I Shop Therefore I Am

When arriving in any new place I often look for the heart of a cities culture through its clothing, design and food and where the psyche of the people can be reflected in their purchases.  Naples has several businesses that sell and produce unique, quality and extremely attractive items and it’s worth informing you of these little gems.

 Portobello not only gave me my first pair of cork wedges but also introduced me to two talented women, Serena and Lordana, a mother and daughter team who own and operate the clothing and shoe business.  The shop front is misleading as are so many in Naples because it appears to be a small showroom. Once inside the shop there is a set of stairs that leads to a cavern of rooms below housing some avant-guarde and well-styled fashion.  Many of the products are imported from London such as the well-known Fly London brand. The shoes I purchased are Fly London and as I previously hadn’t heard of them before I am certainly in love with their products now.  There are many products to love at Portobello that can be located in via Pignasecca, number 12.

Kiphy is a special store that came to my attention via my nose.  A small, wooden interior, Kiphy is an ancient Egyptian name, owned and operated by a woman who makes the most beautiful organic and aromatic soaps from olive oil insitu.  One of my favourites, and pretty much all of them were, is soap called Stromboli. The colour of the soap is a light jade green with licorice black fine, smooth grains of sand on the top of the soap and sparingly smattered throughout the cake, from the island of Stromboli itself.  The smell is fresh and slightly pepperminty and when using the soap you have an inbuilt exfoliant.  Other products made at Kiphy are for hair, face and bath products.  www.kiphy.it

A shop with no name, owned by the brother of the woman who operates Kiphy, designs and sells tailored couture by Salvatore, a charismatic talented being.  I chanced upon this shop whilst walking and seeing his creations made me go in and photograph the interior because everything looked beautiful, from dusty magazines in a corner to his mannequins showcasing the clothes that are well crafted with a retro edge to flattering lines and curves in these textural garments.  This business is not far down the lane from Kiphy in vico San Domenico Maggiore, number 3. Unfortunately there is no website or name for this business making it a rare gem when found.

Che Follia is a little further on in via Tribunali (number 308) and the clever works in this shop are made from recycled material by people with mental disabilities.  Works range from paintings, decorative items, lamps, mirrors, chairs and vases.   Attracting my attention was a chair with the seat made from belts next to bags knitted from plastic bags.  Mirrors and lamps made from rolled magazine paper arranged at different heights with an attractive effect of colour and texture and not as ‘home craft looking’ as it may sound.  If I had a home to furnish I would have bought much from this store as the works had a professional finish and a contemporary, sustainable design.

Frendo is a retro clothing store, also in vico San Domenico Maggiore that runs between Sapaccanapoli and via Tribunali.  This is where I purchased soon after I arrived, two pairs of sunglasses; one pair from Christian Dior and another nameless classic where the quality can be seen and felt when wearing them.

Whilst there are many large store brands, Zara, Camilla and Promod offering a great outfit to take home as a souvenir and made in China, consider the locally owned businesses that can often guarantee that your purchase is made either locally or nationally and will be a better item to remind you of Naples and Italy.  So get out there and explore as they can be found.

Under the Sicilian Sun

In June I had a weeks holiday in Sicily to escape the hustle of bustle of Naples in exchange for the hustle and bustle of Sicily.  Taking the overnight boat from Naples to Catania, I left at 7.30pm Sunday night and arrived exactly 12 hours later.   Not a lover of sailing due to motion sickness I found the boat as a mode of transport to be pleasant even though I had the sways throughout the following two days. 

When I left for Sicily the heat had started to intensify and without the build-up and concentration of Neapolitan streets, Catania and the other places I visited; Taormina, Syracuse and Noto, felt hotter.  Given the lack of signage and a map, I found my way with the help of some locals, out of the port into the city centre to the oasis of my accommodation.  Along the way I came across the early morning fish and vegetable markers, prompting me, of course, to photograph the colourful and sculptural produce.  Once at the B&B I showered and was tempted to sleep for a while yet it felt wrong to shun the daylight so I went out again into the streets to roam amongst the Baroque and Rococo style buildings.

