Pizza, Christ and Ice Cream

If I told you that I had pizza and ice cream for lunch in Australia most of you would have to agree that it was a bad lunch nutritionally and most likely in quality.  Here, in Naples, not only is pizza and ice cream near mandatory to eat but it is the ultimate thing to do especially on a Sunday. 

I have just come back from a three-hour walk around the historical centre setting out with the purpose to visit Museo Cappella Sansevro and eat lunch.  Accompanied by Alexandra, a Russian graphic designer, along with the 6 Small Rooms proprietor and friend, Jenny and her dogs, Raja and Sunday our stroll started down Spaccanapoli, (the longest and straightest street that cuts through the historical centre).  The pace is slow and relaxed, we stop to take photographs, look at shop fronts and building facades, point to an old bell tower, watch the dogs take a piss, several times, and listen to musicians and conversations. 

We bump into Simone a local jeweller who I’ve befriended since being here.  She makes the most remarkable designs in brass and silver.   Jenny and Alexandra buy some of her work, suiting them beautifully.  The cappella or chapel is not far from our pit stop and after paying 7 euro we step into a small privately owned chapel where one of the most arresting marble carvings resides.

Owned by Prince Raimondo di Sangro, the seventh prince of Sansevero, Capella Sansevero was commissioned for a family mausoleum and a temple of initiation, reflecting on the kind of person Raimondo was: a patron of the arts, an inventor, a man of letters and publisher and just if you thought that was too much, an alchemist and Grand Master of the Freemasons in the Kingdom of Naples.  Raimondo employed several renowned artists of the time to create the many sculptures in the chapel and whose work he supervised throughout. 

One of these artists, Giuseppe Sanmartino, created the Veiled Christ and became renowned the world over for it.  The sculptural masterpiece is what people really come to see at Sansevero even though the surrounding sculptures and paintings in the chapel are splendid enough.  Dare I try and describe what I saw will not do it justice however a snippet is required. The sculpture is of a reclining man (Christ) on a mattress covered with a heavy cloth and some pillows under his head that is turned slightly to the side.  His body is swathed in a soft veil from head to feet, a crown of thorns, a rustic pair of pliers and a primitive bent nail rest near his ankles.   Remember, this is all portrayed in one piece of marble! 

One of the things I appreciate about this work is that the face and body of this man is realistically done. It could be based on a young man of today.  Details of the body, stomach, arms, legs, bones in the toes, holes in his feet and hands, all look believable.  The creamy grey of the marble adds an ethereal quality to the work and apt for the body of a corpse.  There are other intriguing works to be seen in Sansevero and that I will leave for your own discovery. Unfortunately no photography is allowed so I have photographed an image from a pamphlet from the chapel and I strongly encourage you to come to Naples to see it.

Walking along via Tribunali more amazing sites present themselves such as a bell tower from the 11th century, more churches and chapels with more marble skulls than you can poke a stick at.  I cannot go by a pescheria without stopping to marvel or take photographs.  Only the other day I was wondering if oysters were obtainable here, as I hadn’t seen any yet.  I then saw the most colossal oysters ever, eight of them, resting in a small wooden box on top of a tray of attractively patterned shells.  After inquiring about the price I bought three and had them shucked for six euro.  These would have to be the freshest oysters I’ve ever tasted.  The mild salty flavour of the sea dressed the slippery, soft flesh and once I managed to disconnect the tissue from its shell I threw back my head to eat the dripping crustacean whole.

Many businesses are closed on a Sunday as Neapolitans traditionally lunch at home with their kin.  Fruit and vegetable stalls and Pescherias are all that can be seen open until 2pm before they too go home to eat.  Gelaterias are also open – people often buy a small styrofoam container of two or three flavours for the late Sunday lunch. 

Arriving at the end of via Tribunali we turn right to head toward the famous D’Antica Pizzeria Michele only to find it closed.  We were then directed to a pizzeria across the road called Trianon by a helpful and friendly local.  The pizzas were very good and due to my error in ordering I received fresh tomatoes cooked on top of the pizza instead of the delicious passata.  My order was quite different from the mixed flavours of melting mozzarella and well-brewed tomato sauce yet it was good to eat and I was pleased that I tried something different. 

