Villari Playhouse

4 July 2006

It’s hot, inside and out. Sitting at my desk the midday sun is filtered as it splays across our courtyard. In this light the external walls look buttercup yellow. Sometimes these walls are pale lemon, at other times the yellow of marigolds. I love to look up through the central cavity towards the sky. It’s a true picture of Mediterranean urban life, the yellow and blues contrasting and reflecting the colour of the people living within. The mess of antennas, open shutters, washing lines and amateur wiring on stand by, like actors waiting for their cue.
The whole city is a theatre, and inside No 28 Via Antonio Villari there is a playhouse receiving rave reviews. Many of the residents are like the back stage crew, you don’t see them much, rarely hear them, but nevertheless you know they are there.
And then there are those that take central stage.
Enzo, the neighbour to our left, is single, 22 years old, unemployed, and slightly incapacitated following a run in with a truck. Enzo’s family lives across the street. He’s a strange character, coming and going at odd times. He grew up rattling around this neighbourhood, and exudes the confidence that comes from being a born and bred local, which translates into thinking he has run of the place.
He is a sturdy fellow, with a flab of belly that hangs over the top of his pants. His hair, dark, slightly wavy and recently cut, is usually squashed down under a baseball cap. Long shorts, T-shirts and thongs are the only clothes I’ve ever seen him in, except for those unpleasant occasions when he’s hanging out his mother’s front window watching the street, or worse standing on the step in full view, dressed only in his boxer shorts.
Enzo has only recently finished renovating his urban cave, and since moving in he has certainly made himself at home. He has a bad habit of sweeping the shared courtyard after midnight. He then splashes around copious buckets of water, probably to keep the dust down. In fact it just helps mosquitoes breed and amplifies the humidity and dampness already trapped in the tufa stone.
He likes to watch. Sometimes he just stands there staring. He also likes to listen. In some places this would be considered eavesdropping. There is not much that we do that goes unobserved. He has an uncanny ability to mimic the language around him, acquiring smatterings of Polish and Ukrainian. I’m just waiting for some English to seep in, only to be regurgitated at the most unexpected moment. He has commented at how much time I spend at my computer writing. I also suspect he listens out at night trying to gage when we are in bed, sleeping or still awake.
There is rarely a greeting exchanged with Enzo that is not quickly followed by a question "Where are you going?" or "Where is Gigi?" or "What are you doing?’. Or he first makes his assumptions based on your appearance and then asks "Going to the beach?", "Off to work?" or "Aren’t you going to watch the soccer?" After perfunctory greetings we both tend to ignore such questions. His nosey parker tendencies need no encouragement from us.

A recent spate of Enzo’s ‘gardening’ brought out my territorial instincts. Enzo had a couple of pot plants sitting on his roof, the foliage spilling over the edge. Our landlady had left three pot plants on our courtyard dividing wall. Enzo took it upon himself to re-pot two of these, and relocate them to his liking. One of ‘our’ pots is now up on his roof. In a moment of frustration I took the largest, most established plant down from the wall and put it beside our front door. Then I used an empty pot to plant some aloe vera. This too sits by our door. Enzo made a comment to Gigi about the changes, claiming where he had them was ‘more beautiful’. I make a point of storing the laundry tub and bucket and mop on our dividing wall now!
In preparation for his birthday party Enzo cleared out his apartment and placed a trolley load of stuff in our courtyard while we were out. Ordinarily this would have been all right provided he’d had the courtesy to ask in advance. The problem with living in small apartments in high density zones is that space is a premium. It takes very little for neighbours to encroach on your space. Our courtyard is a prime example. It is the only external area inside the complex that is sectioned off and private. All other courtyards are shared spaces. It would take very little for Enzo to consider the section between our gate and our front door public domain. He has already encroached and we need to be vigilant about maintaining a certain detachment and challenge any intrusive behaviour.
Maintaining the appropriate type of relationship is an issue. It is important to be polite and mildly friendly with our neighbours but it is just as important to retain a certain distance and reserve. This prevents people (like Enzo) becoming overly familiar, walking into the house uninvited, and helping themselves to your belongings and space without asking. We already have him and his mother regularly asking to borrow things, for example, a vacuum cleaner, tools, scissors, light bulbs, and money. Gi and I were both flabbergasted when Enzo’s mother boldly asked to borrow €50 only a week after we’d moved in. There seemed to be no sense of shame or embarrassment. In fact, I suspect she was testing if we could say ‘no’ to determine how easily she could manipulate and dominate us. The answer is always ‘sorry, no’ (except for the scissors, which Enzo had seen us using).