Sicilians see themselves as Sicilian rather than Italian.  Sicily looks and feels different, due perhaps to the trace of the Arabic, Spanish, French and Greek cultures that have dominated the small island and other southern places over the centuries.  The benefits leftover from such cultural invasions are often in the food and architecture and Sicily has a reputation for its food.  Given the intense heat I surprisingly didn’t eat as much as I thought I would or wish to.  One of the food consumptions that I saw a lot of was of granita and brioche for breakfast or lunch or even dinner.  The granita is not the one I am used to consuming in Naples, which consists of fresh lemon juice, thickly shaved ice and sugar.  Sicilian granita is finer, more like a sorbet and comes in a range of flavours.  Pistachio is a highlight in Sicily.  A desert bowl of one or more flavours is served with a small knob of sweetened brioche.  For breakfast, it was way too sweat for me and I was unable to finish my serve.  For an afternoon pickup the treat works just fine.  Whilst waiting for two hours in the direct sun for a bus to Taormina I saw the dish served with granita inside the brioche, somewhat like a hotdog served in a bun.   Cannoli is another Sicilian specialty but I’m sorry to say I didn’t make the opportunity to try some.

With the pleasurable benefit of an Australian friend who lives in Catania, I was accompanied by Cezanne and her partner Giuseppe to Mt Etna where from the 1000ft lookout I felt transported to another world due to the dark, resting lava contrasting with zesty green forestation growing fecund in the soil.  Feeling very much in the lap of mythical gods, three quarters of the way up the active volcano, the landscape dominated all the way to the sea, whilst I, perched like a small piece of gravel, felt pitted against the mountains slope whilst viewing the panoramic scene before me.  The crunch of the volcanic rock and dust are a reminder of why so many buildings are constructed from its soil and rock shrouding southern buildings with this darkened, lightweight stone. 

Blood oranges and pistachios are a specialty of the region.  Giuseppe, who farms blood orange trees, said the colour of fruit deepens due to the soil type.  On the way from Mt Etna we stopped at Belpasso for a pistachio arancini.  The arancini dates back to the 10^th century when the Kalbids, a Shia Muslim dynasty, ruled Sicily.  Eating this filling treat, turned into a meal.  The outer crust was crunchy and the pistachio nut gave a slightly sweet and salty flavour.  We then ate hand-made orange rind coated chocolates before departing back to Catania.  An amusement along the way was passing through a place called Mister Bianco, evoking Quentin Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs.  The name of this town, I was told, is due to a mispronunciation and instead of the real name sounded somewhat similar, they ended up with Mister Bianco and its spelling.

Walking around Catania’s market, one of the largest food markets I have ever seen, my camera could possibly have had a stroke due to the amount of photos I took.  The batteries certainly died from use, allowing me to actually see the produce through my own eyes instead of a lens and purchase some for lunch.  I then walked around in the heat to find a small space in the shade to sit and eat the bread, cheese, olives and artichokes I had purchased, with nothing to be seen.  I kept walking and found myself out of the market area and back at via Etenea, uncertain where to go to next when I found myself outside a McDonalds.  I can hear your gasps already.  The air conditioning was like a siren’s call to a sailor so in I walked, lunch in hand dangling beside me.  The entrance looked like a foyer to an expensive hotel.  Not having eaten hot chips or a hamburger for many months, I started to get excited about my order and more excited about having my body cooled by the air conditioning.  Could I be any happier? - On that day, possibly not.  I ate my food with relish occasionally glancing at my fresh Italian produce sitting beside me in a bag.  The guilt started to build and I felt that I had committed a mortal sin against Italian culture. Despite this I kept eating contentedly.  I’m not a McDonalds eater in Australia, possibly twice a year I would venture into a store.  To be eating such food in the heart of food culture could be the biggest sin I’ve ever committed.

Syracuse was the next place I visited but sadly I did not connect with this town.  Ortiga, an ancient and small place joined to Syracuse via a bridge was pleasant visually to walk around and made up for some of my disappointment with Syracuse.  The streets of Ortiga were narrow and full of interesting shops that opened up into a large piazza with the duomo solidly erected, looking incongruous in such a place yet a monument to life that once was.  The small streets held interesting detail such as woven lobster nets that hung sculpturally above pedestrians.  It was frustrating to be in such heat only to find one narrow entrance to some temporary scaffolding put up for summer that arched over rocks to launch people into the water amongst the floating rubbish.  This was, sadly, too off putting for me to take the plunge. 