To end the walk home on Spaccanapoli we stopped at Gay Odin for ice cream providing the ultimate in a journeys end.  Theses quality chocolate makers also produce a small range of well-made ice cream.  I like ice cream but seldom eat a lot of it, at least not in Australia.  A small cone of two flavours seals the day perfectly before a much sort after siesta.  So, I am convinced that pizza and ice cream can be a good thing to eat, as it felt oh so right.

Ciao

hellsbells

The Secret Garden

Palazzo Venezia Napoli

Green space is rare to see in Naples but not necessarily difficult to find once you’ve been told where to look.  On via Benedetto Croce, which is part of Spaccanapoli, is a communal garden that sits atop of old apartments watched over by surrounding terraced apartments and decks allowing the air to swoop down into the space providing constant and cooling circulation.  To access the garden one enters through an archway facing the street that opens to a courtyard or in Italian, cortile.  The garden is called Palazzo Venezia and from what I can work out dates back to 1300s and has clearly had many reconstructions over the years, as the plants aren’t old enough.  The Magnolia is possibly the oldest species there.

Once in the courtyard one ascends a set of steps to the first floor, walk through a small gallery of contemporary Neapolitan art, then along a corridor opening into a red room referred to as the Pompei room. This room inspires me to want to place a bed in the centre covered in white sheets, and never leave.  The vermillion coloured walls fill me with warmth and passion and the French doors with their curtains peeled back allow for the sunlight to animate and illuminate the space. 

Pompei Room

Beyond the French doors is a fecund garden that cools the mind immediately on sight and invites one into its various green pockets of space.  A medium-sized Magnolia Grandiflora tree shades one corner of the garden with its exceptionally large ornamental flowers scenting the breeze with its lemony odor.  Olive and various fruit trees sculpt the landscape with their range of heights and shapes.  The tree whose name currently escapes me droops its long white floral trumpets, elongated heart shaped leaves reach out and droop their tips and the branches twist and curve like a smooth wisteria vine.  The floor of the garden is lush with soft grass, herbs, daisies, elderflowers and red flowering begonias.  Pink roses and tender ferns nestle amongst shiny broad leaf shrubs and blue and mauve hydrangeas enliven the mustard wall that they grow against.  Peach trees laden with produce, embrace me, the new yellow just starting to appear through the fruits fuzzy skin.  The distinct leaves of a citrus tree, shows off its zesty green leaves, pointing skywards along with the unfurling of new Laurel leaves; the two side-by-side appear to race as to who can grow higher.  I also see the leaves of fig and oleander, virginia creeper and irises, loquat and succulents.   

An ivy covered grotto rests in the corner, its domed interior painted Yves Klein blue and adorned with stenciled stars, the perfect place to light candles.  Garden furniture is placed under white umbrellas that reach over the table and chairs like a dangling lily pad.  A picnic lunch could be had or someone like me can be inspired to write about such a generous gift left to mere mortals.  A caretaker makes his way gently, sweeping the path as if he doesn’t want to wake anything. Birds appear to express their happiness through rich chirping and the swallows constantly squeak and dart.  I’ve even seen a small green bird very similar to the grass parrots seen in Bathurst.  A bells rich tone, drawn from ancient metal, chimes with alarm, a ring I haven’t heard before as they are usually rung with pace.

Only occasional visits by locals and tourists alter the space as they walk around slowly and then leave.  When I am here I stay for some time, writing, reading or having my Italian lesson with Serena.   The garden makes me feel that it’s mine whilst here; an arbor from the lively active street only meters away, transporting me to a whole other peaceful and rejuvenating world. 

Ciao

hellsbells

Honk If You've Got One

The traffic in Naples could be compared to traffic in India or perhaps a similar Asian city, which may provide a visual to those who have been to such countries for the following topic.  The Vespa and Motorino appear to be the common mode of transport around this city holding their own amongst a good mix of small make of cars.  One of the first things you will notice about the traffic apart from the quantity is the noise.  The constant use of the horn can be testing on bad days and familiarly comforting on good.  The sounds of horns range from modest to down right irritating.  The offensive ones are loud and aggressive and the makers of such devices or vehicles should be locked up in a cell and made to listen, repeatedly, to the sound of their own horn until their ears bleed.