Enzo likes to fill the air with his presence. He’s loud. If it’s not an old fashioned Neapolitan tune pumping out from his sound system, to which he enthusiastically sings along like it’s Karaoke night, it’s him calling out to someone. There is a toddler living on the level above, and Enzo is constantly calling his name, trying to get his attention, hoping the baby will mimic his thunderous ‘ooohhh’. If I was this child’s mother I’d tell Enzo to stop speaking to my son like he was a dog.
The toddler’s mother is another central character in our urban cave community production. Rita is a housewife, mother to two boys and wife to another Enzo. Her oldest son, Giovanni, nicknamed Gianni (like Johnny in English) is about twelve. With no room in the house, no back yard, no community centre and an apparent lack of kids his own age in this building he strikes me as a pretty lonely kid. He and Enzo No 1 spend a lot of time together, especially now that it is summer holidays. Most of the time he’s sitting on the front step at Enzo’s parent’s house, watching the street. The toddler is Gennaro, nicknamed Genni (like Jenny in English). He looks about 18 months, and like most toddlers is just trying to find his balance and his place in the world. Over the months I’ve heard him begin talking and now he often calls out something instead of just resorting to crying.
Now, why you would give your two sons names that become nicknames that sound like Johnny and Jenny is beyond me. It’s like calling your kids Anna and Hannah. For the first few weeks I always thought she was screaming out my name.
Oh yeah. Rita is a screamer. It seems to climax on a daily basis at lunch time, somewhere between 12 noon and 3pm. Sometimes they go to the shops in the late morning. The screaming begins as she tries to get all and sundry down the stairs, loaded into the pram and moving. The screaming continues, short ear piercing bursts, as she prepares lunch, trying to juggle the cooking with looking after the baby and working around her big surly husband.
Enzo No 2 usually looks like he’s just roused from a deep sleep. He is home most days, and seems to trundle off to work in the late afternoon, throwing a gruff ‘Buona Sera’ (good evening, the required greeting when you see a neighbour) my way if I’m outside. He doesn’t look like a happy man. Rita doesn’t look like a happy woman. Gi sometimes translates their arguments, ‘You don’t do anything for me anymore’ type ammunition. Enzo No 2 is, to my mortification, similar to Enzo No 1 in that he likes to wander around in his boxer shorts. There are just some bodies that shouldn’t be put on public display. His fat belly, hunched shoulders, thinning hair, and crumpled face are not a pretty picture.
The family lives on the floor above. As I hang the washing in our courtyard I look up into the small balcony near their front door. Rita seems to wash sheets almost every day. Their washing hangs from the balcony and provides me with a daily dose of colour, pinks, blues and yellows.
To the right is another apartment. I think the occupant, a portly signora with a bad heart and a strong, raspy voice, is Enzo No 2’s sister. She often accompanies Rita shopping and she has a motherly tone of authority that she uses on young Gianni. To my amusement and great pleasure she also uses this no-nonsense approach with Enzo No 1 when he steps out of line. As a middle aged woman, apparently unmarried, she has lived in that apartment for forty years and is a force to be reckoned with. Generally a quiet neighbour, we occasionally hear her television, turned up of an evening, the doors wide open in the summer heat. I always try to listen in whenever she’s out on her balcony sharing her opinion or assessment of a situation. It’s intriguing trying to understand her accent and the dialect. On every occasion that she’s had something to say in relation to the neighbourhood it exudes common sense, wisdom and a practicality that is sometimes absent in this city.
The other major player is Maria. She lives on the ground level, diagonal to us. Maria is Polish. There is a man living with her, I surmise it is her husband. Maria has an annoying voice, and too often she stands in the shared courtyard talking on the phone, her high pitched nasal tone echoing off the walls. We all get to listen in on her conversations, regardless of the time and content. On occasions I’ve heard her crying over the phone. Maria is one of a huge community of middle aged women who have immigrated to Italy from Eastern Europe in search of work. I can’t even imagine her life in Poland, but I can be quite certain that she hasn’t had the same opportunities as me. The immigrant communities in Naples seem to keep to themselves, and sometimes a handful invade Maria’s cave for an evening of conversation and alcohol.
The actors on this stage don’t change much. Most of them move in and stay. Gi and I are the newcomers, and I can only wonder what they see and think of us; the unusual washing, the smell of Thai food, the arguments in English, the flow of visitors.
The only thing I can be sure of is that each daily act will be original and unrehearsed, except perhaps for Rita’s lunchtime screaming and Enzo’s midnight sweeping.

Read On

30 June 2006
I’m trying to read more. Whenever I’m in Australia I go through long phases of ‘being busy’ when I feel like I don’t read anything more substantial than the Saturday newspaper (usually the entertainment and travel sections only), a gossipy women’s magazine from the stack at my mother’s house or a financial bulletin released by Queensland Treasury. Ironically I often have three or so books that have caught my eye tucked under the bed, or piled up on the bedside table. Most of these have endured some of my night time attention, but soon they begin to gather dust as my interest wavers, eyelids drooping, the book crashing into my chest as I fall asleep before finishing the same page I started the previous night.
