In Naples, I met Hugo Pratt.
The National Archeological Museum’s permanent star is Caravaggio the Neo-classic. Canova’s sculptures mesmerized me. But the underground exhibition space that exhibited Corto Maltese is where I found a kindred spirit. A 20th century transnational artist, a fellow travel aficionado. Perhaps Pratt’s works have been recognised as classic; instead of being exhibited at the modern art museum Madre Napoli.
Naples is a walking city; its Metro only has 2 lines. When we arrived at Napoli Centrale from Rome, we decided to walk to our first accommodation Diletto apartment. The cobbled pavements made dragging wheeled luggage a hassle. Once we dropped our luggage, however, we were free to explore the charming bad boy.
We stumbled into an anarchists’ commune Santa Fede Liberata. They squatted an abandoned monastery. The denizens formed a cooperative sans government support or corporate sponsor. An Antifa stronghold. Many members are intellectuals and artists. Murals and manifestos decorate the premise.
Elena Ferrante’s hometown is a juxtaposition of poverty and high taste. The lack of glamour makes it a haven for tourists interested in bohemian aesthetics. The narrow alleys towered by building with faded paint job and scraped stuccos. The sepia hued city bathed under the Mediterranean sun. The neighbors hanging their laundry in public. Altars and shrines at every corner. Local kids training to be footballers in the streets under the grace of Santa Diego, the unofficial patron saint of Napoli.
Neapolitan presepe is the crème de la crème of Nativity diorama; commissioned by the Papacy to be exhibited during Christmases in Vatican and Jerusalem. Even Tuscan Nativity dioramas, with their Northern riches, do not compare.
Naples is a city above ancient cities. Below 2019 Naples are Roman and paleo-Christian cities. During World War II, the underground cities relived as shelters from the Allied bombings. A port city, Naples was a strategic military target. Napoli Sotteranea runs a guided tour that takes you to the humid and claustrophobic underground. We were guided through secret trap door which leads to Roman amphitheater and cistern, hydroponic garden made planting possible by artificial UV light, and World War II themed installations.
Whilst waiting for the tour to start, an African souvenir seller approached me.
‘Salemaleykum!’, he saluted me.
My hardwired dogmatic reflex replied, ‘Aleykumsalam.’
I knew I lost to him that moment. He proceeded with the usual brothers-in-faith charade. Gave me a Chinese made trinket, a red miniature elephant, as a gift. He asked me if I have a gift in reciprocity. Gave him a 2 euros coin.
I kept the elephant. A reminder of another defeat in negotiation with the locals.
I needed a haircut. I would not want Instagram picture of me in Italy to look bad. Neapolitan men are well groomed. I asked the receptionist of Hotel Piazza Bellini, our second accommodation, for a recommendation: Dixie Barber. The main barber Cheero looks like Mario of Nintendo. I would have asked for a close shave too if I have proper beard and moustache.
Coffee here is simple: espresso or cappuccino. No takeaway, if you don’t have time to enjoy a cup of coffee then don’t. This is not Starbucks or Costa. Don’t waste the indulgence out of a good cup, especially when accompanied with a sfogliatella.
We always eat well, obviously. Italy is one of two countries where we can eat the local cuisines for the entire trip. We only had burger once at Salumeria Upnea with its guerilla beers. They are worth skipping Neapolitan cuisine (but just once).
Napoli is our London dad’s hometown. He works at the Italian Foreign Ministry, now stationed in New Delhi. Coincidentally he was in town, on leave to visit his mama. We were invited to the best restaurant: Nonna’s home in ERCOLANO.
‘Nonna apologized that she couldn’t serve handmade pasta,’ Om Nello translated.
Whilst preparing the food, assisted by his sons, she watched us observe her living space. A VHS video player, a tubular telly, an audio cassette player. Her house is speck clean; all her items are vintage. A photograph of a soldier caught my interest. Nonna’s father (or grandfather) was a cavalier, fought in World War I for the Italian Kingdom.
There is something romantic about the Great War. The soldier’s uniforms looked more befitting in a gala than a battlefield. Camouflage was not invented or adopted yet. It was an unapologetic white men world. The First World War brought an end to the 19th century. Trench warfare is the worst. Try digging a hole in your garden, fill it up with water and live inside there for three days. The ‘world’ was Europe in those days. Most of Asia and Africa were colonized or primitive kingdoms. But here we are now, in the 21st century, Europe enjoying the peace and prosperity. The Blue Continent has ceased to be the bloodiest battleground.