In 2000 when I had returned to Melbourne from living in Naples I bought an imported 1984 Spanish Vespa PX 200cc inspired by my Italian experience.  The horn on this beautiful machine sounded very close to a duck hunting whistle and whilst I thought it ridiculous at the time I now appreciate that the sound of a duck coming up from behind to let me know that traffic will soon be passing is far more preferable to the loud, jump-out-of-your-skin blare of the newer makes.

Neapolitan drivers, males mostly, for my case in point, (apologies to any dear males reading this) remind me of a class of Year 10 boys I once taught – or tried to.  They belligerently hit the horns like a baby hits a squeaky toy, over and over again.  They look at each other, lined up in the traffic, with a smirk on their face as if to say, funny hey?  Not funny.  And if I could I would rip those bloody horns from the bike panel like a heart taken from a hunted down beast.

To walk amongst this traffic is actually being in a controlled environment or should I say, the drivers of either kind of vehicle are in control.  Chaotic it will appear but everyone has extra sensory perception for sound and vision as they meander their way to their destination.  Drivers can stop or swerve with a racing car drivers proficiency. Vespas and Motorinos are often loaded with more than one passenger, or with animals, shopping and/or young children sitting in front of the driver as they eat their gelato.   And to think the government felt they had to enforce the wearing of helmets not so long ago! 

When crossing a road here perish the thought that you will use the walk sign and pedestrian crossing, or that drivers will adhere to the traffic lights.  The game of Chicken is on.  Drivers don’t even stop for old ladies or women with prams. No, they fly by with a hairs breadth.  So how does one cross a road in Naples you may think to yourself?  First, you look in the direction of traffic coming your way closest to you before you place a foot on the road.  Once you lock eyes with the traffic, slowly, step off the footpath and start walking with a purpose.  The traffic will not slow down because they’re anticipating your pace and will drive either side of you at the point of crossing paths.  It may take all your courage to precede, do so, and if you think to yourself they really need to slow down, now, then stop at whatever point you are on the road and they too will stop. Easy!  It’s an extraordinary thing. 

I see travellers standing at pedestrian crossings waiting for the lights to change and when they do they become confused when the traffic keeps coming.  They are equally astonished to see people like myself step out onto the road and weave through the traffic without being hit.  Faith just doesn’t belong to the religious alone.  It is required of the ‘crossers of roads’ in Naples and other places where traffic operates in a similar manner.  Which takes me back to India.  I recall being on a motored rickshaw and instead of the head on traffic passing opposite direction, so did the traffic to the right and left of me causing me to put my head in my hands and cry out with fear.

When walking around Mergellina last week, a trail of traffic was building-up as was the noise of the horns which made me look ahead to see what blocked their path only to find it was a police van.  I can’t imagine this happening in Australia, but here, only the Neapolitans, who kept angrily thumping the horn until the police in their own sweet time decided to unblock the way, could dare.  Drivers on Vespas are also guilty of speeding past a pedestrian way to close for comfort when there is ample room not to do so.  Closeness doesn’t concern me but the speed of the bike with such closeness does and I often wonder what if I put out an arm one day or quickly turn around when a bike is too close what may occur?

What incited this blog was the repeated blast of one horn from the street below that drew me to the balcony of the hostel.  I looked down and a car was trying to get out of the narrow street but two vespas were in its way.  One Vespa was moved, eventually, by its owner who was possibly finishing a phone call, the other parked Vespa was budged out of the way by a helpful onlooker, setting off its alarm and adding an overarching noise to the noise. 

Parking is another astonishment here.  Cars park bumper to bumper and somehow get themselves in and out of such parks without the use of cranes.  I have seen disputes requiring the involvement of police, with people arguing as to who presented first for a parking space.  Amusing to watch as the police often show no interest in the matter and usually have a cigarette whilst watching young women pass by as the animated arguing parties jab their hands into the air, at their chest or to the ground. 

Shredded and amputated side mirrors on cars are often seen demonstrating the closeness and recklessness of cars proximity to buildings and other cars – hopefully not pedestrians. Theft of such property is also a concern.  Should you have the misfortunate to have a flat tyre or break down causing you to leave your vehicle temporarily it is done so with great risk as it may not be there when you get back.  Such illegal activity is so frequent that it is taken as part and parcel of life in Naples.

Whilst I am reluctantly resigned to the fact that the sometimes irritating traffic is a big part of living in Naples, it’s still an impressive thing to walk amongst.