My life away from the nine to five grind, where I get lost in the routine of work, cook, clean, sleep and racing against the clock, is a completely different matter. I read to escape the language barriers, the frustration of watching incomprehensible television, and to fill the gaps where I am accustomed to not having time for myself.
It’s different this time though, now I’m reading to be a better writer. Consciously aware of the story structure, the vocabulary, character and setting descriptions, I study as a read. I’m also seeking unfamiliar authors, for while they may be household names, I will not have previously read their books. To this extent Gi and I have both devoured four Dan Brown books since arriving in Italy. I resisted the pull of the ever popular, highly publicised "Da Vinci Code" for a long, long time. But, with the release of the movie splashed across billboards and the internet, I could resist no longer when I spied it in the English section of a brightly lit bookshop in northern Italy. I treated myself, the €12 being no bargain, and soon lost myself in the story, Brown’s storytelling almost turning the pages for you.
Back in Naples we have to my complete joy and (financial) relief discovered a bookshop with a good selection of second hand novels. I would guess that most of these are the cast offs of holidaying Brits, with many of them originally purchased at major bookstore chains. Walking down Via Costantinopli into the historical centre, you turn right at Port’Alba, an imposing city gate built in 1625. This leads you down a short street almost completely occupied by bookshops, selling old books and new, school and university texts, language, history, travel, art and fiction. Each store, its glass windows crudely jammed with enticing volumes, rolls out a number of large display units in which they present the cheaper second hand books. Flicking through, some wrapped up in plastic, others weary from the humidity and dust, you’ll find classics by Dante Alighieri, William Shakespeare, Jonathon Swift and Jane Austen mixed with Ian Flemming’s James Bond epics, Jackie Collins works of sex and scandal, cook books from the 1980’s, old travel guides for Ireland or California, an old battered book about yoga, another on philosophy. All in Italian, yet reminding me of the city council library book sales we would trawl through one weekend a year at home, seeking out treasures that are now packed up, hidden in the darkness of a storage unit.
The bookshop that receives most of my attention is on the left, almost at the end of the street before you leave the shade and burst into the sunshine on Piazza Dante. Up the back, on the top two shelves, so you have to climb the stairs to the staff area to look, is an array of international language titles. Sometimes the French and German novels get mixed up with the English, but I put these aside as I spend time carefully selecting my next target. For €3 I walk out with a new prize, a new friend, and hopefully some new ideas.
At the moment I’m reading ‘Orlando’ by Virginia Woolf, the author’s imagination and prose both inspiring and intimidating. Yesterday I bought ‘The Island Walkers’ by John Bemrose, and am surprised to find myself already halfway through it. I’ve also been reading a second hand book I bought at home years ago, and never had the heart to start. Eric Newby, another of those authors you recognise only by name, first published "On the Shores of the Mediterranean" in 1984. As I read I suspect much of what he and his wife witnessed and experienced as they travelled by land round the Mediterranean hasn’t changed a lot in the subsequent twenty years. Living in Northern Tuscany, before it was wildly fashionable to do so, they actually start their journey in Naples. I was motivated to bring the book with me to Naples, hoping that someone else’s eyes might open mine to something different. It’s slow reading, Newby presents greatly detailed descriptions of the places and significant insight into the history and his cultural assumptions. They are now near the coast in eastern Turkey, the title of the next chapter tells me they’ll soon be in Jerusalem. As I read though, I feel a pull to follow in their footsteps, throw a mattress in the back of an old van as they did, and check the path for changes.
Life is a circle. I still find myself with three books in progress, but with the luxury of time to read, knowing that I will get to the end of all three in time. Some will be devoured like a bride on her wedding night, others will be lingered over as a good red deserves. I’m trying to read more, and it’s working. The once empty bookcase has one shelf of ‘read them’ books. I have more books like Newby’s in a box I sent to myself some five months ago, but alas, the mockery of sea mail means I continue to wait.
In the meantime, I’ll continue to choose carefully and purposefully from the Port’Alba shop, and might even consider doing what I’ve never done before; reading the same book twice. I can only assume it’s a bit like watching a good movie more than once. Different details jump out at you once you become more familiar with the story and its characters.
Read on.

Airport Anxiety

3 July 2006

Airports make my blood pressure rise. They also make me feel excited, sad and jealous depending on whether I’m flying or saying goodbye or greeting someone. Almost every time I go to an airport I feel any combination of these three emotions. I also often feel anxious.
I hate the idea of missing a plane. I hate the idea of being stuck in traffic, or having the car break down, or miscalculating how long it will take to get to an airport. I hate the idea of watching the clock on the way to the airport, watching the hands move towards, and then past, the scheduled departure time, signalling that the plane has most likely flown off without us strapped onto our allocated seats.
