The flights were without great issue. First plane went up, bounced around above the storm system the whole time (the pilot, requesting that the flight attendants keep to their seats, tells us over the loudspeaker -- sorry, this is horrible!), I read my novel, plane landed, walk walk walk, across the crazy busy Atlanta airport (where are people going in midweek January?), in plenty of time for my Air France flight to Paris. How lucky to have grabbed a good seat on it at the very last minute! A glass of champagne (the norm on all Air France transAtlantic flights), a dinner, a mostly futile attempt at sleeping. Then walk walk walk from one terminal to the next in Paris and there, again, lots of people, but no lines on the transfer. American passports are now able to do automatic entry screening along with the EU passports which shortens the lines for us considerably. I even have time to grab the real deal at the airport!
The last flight's more or less on time, which is amazing given that today is a day of a Great French Strike and many transportation systems are affected. Still, I notice none of it. Indeed, I have an upgrade, which means not a whole lot as the seats up front are the same as in the back, but I am privileged to sit in front of an old Neapolitan couple who are of the old school, showing some of that bewilderment as the flight attendant attempts to convince us that a glass of orange juice and champagne would be just the ticket. Champagne and orange juice?? One other noteworthy event -- the skies clear as we fly over the Alps.
It's enchanting, really it is and I take out my big camera to photograph whatever we happen to pass outside my right-hand window. Still, the captain comes on to say the the views to the left are really impressive! Noting my interest in photography the flight attendant breaks all rules I'm sure by phoning the captain and gaining me permission to enter the cockpit. Which I do, but I am too awed and nervous to do more than take a random shot...
But I do wish the pilot a bon appetit as he is eating a hearty brunch at the time of my visit. A remarkable moment, no matter which way you look at it.
* * *
We land pretty much on time, despite the greve (strike) and despite those aforementioned rains in Naples. In fact, it is only partly cloudy at noon. I think the only bits of sun for my whole trip are those that came through while we were landing.
Taxi to the hotel. The usual conversation. Where are you from? Where is Wisconsin? Where are you from? Pompeii. Born and raised. Interesting.
Picking place to stay here was tough. There's a lot of grumbling on the internet about most Neapolitan hotels. I wonder if people are just more grumpy or if hotels are really having a tough time keeping rooms clean and front desks staffed. When I finally picked a place, I wasn't yet sure if Bee would join me, so this had to be okay for her but also for a possibly solo me. In the end the Santa Lucia seemed like an obvious choice. The prices were so good that I asked for a view (it costs more). If all else fails, I'll sit by the window and watch the rain come down over the Bay of Naples. With Vesuvius just visible to the side.
(view from balcony)
(view from window)
Naples. I just finished a book about an American woman's experiences moving to Naples (The Mother-in-law Cure) and so I am a little under its influence. The Naples she discovered (fairly prosperous) was not the Naples described by Elena Ferrante. And yet, take these books and mix them with what you see before you and you think -- yes, I think I see a little of what you both want to convey. This is especially true since I am, of course, also Polish. Many have noted that Poles and Italians have a lot in common and I think those similarities come through especially in places like Naples. There is that stubborn adherence to tradition, often rooted in a very personal relationship with the church. And the Nonna in Naples is not unlike the Babcia in Poland. True, in Naples the discussion is how to make a good ragu and in Poland it will be how to make a bigos. Cabbage replaces tomatoes. Vodka replaces red wine. But the love of having a family recipe that's better than everyone else's -- not that different.
So this is what I look for when I head out for my first walk in the Centro Storico (the old Naples) -- that evidence of all that I have read to be very real here -- that loud, gutsy ownership of space and time. A defiant belief that you can manipulate reality and come out okay at the end of the day.