Ciao

hellsbells

Le Isole Al Sole

Water of Capri

Islands have to evoke some positive image in most peoples’ minds when it comes to the mention of the word.  Naples has three not far from its shoreline and each offers something completing different to its visitor.

Capri (pronounced car-pree), the most famous, Procida (pronounced pro-schee-da) and Ischia (pronounced iss-kee-a) are approximately an hour away by boat give or take 20 minutes.  Fast or slow boats will get you there, varying in price, by several boat companies.

 Each island offers its own attractions and benefits yet I declare my favourite of them all is Procida.  Capri is without a doubt, a beautiful island.  The deepest blue water, pristine buildings, happy coloured boats and a buzz of activity with open-top shiny taxis, white pants, blue shirts and mirrored sunglasses.  Smooth white pebbles edge the shoreline with patches of sand coveted by those who don’t want to pay for the day beds and umbrellas that soften the impact from the smooth white rocks.  The gentle rise up to Ana Capri holds the best of hotels, expensive cafes and restaurants and designer clothes shops.  Porters run up and down the narrow streets carrying the luggage of the rich and possibly famous although I haven’t seen any one that I know of yet – they’re probably dropped in by helicopter.  Just past this hub of activity is the drop to a stunning view and the prettiest colour of water to my eyes.  A winding path runs down to waters edge and another nucleus of homes. 

Capri

There is nothing on Capri that reflects the surface grime or graffiti of Naples.  The sun shines on every street and shade is provided by green shrubs and palms rather than tall buildings.  It’s like a film-set really and one that I’m very happy to be on, yet if only I could afford it.  Catching the 7.35am boat that takes an hour will get me there for just over 9 euro or almost double that if I take a fast boat.  It is refreshing to be down at the port and then boating on calm water heading to an island when there is a semblance of quiet and nature can be appreciated before the traffic devours it. 

The Carthusian perfumery established in 1948 uses formulas that date back to 1380 that originated on the island and its distillery and shop front still operate today. Food and drink are rudely overpriced so to bring a packed lunch is advised if you’re on a budget or just object to being overcharged.  Being on Capri makes me feel part of the rich and famous even though it’s just for a day.

Ischia

The first thing I was ever told about Ischia is that it’s big in size and not really an island to walk around on foot and much frequented by German tourists for the thermal baths.  I visited Ischia for the first time last week and found it a very different environment to Capri and Procida.  The island is big, as was told, and so has a lot more traffic on it, the four-wheeled as well as the foot kind.  The shops are somewhat like the Gold Coast in Australia hosting a generic-range of brightly coloured resort-wear along with an excess of retailers trying to attract those who ‘have to shop’.  I could easily fit into this category but not for this kind of merchandise.  Many of the people on the Ischia dress for Carnivale as opposed to the Ralph-Lauren fashionista’s of Capri.   The accommodation looked unpretentious and relaxing and prompting a memory of holiday on Magnetic Island as child.

The streets are pleasant to walk around and the beaches are of volcanic brown/black sand.  Due to the hills or small mountains on Ischia, a motorised vehicle is possibly the way to see most of it.  The water isn’t the fantastic blue of Capri but I’ve been told that there are better beaches at other parts of the island accessible by bus, than the one I went to near the Port.  It was disappointing that there weren’t take away food stalls for lunch because I always like to try some savoury, delicious treat when out and about for the day but they only sold take away sweet pastries and gelato.  The restaurants were geared towards tourists to sit down only so that they’re charged accordingly although  I don’t begrudge them making a living.  Luckily I had packed a panini of my own making.  I look forward to another visit to Ischia to explore beyond the Port area. 

Procida

Procida was first experienced in 2000 when I, and a friend from the Netherlands, arrived early one morning at 7.00am.  As we hadn’t had breakfast we ventured toward a café soon after disembarking from the boat.  Hunger provided a great appreciation for the just baked caramelised onion and rosemary focaccia, followed by several coffees.  Well passed hunger, I ordered another round, as I couldn’t get enough of the sweet, salty flavour of the onion, herb and bread.  Italians in the south of Italy are good at putting salt in their bread.  (When eating bread in Siena I was rudely shocked that anything Italian could fall way short of southern standards).  We were offered a coffee referred to as Café Corretto, which is coffee with a dash of Grappa.  They may have assumed that to be up so early it was possible we hadn’t gone to bed at all and so needed a ‘hair of the dog’ to put us in good stead for the day.  The name of the coffee translates to ‘coffee corrected’ hence the Grappa correcting the hangover.  I have to say I like my coffee pure in the morning and so didn’t indulge.

