Napoli

After Perugia, I went to Rome. I did not see the Coliseum. I did not go to the Roman Forum. I did not even stand inside the Sistine Chapel. I did, however, visit the inside of a sandwich shop, and that was good enough for me.

Next it was on to Naples. Crazy, crazy Naples. Luckily, I was at least somewhat psychologically prepared; according to one male traveler’s blog description of the square outside the train station, I’d be lucky to make it through without getting mugged, raped, and shot. I still had old Bertha the suitcase with me, and I used her as a means of intimidation, rolling her fast and furious over the cobblestones with a sneer on my face, as if I’d run right over anyone who got in my way.

Unfortunately, the car-drivers in Napoli operate by that very same principle. It was actually rather exhilarating to finally have that true Italian experience of traffic headed at you constantly from every direction, no matter what the stop-lights say, no matter whether you’re on the cross or side-walk. And it really boosts your self-confidence in a Darwinian sort of way every time you so much as make it across the street.

My task at hand was slightly more complicated; I had to find my way to the port so that I could catch a hydrofoil ferry to Sorrento. In a rare bout of organization, I had written down what ferry to take, and how to get to my hostel from the port of arrival. The missing link, however, was how to get from the train station to the ferry. I asked someone for directions in Spanitalian, and they said “R2, R2,” which I deduced was a bus. When I saw an R2 I hopped aboard, declined to buy a ticket, and, about ten minutes into the ride, started to hope rather heartily that we were actually going in the right direction. But it just felt right. And soon, sure enough, I saw street signs for El Porto, and there was more daylight coming through between the buildings, and suddenly we had swung around a corner and there it was. The ocean, the glorious marina, a turreted castle rising high on a hilltop overlooking it all, flags whipping back and forth in the breeze.

I hopped off the bus, dragged off Bertha, and came face to face with a map. I decided to double check with the old lady sitting under it as to what street, exactly, I was on. I did a rather inspired job of miming: pointing to the map, then my feet, then making a questioning gesture, hands aloft on either side. But before she could reply, another old bat from further down the bus interrupted us.

“Go to the station!!!” She yelled in Italian. “This bus, yes, it takes you to the train station!”

“No, no, she just CAME from the train station!” My original lady countered. It was about to get very heated between the two of them before I intervened on behalf of the one who was in the right, pointing to her and saying “Si! Si!”

She beamed. The other scowled. I was then properly oriented in regards to the map and I set off toward the hydrofoils, bidding a gracious farewell to both women.

 On my way down along the port, hearing the flags whipping and clamor of car horns, and feeling the warm sun soak into my skin, I decided I kind of loved Naples, in a fifteen minutes experience of it sort of way. It was loud and rough and gritty, and I’m pretty sure I saw a dead dog lying outside one of the restaurants, but the pink pastel colors, the frenzy, the heat, the hubbub, gave it a character unlike any place else I’ve ever experienced. And I’ll always remember that moment of swinging out onto the port, flags and white sails whipping, pink grit and open blue sky, the warm sun sinking low over it all. I’ll always remember that first moment of entry into Southern Italy, which is truly a land all of its own.