooms and compact kitchen. They wash by hand, scrubbing at clothes and linen in blue plastic tubs, the soapy water splashing onto the cobblestones underfoot. After a busy morning, once the washing is hanging up on a length of wire against the crumbly walls or pegged to the collapsible drying racks, it’s the smell of washing powder that lingers. The memory of walking into my mother’s laundry pops into my head, but you won’t find the luxuries of a washing machine or clothes dryer in this courtyard.
There is usually someone smoking in the courtyard, the whiff of burning tobacco curling skywards. Smoking is a national past time, and there is no escaping it.
Evenings and weekends cause the clatter of saucepans and cutlery. The smoke from hot oil greasing up the air, is rancid and insidious. Soon, a hint of frying fish takes over, the oil animated as it splitters and splutters. Or perhaps its eggplant, potato or zucchini, battered and protected, that slides into the oily cauldron.
Unless it has recently rained there is always the dust. It permeates the cracks and crannies, settles on every flat surface, and some that are vertical. Dust has a peculiar dry smell as though your olfactory nerve senses each individual dust particle. The dust is everywhere in Naples, much like cigarette smoke there is no hiding from it. Some days it has a tang to it, the heat, sweating bodies and decaying rubbish attached to each speck.
Occasionally we come home, unlock the front gate, and as it swings open on its squeaky hinges an odour of sewerage infiltrates our noses. It seems to loiter for a couple of days, like a hooker at a bachelor party, only to suddenly disappear again. Every time leaves your face screwed up as though that will help close your nostrils, the stench a welcome and farewell you could do without.
Outside, on the street, I always look around with surprise when someone walks by leaving a trail of perfume behind. These moments are like gifts, a chance for your nose to delight in its capabilities, as it lifts to capture more of the fragrance.
Walk into the local bread shop and know that you are alive. Breathe in deeply; the waft of freshly baked loaves is straight from heaven and before we are out the door the brown paper is unwrapped and the still warm crust is ripped open revealing the softness within. Similarly the smell of warm chocolate filling floats around as we stroll by the pastry shop, its cakes and local delights crammed into the display cabinet tempting everyone. Gi can rarely resist, but sometimes walking away with just the sweet scent of the pasticceria filling my head is almost too much.
It’s a city of spirit; a city of history and sites. Naples is famously a city of flavours but quietly, discreetly it’s also a city of smells, and long after the photos and taste buds fade it’s the sense of smell that will hang onto the memories the longest.
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