Procida

Walking around Procida back then held no evidence of any tourist invasion or visit for that matter.  More people are visiting this great little island and I noted that there are more shops now around the Port than I recall.  I hope that the islands harmless and gorgeous winding streets with beautifully dilapidated and colourful homes aren’t changed.  The sand too is dark and the water appears green/brown and washes in with barely a wave or white foam.  Fishing is still its primary industry as I understand it to be and I love the purple, blue and orange fishing nets wound and twisted like thick hair in a chignon that slump on the wharfs with the weight of a resting seal.  Cork floats bejewel the nets and are as decorative to the eye as the fish they catch in them.

Procida is very walkable and if you're a romantic like myself it's the best way to see things.  There are a couple of beaches where one can swim and another area for snorkelling.  Food is found in restaurants that are not always seen from the street, for instance, one that I have frequent sits on the side of a hill which runs down to the beach.  The restaurants roof is covered in thin, cane blinds, the same colour as the sandy cliffs overgrown with prickly pear or Indian Fig as the locals refer to them.  Inside the space the entrance to the crazy paving floor is dusted in sand leading to a small floor bath to clean the feet before sitting down.  Patterned ceramic jugs hold the house wines that I find perfect to drink with lunch, as I don’t feel sleepy when consuming them.  Seafood is definitely my favourite meat to eat when it is cooked properly (i.e. not overcooked and lightly seasoned with lemon and salt) and my craving for it is always heightened around sea air.  To enjoy my lunch whilst looking over the beach has got to be the best aid for good digestion.

Ischia

The 1994 Michael Radford directed film, Il Postino, was partly shot on Procida and the building used for the inn where the character, Beatrice Russo worked remains today.  I was thrilled to find the location of the building, as the film is a favourite of mine.  Procida has the pace that appeals to me when being on an island and all the walking, swimming and eating provide me with all the contentment that I need.

As passionate as I feel about Procida I hope that you can visit and explore for yourself if you’re lucky enough to get there, and to create your own lovely memories of this island along with Capri and Ischia.  

Ciao, hellsbells

Sandra - The Zen Masters of Hair Styling

If any of you have spent enough time in my company you would know that I have always been ‘funny’ about my hair.  By that, I mean that hair stylists – as they prefer to be called today - never know how to cut thick, coarse, hair like mine and I felt I was often left looking like the ‘wrong person’ with a hair-do that I wasn’t happy with, to say the least.

Strangely, when I did find a hair stylist who did ‘get’ my hair, they cost a fricken fortune.  Why is that?  Why can’t they be the cheapest haircutter in town?  And, you may be saying to yourself at this point, because you have to pay to get good quality professionals, and if you are then I can say to you, that’s what I thought but wrong!

On one of my walkabouts around the streets of Naples I decided to catch the funiculare (cable car) up to Vomero, a place that contrasts to the narrow, shady streets of the historic centre where I reside.  I stepped out of the station and took an instinctive turn to my left purely because I hadn’t taken that path before.  A few meters down the hill I passed a small fronted shop with a fresh white frame trimmed with purple and orange – trust me it does look good.  The hint of activity from the three hair stylist inside seen by my peripheral vision made me stop in my tracks and walk back to it.  I stood there taking in the scene: small, neat, stylish, women, calm, nothing threatening, and in I stepped.

A young woman, Claudia, greeted me and I in return said, Buongiorno. Parla inglese?  Pocco, with a sideways nod of her head.  Then, grabbing strands of my hair, I point to the roots saying colour.  She nodded her understanding.  Quanta costa?  Ventidue.  I felt like I had been incorrectly quoted in my favour, a bargain price on an expensive item. When can you do it?  Now.

My hair did need a trim yet given my peculiarity about my hair being cut I thought to have the roots coloured would be the test as to whether this was going to be my hairdresser whilst residing in Naples. I had tried only days before to use a packet hair dye which I hadn’t used in at least twenty years and not only did it not take to my hair but it cost me close to 19 euro to buy the products required.  To have my hair coloured for 4 euro more was a dream.