In fact the whole process of checking in, passport control, security checks and dealing with luggage are all anxiety catalysts for me. I know I worry too much, but I am sure one day they are going to say ‘Sorry madam, you have too much luggage, and must pay $ XXX in excess baggage’. And the bomb residue tests that they conduct, what happens if my bag comes back positive one day? How do I explain that? Or if someone at passport control doesn’t believe it’s me in the photo, following a change of hairstyle, an upper lip wax or liposuction. Not to mention the security X-ray when they so casually, yet professionally, review the contents of my hand luggage with all the paraphernalia women carry in case of an emergency. How do they know if that long thin thing is a vibrator or a police baton?
Airports are fascinating places though. Once we check in, pass security where one of us is inevitably searched or tested for bomb residue, and we are on the countdown to boarding time I start to relax again. This is my chance to aimlessly wander through the duty free shops and the newsagent mentally buying all those things I’d like. I usually buy nothing, having neither the spare cash nor the space. Once we settle into the boarding gate area, the game of people watching begins. Everyone around us has a story. Some of them have their stories written all over them, or so you assume. The way they dress, the style of hand luggage, how deep their tan is, the snippets of conversation you overhear. Air travel is today very much like getting on a train was last century. You can expect to sit next to just about anyone, from any walk of life.
I had a dream last night; a dream about airports. This in itself tells me that I’m feeling anxious about something. There is something going on that I want to have a better control over. I think I know what it’s about but am startled that it has manifested itself in an airport dream. At what point though does a dream become a nightmare? What level of discomfort, horror and fright does your dream self need to experience for it to qualify as a nightmare? I had a dream last night, but maybe it was in fact a nightmare.
In the dream I arrived at the airport, on Gigi’s motorbike. Parking it in a temporary, soon-to-be-towed-away, zone I rushed into the terminal. I was then aware that I had a number of problems to deal with. It was ‘something’ o’clock. Our flight (for I was with Gi I just didn’t know where he was) was scheduled to depart at forty past ‘something’. It was obviously a domestic flight (Australia) or an intercontinental flight (Europe) as most of the airlines now require you to check in 30 minutes before the flight. No arguing, no questions. If it’s 29 minutes before the flight you miss out. In fact the signs at the Stansted airport clearly state that the check-in counters close forty minutes before the flights scheduled departure time. Forty minutes! No last minute dashing to the airport and purposely striding along the travelator like you own the plane and it can damn well wait, anymore. Suits and backpacks listen up.
Having established that I had less than ten minutes (if that) to queue up, try and queue jump, and check in, I then became painfully aware of the fact that I was almost completely naked; and in dire need of a shower. To be almost completely naked in a dream means (at least for me) that you are aware that there is some part of you not exposed to the airport public, but of course it isn’t any particular of your body that you would choose to have covered. I don’t know what it was I just had a sense that I was wearing something. It could have been a cap, or a wrist watch, or a bandana. As I was standing there, the embarrassment flooding into every pore, I realised I had a towel. It was one of those old scratchy towels your mother might have had in the linen closet during the 1970’s. The type of towel that is good for drying and wrapping up a small child, but anything bigger than that is bound to have something hanging out. Just like those unflattering green hospital gowns that have the string ties at the back. Sure, the towel was better than nothing, but it was impossible for me to secure it around my hips. In fact any attempt to use the towel to cover part of my nakedness left me feeling more flustered. The towel only made me more intensely aware of all the bits that were still on public display.
I had another problem. I’d parked Gigi’s motorbike in a temporary zone. The changes to security following recent acts of terrorism have meant that unattended vehicles, unless parked in the appropriate short or long term areas, are considered a security threat. The last thing we needed was to have Gi’s bike towed away. I knew it would be a long time before we could recover it from the compound, and by then I was afraid that they might have sold it or destroyed it as an unclaimed vehicle.
So, I needed to check in, shower, get some clothes and move Gigi’s motorbike. These all seemed to be high priority problems, none of them less urgent than the others. After seconds of consideration, you know the way your brain quickly assesses problems, processing the pros and cons to establish the best plan of attack, I decided to first check in. Naked! I would just have to convince the check-in counter staff that I would be appropriately attired for the flight.
I don’t remember actually queuing, but I then remembered that I had forgotten to book accommodation at our destination point. I think we were going to Rome, but it is possible that my sleeping brain was drawing on the memory of our recent overnight trauma at the Rome central station.
My two sisters were at the airport. They were sitting on the cold tiles in the check in area, completely oblivious to my dilemmas. Kim was idly eating some egg concoction out of an alfoil tray. Tania seemed disinterested in her surroundings. I kept wondering if I could borrow some clothes from them. I was perplexed why they weren’t helping me, shielding my nudity, offering to go stand by the bike or hold my place in the check in queue.