The unnerving thing about Syracuse was the amount of men sitting around the streets and at a guess, the ratio appeared to be around 7:3.   The lack of female presences perplexing and I didn’t take to the unoccupied male dominance.  From Syracuse I took a daytrip to Noto, a beautifully preserved town where huge churches and buildings looked deserted against the few locals and tourists who walked up and down its main street.  I ventured down side streets feeling shut out from the life force of pulsing Sicilian culture.  I was told, by a fellow traveller that when he was there the town came to life after siesta where the evening is full of people enjoying the streets and the cooler air and sadly my day trip didn’t accommodate a longer visit.

Taormina gave me great joy, as it was not only visually beautiful but had a clean, cool sea to swim in.  Unfortunately it was my briefest stay and whilst it is known as a tourist town, I was happy to be amongst a more even proportion of men, women and children who strolled around easily.   The town itself sits up high on a cliff face and the water below is accessed via a cable car.  If I had stayed in this coastal delight for a week I would not be able to have a more rounded Sicilian experience and perhaps would have left under some delusion. 

The use of a credit card to pay for accommodation or even obtaining cash from an ATM can be difficult.  My experience was that most places demand cash and dealing with banks to sort out why your card was rejected can be slightly stressful given the connection to survival a credit card can be in a travellers’ life, so, when venturing to Sicily cash up.

On a unified note, I noticed that the constant use of the horn whilst in traffic unifies the drivers of Sicily to those of Naples.  Perhaps it is a way for Southern Italians to release their frustrations of bureaucratic life.  What is puzzling to me is that where Italians demonstrate their anger in some sectors they conceal it in others.  For example, after the boat arrived into Naples port, a hold up of some kind prevented the passengers from disembarking for an hour.  To my amazement, not one peep from anyone, either asking what the hold up was or that they were tired of waiting.  Hundreds of people stood, patiently, holding their luggage, the hands of their children, their domestic pets and their pride until we were released.  All I could think of was chaos, control, chaos, control, Sicily's dichotomy, and perhaps Life’s too.

Ciao

hellsbells

There Is A Season

Pomodoro season

 Italians love to do things according to the rule.  It appears, without question for the most part, that when tried and true rules have been passed down to generation after generation, no one appears to question it even though certain things around these ceremonies and rules have changed and make them obsolete, such as weather.

Still not sure what I’m talking about?  Well, when I first arrived here in March it was the season of spring.  Spring is predominantly cool days with a few warm ones thrown in.  On warm days I dress accordingly.  On warm days Italians dress according to spring wearing warm clothing despite the temperature.  Whilst they’re looking at me strangely, I’m certainly looking back at them with interest.  When in summer, flip flops or shorts are rarely seen on Italians for they continue to present their stylish ways.

Sicilian wedding in June with
not a sweaty face to be seen

Italians don’t sweat someone told me. I still don’t believe it but it appears to be true for they stroll along in their ironed shirts and uncreased jackets, or weather jackets and scarves, with no sign of perspiration.   June is the season for weddings in the southern Italian states and despite the heat and humidity they still dress to impress.

Walking around with wet hair is another offensive.  Understandably, in cold weather it isn’t advisable to walk around with a head of wet hair but it isn’t life threatening either.  My beloved hairstylist, Sandra, finds it unthinkable that I would want to depart from my silky Mary Tyler Moore hairdo, for cost saving reasons, in order to shake my head and walk into the sun for it to dry.  It’s crazy to think that they find it nearly criminal to have wet hair but okay to drive incredibly close and fast near pedestrians.

I was asking a Neapolitan friend about some soft cheese that I first found and tried in a salumiera (deli) in Siena, and how to best devour this gorgeous cheese.  Her response was to put it onto bread (I did that) and whilst waiting for the list to go on it stopped there.  What about pasta? I asked.  Noooo, she said, this is not good for pasta.  But according to my reasonably good palette, it was bloody brilliant with pasta but I dare not tell an Italian how to use cheese or any other food product, despite my successful discovery.  The soft cheese Stracchino is very similar to a goats’ cheese in colour, taste and texture, the expensive kind that you can find in a supermarket often cylindrical in shape and rolled in ash. 