Men usually do hair styling and cutting in Naples; to find a salon that has a woman working in it, let alone all women is a bit of a find.  Why this is so I’m not sure but like my doctors, I prefer someone of the same gender so that they will have some understanding of how things work.  I am certainly not opposed to having a man cut my hair, take a pap smear or discuss the non-joys of menopause but it certainly helps to have someone who shares a similar gender lifestyle to mine.

It was the vibe of the place that told me these women knew what they were doing.  My first clue were the other clients in the salon.  They were middle-aged women, of my own category and some older, who had well cut hair.  Like a butcher, I pride myself on being able to see a good cut several meters off and the way the hair fell on the heads of these women told me that I was in the right place.  Italian women also have thick hair similar to mine so it was reassuring that I wasn’t going to be told, as I once was by a hair stylists, that I had bastard hair. 

Observing all around me, the three stylists, Claudia, Sandra and Veronica didn’t have the attire of a female night club bouncer as some hairdressers do that can make me feel that my regular clothing falls short of interesting.  And if we shared the same language I also believe that I wasn’t going to be asked ‘and what are you doing tonight?’ as if it were obligatory to be dining or partying at a recently opened business that was launched by Vogue or owned by Justin Hemmes. 

No, Sandra is a place of regular women of no nonsense who are unpretentious, hard working Zen masters of hair styling and cutting.  Watching these woman move around a small space with grace and calm, remove hair from the floor with an efficient slow curving sweep of the broom reminded me of a gardener’s rake attending to a Japanese sand garden.  The three women greeted their customers as an Australian would greet a relative.  They said their name, kissed each cheek and sometimes took hold of a hand as they spoke.

The Zen stylists washed the heads of hair with as much care as a palliative nurse: gentle, loving and soothing.  To watch hair being cut by them is truly remarkable as the cutter’s eye measures the thin gathered strands with a seconds pause before cutting and then scooping the next thin layer drawing it back to her rather than straight up.  Cutting in small amounts is a sign of a confident cutter because each layer needs to be connected to the next and to maintain consistency when cutting this way is the work of a master.

Taking fleeting glances at the Italian version of Women’s Day, my hair gooped with colour and facing a large mirror I can see all that goes on around me.  When I reached for my reading glasses, Sandra stops what she is doing, gently takes the glasses from my hands, Gladwrap’s the ends of them and presents then to me with a smile.  You have no idea how much this impresses me.  As a stickler for fine detail – big time!

Following the two hours of pleasure viewing hair stylists at Sandra it is time for me to have the colour washed out.  This takes about 12 minutes.  It is washed, then washed, then conditioned, and then washed.  When placed back into my chair, I am asked in Italian if I want my hair dried straightened or natural, but I didn’t understand this at the time and so shrug.  Claudia takes charge and starts to blow-dry my hair.  Each layer, like cutting, is taken by a round bristled brush and rolled and straightened and rolled with the arm movements of a weaver or a percussionist.  I worried about her arms getting tired and so slid down in my chair to accommodate.  She smiles and we both feel good.

When the hairdryer is turned off I look up and feel transformed.  My hair is a soft bouncy ball of shiny blond so perfectly styled that it looks like something from a magazine.  Ordinarily I always opt for au naturale but that day I loved my new look.  Perfecto! Grazie mille.  Bueno, molto bueno.  Grazie, Claudia.  Grazie mille.

My hair bounced and curved with a silky texture I hadn’t felt before on my head.  I was Mary Tyler Moore, who could turn the world on with a smile.  I wanted to hug them and it took a little control not to.  I paid my money and hovered a few inches off the ground all the way home. 

A month later on my second appointment I had my hair trimmed and was very happy with the result.  The cut was classic, as are the cutting styles at Sandra.  I don’t believe it is the place to have your Mohawk or lop sided style that appears to have made a come back into fashion which is not to say they wouldn’t do it.  I’m a big fan of classic with a twist, but more so of styles that suit the face despite the fashion de jour.  The cut I was given was so good it inspired me to purchase some vintage sunglasses, (yes there is an ‘s’ on the end of the word), to go with my classic look.  One pair is Christian Dior and the other a no-name brand but well suited for my face and I love wearing them.

I have sent quite a few people to Sandra since being here and ne’er an unhappy customer.  I found out that they also do the odd eyebrow shaping and who knows what other talents these women have up their sleeves.  For those of you who may venture to Naples and need your hair done here is the address:  Sandra Querini – Parrucchiere per Signora, via Morghen, 70 B, Napoli. 081 578 88 91

The other thing to add is that making an appointment is not the done thing.  You just turn up and wait, and what a pleasurable wait it will be.