I couldn’t face the idea of moving the motorbike in the nude. There was something about sitting on the vinyl seat, warm from the sun, in a state of complete undress that struck me as unseemly. Just the thought of straddling the bike, feeling its bulk between my legs felt erotic and highly personal. It wasn’t something that I was going to do under the scrutiny of security guards, taxi drivers and small children.
There was a shower block in the middle of the car park. A grey concrete shower block like the ones built beside swimming pools, or at public schools. I had the small, scratchy towel and I figured I could borrow or steal some soap and shampoo. There was a long queue snaking out the entrance doors, half circling the building. If you’ve ever been on a school camp, or at a popular caravan park, you will understand the problem with long shower queues. People seem to take forever in the shower, especially when they know others are waiting outside, unclean, bored and impatient.
To the side of the shower block I noticed a row of outdoor showers, like the ones at the beach. Avoiding the queue I decided to use them, not caring particularly if the water was cold like it so often is at the beach. Besides, why would you need warm water to remove sand and sea salt? I endeavoured to wash my hair, and went on to wash my body. To my chagrin there was a creepy guy standing nearby, openly perving, enjoying the free exhibition like we were in a strip joint. I again found myself trying to hide my nakedness while juggling the routine of soaping and rinsing; an impossible act. Being closely studied by Mr Creepy was different to being naked inside the terminal. I felt violated and angry at his audacity and vulgarity, if the act of watching without words or actions can be considered vulgar.
I woke up at least twice during the early morning, no longer in the dream but still subconsciously concerned about issues at hand. On both occasions I woke up, experiencing a mild panic, thinking ‘Oh god, I left Gigi’s bike in the temporary parking zone’. Feeling dazed it took me some moments to realise I was in bed, in Naples. I would then remember that we no longer own a car or a motorbike, so there was no way possible that it could be towed away.
Hours later I still have a lingering sensation that I’ve forgotten something. Something on that list didn’t make it into the suitcase. Or I’ve mistakenly packed the razor in my hand luggage. Or I’ve got the flight details written down against the wrong date on the calendar. Not that I need to think about it. The next trip I make to an airport will be to pick up Mum and Dad when they fly into Naples.
But still it’s there…where did I put my passport?

Stop the Clock!

3 July 2006
Oh god, stop the clock. It can’t be true. It can’t be July. I’m just not ready. What happened to May and June? I realise that January and February disappeared in a flurry of pre departure activity. And March was all about just being here. But suddenly we’ve been in Italy for four months, and I feel like I have achieved nothing.
I know it’s not strictly true. The battle plan was just to find our own place and for me to take a break from work. Well, I’m just starting to think about getting out of bed before 11am in the morning, and we’ve been living in the urban cave for two months now. But I still don’t speak fluent Italian like Sophia Loren nor do I look twenty kilos lighter. I’m determined to apply more energy to both of these goals…at some stage.
The thing is 30th June has always been a big day for me. It marks the end of the financial year. And in my previous life that meant preparation work preceding the 30th, making sure reports were generated on the 30th, and then a shit load of work after the 30th to tie up the financial accounts for the year and prepare statements. Then the auditors arrive, and before you know it, it’s Christmas.
This year, for the first time in fifteen years, the 30th June slipped by devoid of stress, anxiety and preoccupation that something had slipped through the cracks. And I didn’t miss it a bit. I did spend five minutes sending positive, supportive vibes to my replacement, another Jenny, hoping that she was resisting the urge to jump from the highest pallet racking down in Warehouse 3. The key is to remember that it’s just numbers on a piece of paper. And at the end of your life these numbers don’t actually mean anything much at all. But, try telling that to the auditors.
The other thing is that we have to deal with our tax returns, from the other side of the globe. As a grown up I now have an accountant, so pretty soon I’ll be emailing him with instructions to provide me with the biggest refund cheque possible. No other alternatives will be considered.
Why do I need a big refund cheque? Well, I’m living with Gigi, and he doesn’t survive on water alone. There’s the coffee, the croissants, the pizza, endless quantities of garlic, pasta and tomato. And surprisingly I reckon olive oil is more expensive here than it is in Australia.
The other thing is that my parents are on their way. They are halfway through spending my sister’s entire inheritance, being about two months into their four month discovery tour of Europe. They are with us for three weeks and an assault on Italy at the peak of the summer tourist season is no cut-price experience. (Note that they are spending my sister’s inheritance. My inheritance is safely tucked up in the bank!)