Whilst appreciating and thoroughly enjoying Italian cuisine, I also appreciate the fantastic dishes that have been created because of the Australian approach to fusion food.  Italian food is very traditional but limited should I compare the culinary delights between Italy and Australia.  Italians can be praised for ‘getting it right’ as they pass down regional recipes yet it is limited when comparing such cuisine to countries such as Australia where a range of good produce is used in various dishes.  Each region and sometimes family have a different method when cooking.  Put salt into the boiling pasta water or, wait until the pasta is in the water.  Don’t mix cheese with seafood or don’t put the wrong cheese with a dish.  If you were able to listen to Italians converse it is mostly about food, what they ate and what they will eat.

Cook the right pasta with the right dish.  This one I get.  The incredible range of different pasta could fill a museum and quite possible there is one somewhere.  The brand of pasta also becomes contentious.  I have predominantly been a Barilla user for the past(a) decade but since being in Naples I have been assured that Garofalo, a Neapolitan made pasta, is better.

It is admirable to find that fruit and vegetables are supplied when in season only.  If they don’t have it then you don’t eat it.  The fruit and vegetables are displayed with care and creativity.  A wooden box of deep purple figs sat in a blanket of their own leaves early one morning as I was purchasing breakfast for the hostel.  Their plump little bodies looked as delicate as a sleeping newborn pup.  I felt if I had tried to pick one up I would disturb it.  Despite that feeling, I bought four of them, returned to the hostel and ate two, ripping the oval fruit in half and gorged the sweet, grainy tissue.   Just as an aside – I have noticed that when trying to describe the delights of eating, in my posts on Naples, I then understand how Nigella Lawson is often criticized for saucing it up.  I am a big fan of Nigella as a cook and presenter and have always believed that she delivers her food knowledge in a creative and passionate way, ignoring all of the snide ‘oh, she knows what she’s doing’ remarks.  I confess I have rewritten some of my sentences for fear that they will, without a doubt, sound explicitly sexual.  But food is a sensual thing so maybe I shouldn’t worry too much.

Where was I?  Oh, yes, Italians and their rules.  I love how the fresh produce is grown to a natural maturation so that the flavours are intense and astonish the senses.  One thing I have noticed is that vegetables are cooked in a lot of oil.  Actually, most Italian dishes are cooked in a lot of oil.  I can’t say I am a big fan of the ‘heavy vegetable’ as I refer to it and whilst they are tasty, on the whole, they are far too heavy for my constant consumption.

A fresh crisp salad or lightly steamed vegetables are my preferred way of ingesting vegetarian produce yet seldom is it seen here.  A salad, if ordered in a restaurant, could quite possibly present on a platter as some iceberg lettuce and lemon juice.  Corn and carrot also make appearances on some of these salads that again, aren’t my style.  I suppose I have been spoilt with the variety of produce in Australia and the intensity of flavour in Italy.  Buon appetito and enjoy the season you’re in.

Ciao

hellsbells

O Mio MADRE

Interior courtyard of MADRE Museo

MADRE is an acronym for Museo D’Arte Contemoranea Donna Regina in Naples.  Madre is also the name for mother.  Should you be in Naples and not wanting to walk far from the historical centre with a few hours to fill in with something interesting, MADRE is your place.  The building on approach is bland comparatively to the Baroque and Rococo styles abounding in this city and is possibly classified as neo classical.  Once in the foyer of the building there is not a feeling being interior to the building itself but of an internal courtyard where a truck could easily be driven to deliver works, and possibly does, with the ticket office on one side and a museum store on the other.

MADRE houses permanent and temporary works of art.  Striking me as the most memorable and beautiful are works by Francisco Clemente and Mimmo Palatino.  Each work in the collection has its own room to possible avoid competition from other works as well as providing the viewer with a pure focus on the work.  The collection consists of artists from around the world such as Damien Hirst, Gilbert & George, Anselm Kiefer, Richard Serra and Jeff Koons, to name but a few.