Ciao

hellsbells

The Art of Wearing Heels

Neapolitan streets can be treacherous to walk on in flat shoes in fine weather never mind in heels.  There are two kinds of road surface here: ones made of small, square, cobbled stones or large square flagstones with barely an even surface between them. 

The Birkenstock sandals that I wear most days since being here are ruined already due to the raised corners of buckled, chunky, square stone that have cracked and split the cork of the shoe.     

I have also experienced aching legs from all the walking on these hard uneven surfaces let alone accomplishing such kilometers in the foot wear I'm in awe of, despite whether it is attractive or not.

You may be a flat shoe follower like myself but one cannot help but admire the precision required by so many women in Naples who wear excessively high shoes.  I am amazed and fascinated how they can walk in such shoes on such surfaces.  To hear a car drive over this surface is like hearing a truck run over a cattle grid, which is very similar to the sound of a flat tyre on a moving car.  I journeyed on a bus from Posillipo one Sunday afternoon and thought the teeth were going to be shaken from my jaw.  Apart from the rough surface of the road, the bus clearly had no shock absorbers.  I had concerns for elderly citizens on the bus who were desperately trying to hang on to the rails whilst the bus’ rattle viciously tugged at their grip.  And anyone who was close to full term pregnancy took delivery of their offspring into their own hands when ascending the bus steps. 

Italians look adorable when they promenade, arm in arm, not just with their partner but friends of the same sex.  Seeing linked arms makes me feel that the world is good place.  Yet I now know that walking arm in arm is not about friendship or love but about having someone to support you in ridiculously high heels and to catch you if you take a dive.  A slow stroll is another thing that can be seen in Naples which I believe provides some calm amongst the chaos.  I suspect this too is about negotiating the uneven surface and maintaining balance as well as coping with the heat and humidity in summer.

In all the time I have been in Naples I’ve not once seen someone fall or even stub her or his toe on these uneven stones so this suggests to me that there must be an art to it. 

A month ago I purchased a pair of platform shoes as nothing makes you blend in with Neapolitan life more than a pair of platform shoes, stylish boots and some bling on your denim wear.  The shoes I purchased are without doubt, comfortable, and I can easily walk in them, at the shoe store.  The true test however is to walk on the paving stones of concern that takes the experience to a whole other level and like my Italian, it’s one I’m prepared to practice. 

Shoes with a seven-inch-plus heals are reserved for the Olympians in this field.  It appears impossible for the small surface of a shoe, particularly one with a spiky heel and a wedge, to make a solid purchase on the uneven face of a path or road and yet they do it!  I have tried to observe their method when I pass a Shoe Olympian in the streets putting my own safety at risk as I do so by diverting my eyes from looking out for potentially threatening traffic, to watching these Olympian feet in their clobber of highness walk like a model on the catwalk. 

It is unheard of for Italians to wear rubber thongs and given their style, quite rightly so.  There are quite a few Neapolitans who wear a sports shoe, which is of course very sensible and stylish and clearly for the non Shoe Olympian such as myself.  Yet, I also know that when Neapolitans have a special event to attend to they get dressed up and the heels are brought out and put on.  Again, I stand alone, but do I?  I now have my platforms, I have taken them for a test drive and passed my Learners and as I walk my way out of my Provisional period I know that I will graduate proudly by the end of my time here.  

Ciao

hellsbells

Wax On Wax Off

I’ve never had my legs waxed before so when I found out how relatively cheap beauticians are in Naples I was ready to give it a go. 

An appointment was made by phone by my friend Jenny who speaks fluent Italian, requesting on my behalf to have my legs waxed and eyebrows tinted.  Feeling quite confident that nothing more needed to be done I set off on the appointed day, walking a few blocks before I realised that I had left the address to the beautician back at the hostel.  Recalling the instructions from Jen about how to get there, I forged on and eventually reached the building after a few twists and turns up and down the same street only to find I wasn’t quite there yet.  The beautician was situated in one of the many buildings you will see in Naples whereby you step through a small door that is part of a large set of doors opening into an internal courtyard.  From there, you either ascend steps to the required level or take an incredibly small and old elevator that only works if you have 10 cents. 