So to all my finance friends beavering away during this first bit of July I remind you to come up for breath. Something about smelling the roses runs through my head too. Be reassured that I too am working to deadlines. It’s official! I’ve decided. I will get out of bed by 10am from now on. Anything more than that just isn’t realistic, and if my supervisor queries me I’ll be asking him (you know who I mean) what my priorities should be. I suggest you might try the same!

Out with the Old

The new guy!


My usual guy!

2 July 2006
After nineteen years at the helm of the Catholic diocese in Naples Cardinal Michele Giordano has stepped down. On 1st July the diocese welcomed the new Archbishop Cardinal Crescenzio Sepe.
We watched some of that afternoon’s proceedings. Via Duomo, one of the main streets dissecting the historical centre from the edge of Piazza Cavour at our front door down to the port was closed to traffic. The transportable steel barriers and flimsy red and white tape a haphazard cordon along the expansive boulevard. The road was unsettlingly quiet in the mid afternoon, with only the occasional scooter dodging the barriers and shooting along the emptiness.
Slowly they came. The official proceedings had commenced at 4pm, by 6pm they were scheduled to move to the Duomo, Naples cathedral. We wandered down, past various groups of men lining the street, dressed in robes. Like the national flag of The Netherlands, they milled around in groups, first a collection in scarlet red, next white trimmed with gold braiding, followed by a gathering of sky blue. Mostly older men, accompanied by the odd youth, and even a couple of little boys, ears pierced, faces reflecting their boredom and resignation.
The TV cameras were set up, sweeping overhead like hawks, smoothly dropping down to capture their prey, images that were soon televised on the huge screen erected at the front of the Duomo. Cameramen scurried around, dressed in cargo pants, cigarettes hanging from their mouths. They looked decidedly underdressed compared to the rest of the milling crowd who seemed to have made an effort in seldom worn suits, ties, jewellery and heels.
Standing near the red carpet that boldly snaked its way inside the cathedral we watched the two Carabinieri officers standing guard beside the enormous wooden doors. Like a slightly less disciplined, less formal version of the Brigade of Guards at Buckingham Palace, they stood erect and watchful, resplendent in their uniforms. Black military uniforms trimmed with red piping, stark white gloves, white shoulder tassels and white leather holster encasing the traditional sword, silver buttons topped off with a black felt hat in the style we associate with Napoleon Bonaparte. The most enchanting item though was the feather plume, royal blue and scarlet red, affixed to the front of the hat. It stood at attention, seemingly mimicking its wearer, ruffling slightly with a passing breeze or when the officer adjusted his position. At times the plumes were the only evidence of the Carabinieri unmoving existence, the crowd of church dignitaries and other security personnel obscuring them from view. Later, after the procession had entered the church, we spied the two guards standing off to the side, shedding their hats, mopping their brows and filling their lungs with noxious tobacco fumes. Any hint of formality or discipline vanished.
It’s a major event for Catholicism in Naples. The departing Cardinal Giordano, always referred to by his surname, was reputedly a loan shark. His appearance supports the idea of undignified, immoral behaviour. A rotund man, his moon shaped face nestled on a planet shaped body. His cheek jowls hung low, the long ears only accentuating the droop. Dark eyes peer out, as though surveying the world for opportunity. What’s left of his thinning grey hair is tucked under the red cap of a cardinal. I’ve seen this man before, several years ago, on September 19th at the St Gennaro rituals. In the flesh, at least superficially, he is not a man of the cloth who fosters a sense of trust and integrity. But perhaps my sentiment is soured by his reputation, for I do not know his character personally, and can not even begin to imagine having a conversation with him.
At first glimpse, the new guy, Archbishop Cresenzio, looks uncannily similar. Interestingly, the distinguished cloth banner hung above the cathedral door implored "Let us pray for our Bishop Cresenzio", using his first (or should it be ‘Christian’?) name, as though the city has already welcomed him into their homes, to their tables, surpassing the need for any formality during introductions. A closer study revealed that he is of a lesser stature than his predecessor. (Although after nineteen years of indulging in the hospitality of Neapolitans you too would most likely be portly). His hair is darker, black but for a man his age I suspect it may be with the help of a bottle (would it be appropriate for a Bishop to be vain enough to want to dye his hair to maintain a younger appearance?). His jowls have already started their descent and you can see the potential for matching those of Giordano. It’s his eyebrows that seem to set the tone for his face though. They arch up, dark peaks directed towards his temples. He smiles slightly inanely, a middle aged man who wants to appear benevolent but hasn’t mastered the art of naturally greeting his well wishers, or the lens of a camera.
Most of the important ceremonial rituals and service take place inside the church on the corner of Via Duomo where Cardinal Giordano has relinquished his post, and then later in the Duomo where the appointment of Achbishop Cresenzio will be finalised. The cathedral itself was now packed with people. Church officials, police officers, security personnel, media representatives and the masses, the church’s supporters, followers and its devotees filled the wooden pews and plastic seating especially installed for the event. True Catholics in a land where 84% of the population identify themselves as believers in the Roman Catholic faith, Naples is a city of contradiction as the form of Catholicism practiced here is mixed up with superstition and ancient occult worshiping. The growing crowd in the small square at the front of the cathedral reflected the same diversity.