* * *
I mean to get myself eventually to my dinner choice for tonight. It's relatively far from my hotel -- some 50 minutes at a rapid pace. But, it's the place that woke me to the possibility of visiting Naples in January to begin with. Concettina Ai Tre Santi. Back in November, there was an article in the NYTimes about the awesomeness of pizza in this city. Everyone knows pizza was first made in Naples and this town is bursting with very excellent pizzerias. But the author of the article took it a step further -- she went to pizza places that were ostensibly beyond the beyond. Concettina was her first choice. Since it is a hefty walk from the hotel (walking an hour after dinner can be tiring), Bee and I decided to skip it during our time together. There are plenty of excellent pizzerias closer to us. But since I have before me this extra day and I am alone, I book a table for early eve and start a walk aiming in that direction at 1 p.m.
I'm curious about two things today -- what's via Toledo like? It's supposed to be a pleasant shopping street here. I should stroll there. And, too, I want to veer off into the Centro Storico. The heart of old Naples.
In fact, I do cover a significant chunk of both, but this is not where my meandering takes me first. Here, follow along.
Just a little way up via Toledo, I see a building with a sign indicating that it houses a funicular station. There are four cable rails in Naples and this one, the Funiculare Centrale, is the longest. That it goes way up (four stations total) is a good reminder that Naples has hills. You don't feel it in the heart of the old city, but walk a few steps to its boundaries and suddenly you're panting.
(see the hills?)
Another thing that took me by surprise: the way people eat food. It could not be more different than, say, in France. There are a million pastry shops and a million fried pizza shops and a million cafes. Few of them offer sitting choices. People eat on the street, standing up. I saw exactly zero number of sidewalk cafes brimming with chatting friends, lovers, visitors, you name it. And I walked for more than four hours, crisscrossing the city's neighborhoods. Zero. On the other hand, Italians standing to eat or grab that espresso or fried pizza? Everywhere.
(the pastry: uniquely Neapolitan!)
And here's the other fact that I hadn't fully appreciated, despite reading Ferrante's novels: Naples is cut up into neighborhoods and the ones down the hill (poorer) have little in common with the ones up the hill (wealthier). They say that even thieves know that you should rob with a different attitude up the hill: break in and steal art and appliances. Down the hill? Snatch tourist purses and maybe a camera or two.
So I hop on the Funiculare (that's the station in the above photo) and then I am at the top, in a somewhat wealthier neighborhood, but without the views I was expecting. This is when I start asking. Excuse me, but do you know where I can find a view? And eventually, with great warmth and sincerity, I am directed to the Castle Sant'Elmo.
You have to pay to enter, but it's worth it. In walking the ramparts, you see all of Naples before you. Even on a cloudy and momentarily wet January day.
(to the north)
(Vesuvius and the Amalfi coast)
A small group of Italian women, taking in the views...)
(further north...)
(Centro Storico -- it's not where the wealth is...)
(The north hills and shore? For moneyed people...)
I find another funicular and go down.
I realize I've been walking already for several hours and my sole food intake has been at the airport, with an extra croissant thrown in on the plane. Time to pause and finally point a finger at one of those pastries. Along with a macchiato, because I would not dare insult anyone by admitting that I like cappuccinos even in the afternoon.
Standing up, by the counter. At least I'm inside. (Great wall art!)
And now for the Centro Storico walk...
(Passing a church with a musician and a pair of spontaneous dancers...)
Many many pastry shops. This one makes the Neapolitan rings ("taralli") -- they're salty.
But you can opt for some sweet ones. That's what I do.
(Kids, going home from school...)
(Naples is like the rest of southern Italy in at least two ways: the ubiquitousness of men talking outside, and laundry hanging over the streets; both are present here...)
Many produce stands, as I enter the less touristy district of Naples. (This is the district where I find homelessness, though in smaller numbers than I had been expecting.)
Finally, my pizzeria.
I can't decide which pizza would give me the best indication of the quality here. I take forever. Finally I take the one that has three parts to it: there's buffalo ricotta, there's Margherita with tarallo crumbs, and there's incredible veal sausage and some wilted greens that I do not recognize. All three are smothered with smoked provolone. Amazing. Truly wonderful.
Walking home...
Of course I'm going to have a Negroni at the hotel! Of course!
Tomorrow, Bee is arriving, though not until late in the evening. But I have an idea for my day! For now -- buona notte, with so much amore!