To put this posting in context, I believe that art can be anything that has been created by someone with the intent to provide a message or statement.  It’s not necessarily found in a gallery and can be seen everyday on the streets.  It occurs in our day to day living, in our clothing, in our body language, in our choice of dinnerware, furniture, wall art and books.  All of us present ideas visually as alternate messages to language, consciously or unconsciously.  When I visit a gallery I enter curiously to see and hopefully feel what other people in the global community are saying through their visual statements.

Shlovsky’s 1917 essay, Art as Device said that art is thinking in images, I agree with this and I’m always interested to know what other people think or feel.  What they think and what I think about what they think are where lie some criticisms.  Unable to judge art on technical skill I believe that I intuitively know when something is well crafted and I found most of the works at MADRE to be visually appealing.  I also have a great appreciation for the years of technical training and study by artists of their art form as this too shines through work and can speak volumes.

The third floor of MADRE houses an exhibition titled Still Untitled by artist Sislej Xhafa, pronounced, sis-ly shay fa.  Each work had its own substantial room and the first one room presented a gaffer-taped microphone.  If I could insert a symbol for my eyebrows raising here I would.  The next room housed rubbish spread across the floor; the third, a bag of cement broken open; the fourth, a black bra hanging on a hook; the fifth, a toothpick on a plinth under a Perspex cover; and before exiting to see Xhafa’s final work, a watermelon on a pedestal.  I don’t know about you but I always think of the fable The Kings New Clothes at this point.  I can see a watermelon for its own beauty at the market or on a kitchen bench yet when it’s placed in a gallery I am not sure if someone is sharing their mutual appreciation of the fruit with me, or saying something altogether different and if they are all I can say is, I don’t get it.

Xhafa then held my attention with her final piece: that of a life size rowing boat made of all styles of used shoes titled Barka 2011.  Given the contentious topic of desperate refugees, this work held a powerful message for me despite what Xhafa’s own intention or message in the work may be.  It also evoked memories of images from World War II concentration camps where shoes, clothing, glasses, etc were taken from people who were taken into the gas chambers and sorted into piles.  A traveller who stayed at the hostel wore a pair of beaded sandals throughout her stay.  The day after she left I saw her shoes placed neatly on step of a resident a few doors down.  Perhaps she left them there for someone to take rather than putting them in a bin.  The sandals stayed there for days before they disappeared and each time I walked past them I was pleasantly reminded of the person and her possible good dead but there was also an eerie feeling for me of a departure of life, somewhat like a death.

Separated by a small laneway, the church of Santa Donna Regina Vecchia sits next to MADRE and sometimes houses temporary exhibiting works.  The earliest mention of this church was in 780, which is perhaps why I found such an atmosphere when I walked into its interior. English artist, Rachel Howard, a self-declared atheist, currently has her show of work in this church representing her versions of the Stations of the Cross.  Apart from one of the pieces hanging above the altar (see below) there was no message or pleasure derived from the remaining 12 works and this is where I may lose friendships.  The work looked like someone was deciding what floor stain to use.  The background colour of the works was a cold pale yellow.  I believe colours have their own messages and I couldn’t make a connection to the colour, the brush strokes or anything else that could possibly relate to the Stations of the Cross, apart from the one small work that was incredibly relevant to the exhibition’s theme.

Rachel Howard's Stations of The Cross

The church itself held way more interest for me. A shrine carved to represent Mary, wife of Charles I, resides in this space with seven of her sons below her each holding something different, great clues for the inquisitive mind to find out what they represent.  The openness, colouring and simplicity of the church appealed to me.  It looked and felt ancient and if I had seen in my peripheral vision a brown robe moving into a doorway I wouldn’t have doubted it.

Whilst quenching my thirst at the museum café, the attendant who served me was an artwork himself with the most interesting tattoos, hairstyle and body piercings.  Instead of being hung or photographed he served me, thus proving my point, that art is all around us and that all of us express ourselves in our artful lives mothered by our cultural influences. 

Ciao

hellsbells

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