I stumbled across the church’s announcement on a poster in another church in the historical centre earlier in the week. We watched with amusement as a few tourists wandered down Via Duomo, no doubt following the tourist trail, their faces a mixture of curiosity and confusion at the swarm of people, television cameras and police presence. It is indeed a strange feeling, when you stumble across such unexpected activity as a foreigner. You feel like you are intruding, on something that is deeply personal to the city and its citizens, but at the same time your curiosity is compelling. Strangely though, your embarrassment and uncertainty win over any desire to delve, like you need permission to pry, and you scarper, making your way through the throng quickly, feeling relieved yet dissatisfied on the other side.
The police presence surprised me. There was the usual variety of Italian police including traffic police, state police and Carabinieri. I was mostly surprised at how many of them there were, wondering if they were on overtime or had been relocated from normal duties elsewhere across the city. Before the procession commenced they tended to huddle together, each group self contained, as though cross pollination was something to be avoided. Two ambulances unhurriedly drove down Via Duomo, an odd sight as they are usually blaring, sirens whining, blue lights flashing as they weave in and out of the traffic. An ambulance was parked across from us, the paramedics drinking coffee from polystyrene cups, gaudy in their fluorescent orange uniforms. I took a photo, capturing them idly appraising the surroundings, standing beside church officials, their heavy cream tunics and shoulder capes trimmed with gold braiding. The contrast in outfits was something of a time warp, the ultra modern orange ridiculous against the historical styled gowns of the clergy.
Eventually the speeches were over, and the official party prepared to move to the Duomo. The new Archbishop did a quick Superman act at this stage, disappearing briefly dressed in a red circular cape under which lay a gown of white lace, similar to what your aged grandmother wears to bed in an effort to retain her modesty and femininity. He reappeared in a less garish outfit with a cream gown embroidered with what seemed to depict an evening sky, gold stars and deep blue waves of falling dusk. Or perhaps they were fireworks spreading out from his chest, across his shoulders and down over his abdomen. The distinguishing feature was his hat (what do you call an Archbishop’s hat?). Shaped like two giant stiff petals, cream with an intricacy of gold embroidery to rival any formal tablecloth, with a flash of red inside, two long flaps falling over his upper back, it was a dress up item of the finest quality. Forget mum’s old 60’s formal dress, sparkling silver shoes five sizes to big, the shiny red plastic beads that you always thought were priceless and the delicate black shawl that made you feel like a flamenco dancer or a gypsy. This hat, this glorious, erect, regal item of headwear, is the ultimate dress up box prize.
Having done his Clark Kent quick change act, the procession commenced. This was the moment they’d all been waiting for. All those bored police officers suddenly fanned out along the barriers at regular intervals. I’m not sure if they were there to keep back the surging crowd that never surged or protect the Archbishop from attack. A group of church officials led, their faces composed and officious, behind a haze of smoke from the gold pot of incense ceremoniously swung back and forth, cleansing the path. To be the lead altar boy swinging that gold receptacle had always been Gi’s boyhood dream. He’d always wanted to have the honour of swinging the pot, a large mound of incense burning inside, releasing its hazy, pungent smoke. Not because it meant he’d achieved any particular place of pride or position within the church hierarchy, but because he’d always envisioned ways of swinging it wildly, energetically, perhaps outrageously. Gi had imagined it, swaying back and forth, the burning incense inside heating the gold tub, until it found its way underneath the robes of the priest walking ahead, simultaneously lifting them up and burning the unsuspecting clergyman on the thighs and buttocks. Of course Gi put it more eloquently, recalling how he’d dreamt of "swinging that hot gold ball into the priest’s arse."
He’d only ever managed to make it to the number two altar boy position. Following many after school and Sunday lessons he’d finished his catechism, received his Holy Communion and was eventually given responsibility for carrying the tall poles which carried a church candle. In Gi’s fervent imagination, fuelled by the comic strip drawings he produced, he schemed to liven up the Sunday mass. Half of those attending in the pews, including his uncle, habitually slept through the service. Having tended to the candles around the church Gi had observed that the hot wax pooled in the base. Any slight tip resulted in the wax sliding down, dripping onto the candelabra. In his determination to liven things up Gi gently allowed the tall candelabra to tilt slightly, imaging a drip of wax would slide past the priest’s shoulder and hit the floor. Something entirely different happened. Using Gigi as his tool, the devil tilted the pole, not realising that the melted candle and the hot liquid pooling at the base would cause a flood of hot wax to flow down, squarely landing on the priest’s head. The priest’s bald head. Gi, the devil disguised as a ten year old dressed in white robes, watched with a mixture of hilarity and horror. The priest screamed, shocked and unaware of why his head seemed to be on fire. Those that were awake in the pews laughed at his misfortune, those that slept were soon awake, confused and dazed wondering what the commotion was about.