Buildings are usually managed by porters who have a small cubicle or office.  As I had no idea what level the beautician was I strode up and asked my usual question, ‘Parla inglese?’ receiving the usual reply, ‘No’.  I then quoted the incorrect business name, Blue Angel instead of Beauty Angel, which of course didn’t help the porter so I was left to my next resort of charades.  I wasn’t particularly keen to re-enact a bikini wax to the porter and his intrigued friend, and miming a leg wax may easily look as if I was brushing off bugs.  He tried to help by placing his two palms together to the side of his head and miming sleep to suggest that I was looking for accommodation, to which I replied, No, I want Blue Angel, appreciatiing how much that could have sounded like the name of a sex parlour and then pretending to draw eyebrows on myself.  Ah, si, si, si!  Both men responded.  They pointed to the stairs saying quattro piano. 

Up I climbed the four floors only to find the door to the business was closed. I knocked and waited.  No-one was seen in reception or walking about the interior hallway.  Eventually I found a buzzer in a not so obvious place that allowed me entry. 

The greeting beautician started speaking to me in Italian and unfortunately for me I didn’t know enough of the language (and still don't) to understand her.  I could only repeat, leg wax and eyebrow tint in an exaggerated way strangely believing that it would somehow help.

Following her into a room I removed my jeans and lay down on the bed.  Warm wax was spread on my legs with a metal spatula, like icing a cake.  It felt therapeutically good.  A piece of cloth was rubbed on top of the wax and zinnnnggggggg, a sensation spread up my legs like pins being inserted en masse followed by the lingering sting of a grazed knee, so I decided at this point to lay back and think of earlier Neapolitan times whilst she proceeded to apply wax and rip it off with such efficiency the upshot was that it wasn’t going to take long.

The room I was in was tiny but due to the curtained petitioning of the cubicles it was clearly part of a larger room in its day.  Slim, white narrow doors with an ornate doorframe once lead to another room has been walled off and now used as cupboards.  I pictured woman in dresses with huge side bustles like Marie Antoinette, stepping through the thin doors to take tea from fine bone china, or perhaps it had been their toiletry room and they were about to piss in a pot.  Ornate decoration is to be seen in anything old in Naples so I also pictured silk ribbons, tapestries and beautiful hand-stitched cushions.

The ceiling had exposed, worn, uneven beams enhanced by white plaster encasing them.  More French doors and shutters opened onto a balcony that faced the street below.  Shania Twain blared out from small speakers screwed to the wall and the beautician, possibly 20 something and wearing a Mini Mouse T-shirt, provided an opposing image of what this room has housed over hundreds of years.

When I was asked to turn over by a circular roll of the hand the back legs were then stripped of their hair and my toes curled up to brace myself from the sting of multiple hairs leaving their pore. 

There is something quite comfortable for me when not having the need to communicate with people in a shared space and it was also comfortable that my leg waxer knew what she was doing.  When the task was done and cream rubbed over my legs there was only one thing left to do - brow tinting.

Another beautician entered the room for this and Mini Mouse left.  Valleria, the owner of the salon, had walked in smiling and talking Italian.  I smiled and pointed to my eyebrows saying colore.  Si, she said. She moved towards me with some tweezers just in time for me to stop her.  I think again about what to mime.  I pinch my index and thumb fingers together arching them over my brows as if painting something; I think she understands this time only to see her going for the waxing pot.  No, no, signora, colore!  Relieved, she found the small mixing container for dye used for eyebrow tints and started mixing so I rested my head back on the pillow again able to relax. 

If I were at home having this process done I would be have been most particular about the depth of shade the brows were being tinted to avoid them looking like a mad lady set loose with a black brow pencil but I didn’t care if they came out purple I was pleased that we were both on track and made a mental note to myself that I would  prepare my sentences before I entered such arrangements.

Neapolitans are particularly good at getting the look right even if it’s a trashy one.  They appear to be very comfortable in taking charge and making decisions in their specialist areas, whether it be making coffee, mixing colour, selecting fruit or deciding what to wear.  I suspect the sentence, I’m not sure about that, is perhaps not in their vocabulary or psyche.

I left Beauty Angel with smooth legs for summer, brows that didn’t require the use of a brow pencil and a commitment to learning more Italian.  

ciao

hellsbells