The appetizer were tomato salad and fresh clams. The tomatoes from Mount Vesuvius were so sweet from the volcanic nutrients. The clams were something you can’t get in London, or from Jakarta’s mercury laden Sea of Java. The pasta was spaghetti vongole, the secondi was fried seafood.
I have learned about Italian way of dining: don’t fill up at pasta (tempting as it may). Make room for the next courses, the second.
We didn’t go to Pompeii, but Om Nello took us to Herculaneum, another ancient Roman city wiped by Vesuvian eruption. Smaller but less crowd. The weather was lovely, the transition between spring and summer. Sunny blue sky with gentle breeze.
Found Seneca’s On the Shortness of Life in the souvenir shop. The Stoics are the occidental Zen. Both seek to find calm in chaos. Their method is slightly different; Zen koans demonstrate the limit of our reasonable mind to articulate our understanding of the unconscious. The Stoics insist on logical deductions. Another gift from the time we live in now, the globalized world; we can learn both ways.
The stroll around the necropolis was a contemplation on the psychology of extinction. How men and women of Herculaneum came face to face with their mortality as a part of the mass and as an individual. A soldier stood steadfast manning his post. The crowd screamed in panic. a sister comforted her little brother. A son searched his mother.
Om Nello waited for us at the exit. He got us chilled water, with gas. We took the train back to Napoli Centrale. The cars were full of tourist returning from Pompeii. It was golden hour; the landscape outside and the cabin were gently lit by the dusking sun. We didn’t get seats. The white ladies were reddish, blotched by their excursions under the sun. Some passengers reviewed pictures taken and video recorded. Some napped, some chatted. Some, like us, just sat or stood in the silence.
We took a taxi from the hotel to the ferry port. Neapolitan traffic is a passionate as its people. The Italians speak with their hands rather than with their mouth. When our driver got out from the car—to yell at the driver who kept honking when he stopped for pedestrians—we knew he was spewing obscenities despite we know very little Italian. Some languages are so beautiful that even their curses are gracious.
The ferry took us to CAPRI. It was weekend, a lot of tourists – local and international. The cabin was full. Passengers were competing for seats. Ladies in tacky fast fashion took the priority seats. When a family with a disabled member wanted to claim the seats, the ladies refused to budge. Hand gesture got lively; a crew joined in the entreaties. ‘Signora, mi scusi!’
We left the cabin and sat on the deck. It was cold and windy, but we didn’t have to compete for seats or caught in the crossfire of arguments between the locals. The views are nicer. Capri is the opposite the Napoli: touristy luxurious. The town is a labyrinth of shoppes. A sum of Mediterranean vacation with piazzas, cafes, and seascapes.
We stayed two nights at Hotel Villa Eva Anacapri. The funicular is the most romantic way to move around Marina Grande-Capri-Anacapri, but the buses are more practical.
We always had lunch at E Divino. We became familiar with the entire crew: the proprietors, the chefs, and the waiter.
E Divino’s meals are divine, true to its name. This hidden restaurant changes its menu everyday according to their garden and whatever source fresh from the market. Whenever the weather was permitting, we sat at the garden table.
We met Amadeo, an artisan jeweler, the prodigal son of Capri who set up his business in New York and London. Every time he comes home, he always dines here.
Too bad we missed the Blue Grotto due to poor weather. It was rainy during our visit. We had plenty of time drinking limoncello, a local specialty sweet liquor served almost frozen.
We wandered and visited churches, Roman ruins and gardens. Took the chair lift to the top of Monte Solaro; the rainy days made the peak of the island blanketed by fog and chill breeze. Strolled Giardini di Augusto, watching people—fellow tourists—taking selfies, solo and group pictures. Climbed to Emperor Tiberius’ imperial quarter at Villa Jarvis. It was up on a cliff with killer views. The climb was demanding and rewarding despite the cloudy weather. We talked and quarreled a little on our way up.
The imperial quarter is a chapel with a gigantic statue of Mother Mary. Overlooking the ocean, I imagined the Emperor’s life. I read that he lived there in his last 10 years of his life. How did he govern with the telecommunication technologies available at that age? I remember my visit to the Topkapi Palace in Istanbul. The Ottoman sultans spent their lives inside the palace—held court, heard petitions, met with advisors and emissaries, entertained themselves in the harem, planned wars, eavesdropped and spied on conspiring courtiers. Ruling an empire was a sequestered existence. Emperors lived like hermits with luxury.
It is true that Italy forces you to slow down. To appreciate the moment for what it is.
The art of doing nothing. But when your ‘nothing’ is sustained with wine, food, and coffee—added passionate sex and conversations, it is not too hard to meditate.