Gi’s intention had been to claim it was an accident, a slip, the look of innocence and regret at his mistake resulting in just a mild reminder to keep the candelabra straight at all times. However the scolding downpour was obviously more than an accident, and with the congregation grinning and snickering with amusement Gi was unable to maintain an appropriately dour demeanour.
Gi tells me his grandfather, the head of the family, was not impressed, but he too could not deny how funny the incident had been. In fact Gi had brought shame upon his family. After the service the priest took him aside. After wrapping his scalp in wet gauze, the second degree burns glowing, he informed Gigi that he was beyond help. He was obviously headed for hell. God did not want him, nor did the priest. He was not welcomed in that church, ever again. At the age of ten, Gi with his mop of dark shiny hair, bright eyes and olive skin, the devil incarnated, was banned from the church.
The priest then promptly took himself off to seek medical assistance.
His family took him down the road to a different church, only to discover that the fraternity of priests have blood thicker, and less forgiving, than holy water. Gi was also unwelcome at that church. To this day, his dozy uncle doesn’t completely understand why.
Yet still, no such trifles of mischief were happening today. Although Gi did continue to refer to the various church officials as ‘Religious Super Dude’, a trifle disrespectful you might think. In fact I was more than surprised when Gi called out, in English, ‘hey over here, why don’t you bless me Religious Super Dude?’ as the Archbishop, hat and all, approached us. He was waving his right hand in the formation of the Cross, the left settled comfortably on his rounded belly. The foreign language might have caught his attention for I could have sworn he looked directly at us, blessing us with his hands and his eyes as he continued to gently stroll towards the Duomo. He stopped briefly a couple of times, the surge of media, security and clergy bottle necking as they entered the Duomo, throwing out blessings to the crowd, looking up to take in the locals watching from their balconies. He appeared both relaxed and a little nervous, as though it had already been a draining day. Perhaps he was thinking about the World Cup Soccer game that had kicked off an hour earlier, or perhaps he was wishing they could stop for a coffee and cigarette break.
The mustard yellow building across from the Duomo houses Chiesa dei Girolamini, also called the Church of San Filippo Neri. Its peeling paint and slightly fatigued demeanour made for a noble backdrop to the colourful crowd and bright hand stitched banners of varying religious sects some crested with white ostrich feather plumes. The large speakers positioned along the road filled the air with the sounds of the cathedral’s choir. Their voices rising and falling, majestically riding the waves of the hymn, losing some of the magic and polish when the congregation where invited to sing. At times the hymns reflected the agony of the tale, causing me to cringe as I circumnavigated a speaker to better view the parade.
Slowly the Archbishop and his companions followed the red carpet, past the Carabinieri guards, and entered the cathedral. The cameramen suddenly lost interest, started packing up their equipment, winding up long electrical cables, the ash dangling precariously from their slightly sodden cigarettes. Some of the crowd continued to watch the big screen, as though the reality of TV was enough for them. The police quickly fell back into their groups chatting together like mothers waiting at the school gate. A team of Red Cross first aid attendants, their bright red polo shirts emblazoned with a white cross, appeared resigned to wait out the whole ceremony.
Not dressed appropriately to enter the cathedral (me in a black singlet and thongs) we meandered back up Via Duomo, towards home, wondering when it would reopen to traffic. The retail shops were all empty, staff sitting forlornly inside, or standing on the footpath reconciled to the fact that the Archbishop had destroyed the day’s trading. We passed a bar, full of people, musing that they too must have been here for the indoctrination, until the television set in the corner exposed the ugly truth. For these Catholics, the World Cup Soccer match of Brazil vs. Argentina was much more important, and certainly more interesting.
It was an afternoon of cultural curiosity for me. Although somehow it wasn’t as ostentatious, or as stately as I had expected. In fact it was a bit like watching a school play. Everyone has rehearsed, every player has their costume. There is a sense of anticipation in the air. The play opens, the set is in place, but something is missing. It’s like only half the tickets were sold and the audience is unnecessarily subdued. Each act goes off faultlessly, no one forgets their lines, or stumbles over a prop, but some of the performers don’t really seem to have their heart in it. It should have felt like opening night, but instead if felt like we were watching the dress rehearsal, as the incense smoke billowed, the hymns swelled, and uniforms, religious and military, drifted by. The tradition, ceremony and solemnity were there. But something was missing, like a Beatles concert without John Lennon, or a church without candles.