I finally reached Naples. My first visit in the south of Italy if we’re excluding Sicily. I chose to come here because I was curious about the polarizing takes that people had when describing their visits to this place. It always felt like there was no middle ground. Either love it or hate it. Now, I can understand why.

As my plane touched in Napoli airport with a late arrival around 23:00, I looked around to the local faces of travellers who were local to the city. The first thing they did is clap. That reminded me the mid 2000’s flying experiences with Ryanair. Back then, everyone was clapping when the pilot landed. “Congratulations on the landing captain, thank you for not killing us!”. I used to smirk at the action but now that flying has become as standard as taking a bus for most Europeans, I do find some kind of charm in the applause. A bit of a collective performance that binds the passengers together.

But this was only the first Neapolitan moment. When the plane arrived at its “gate”, or rather its dedicated empty parking lot area - as is often the case with low-cost airlines - people stood up. Of course, the seatbelt sign was still fully lit, but people had no time to wait. Everyone wanted to access their luggage in the overhead bin, stretching their legs and bumping into each other. My seat was in the aisle and I could feel the mounting pressure of the couple sitting on my right to participate in this methodical frenzy. I eventually gave way to their wishes and stood up myself, awkwardly bumping shoulders with my fellow aisle people trying to gain a spot or two. The standing position is always a bit awkward in those moments. You’re never fully able to stand straight, you’re half crouching under the overhead bin. It had now been 5 minutes that the plane had stopped, and the seatbelt sign was now turned off. The energy in the plane was collectively felt as an urge to escape this Boeing prison.

“Ding-ding”. As the sacred bell sound of an approaching announcement was heard, the chatter ceased and everyone started paying attention. “Dear passengers, we’re currently waiting for a lift to proceed to disembark”. Interesting, there was no lift that had been pre-dispatched to the empty parking lot we were stationed on. My toxic side quietly brought a smile to my face thinking “welcome to Italy”. But as I was about to find out, this was only an early sign of a city that lives at its own rhythm. Both chaotically fast-paced and at the same time extremely laid back and relaxed. When the lift eventually arrived and the doors opened, it had been 25 minutes. Faces that had become somber because of the crammed experience suddenly lit up, and the determined front row passengers rushed through the exit to get a premium seat inside the shuttle, which is the second step of disembarking from a low-cost airline. I always wondered why those shuttles had such a specific design and shape, they look like fat buses. You must secure a spot in the fat shuttle bus as soon as possible to maximize your chances of not waiting for an additional shuttle bus which would, in a disastrous event, increase your waiting time by 5 minutes before you can reach the exit. It turns out that the front-row passengers strategy failed as the two shuttle buses (one for the front lift, one for the rear lift) were determined to prove that all passengers could fit in those two buses. As I mumbled my “sorry” while pushing my carry-on over the people inside the bus to make space, I started to feel like a sardine for the second time since landing.

The bus dropped us off at the airport entrance so that the race could continue. Shouts and screams were heard. People were determined to rush through the exit once and for all. But first, they had to pass through the luggage belts. There our group of passengers started mixing with another frenzy of passengers who had arrived from other countries. I was taken aback by the business of the airport at 23:30. It looked like morning peak time, or a lively market square. I passed a few unlucky folks queuing in the lost item line and thought about their journeys. They stood quietly, having already accepted their fate. I thought I should calibrate my own feelings and experiences to theirs, because nothing is worse than spending an additional 2 hours in an airport when you didn’t expect it, while also not having your luggage available to you.

It was now almost midnight when I exited the airport and I needed to get to Vomero as soon as possible to save my host some sleeping hours after he opened the door for me. He was going to do it from a distance, but he still needed to press the button as I reached out in front of the door. I exited the airport entrance and started looking for taxis, which would enable me to reach my destination in 15 minutes instead of 1h20 with the public transports. I saw people running left and right, not knowing where to go. The signage was approximative. In the middle of this dance, a few workers were looking in the void, chatting to each other. This chaos I was experiencing was their routine. They had become impassive to it. That’s how you cope with those situations, I thought. I tried my luck taking a left, as the majority of people were choosing that side and it aligned with my political views. In the darkness of the night, parking lines were shining and honking was continuously heard. Neapolitans honk like they breathe. As my good friend Giacomo once told me when driving in Milan, people are not really honking to demonstrate anger, they’re participating in a collective symphony. “Look, this is Bach” he said. “And I’m Beethoven” he added as he pressed on his own honk as a response.

The left had been a mistake. Not politically, but practically speaking I was on what seemed to be a road bridging the private and public parking where locals were waiting for family or friends to pick them up. I walked back to find the taxi area. “Taxi?”, “Do you need a taxi?”. I started hearing the proposals from men in white polos offering their taxi services. I knew from past experiences that those tend to be unofficial services that end up costing more than they should. I confirmed that hypothesis when I arrived at the taxi line, which consisted of 50 people queuing who had made the same choice to pass on the offers. I took place in the back of this new line and proceeded to wait a few minutes, to realize it wasn’t moving at all. I checked Uber, which also works with local taxis only, and decided to order my own ride, conscious I should arrive as promptly as possible to make sure my host wasn’t waiting for too long. Uber didn’t give me a ride but I let it run in the background. Twenty minutes later, I finally had a ride. Twenty minutes away. I thought maybe twenty is a fine number, and I decided to exit the taxi line to go sit on a bench and light up a cigarette while waiting. As I sat waiting for my ride, I saw three American tourists following the white polo taxi guy. “SEVENTY” he shouted to them while making the sign 7 with 7 of his fingers in front of his face. As they shrugged and nodded to the offer, which they expected to be the normal price, he continued walking with a smile on his face. That’s about double what you would normally pay for a taxi at that time. I eventually found my driver who drove me home. In front of the door, my host opened the front door from a distance and the rest worked seamlessly. It had been a long travel day and I was happy to go to sleep.

A different kind of way

On day 2, I woke up in my bed and breakfast and took a shower. I walked to the kitchen area where Carlo was waiting for me to have a chat and show me around the breakfast. He’s a very kind man, determined to make sure I had everything I needed. He proceeded to ask me if I wanted every single item that was available for the breakfast one at a time. “Do you want bread?”, “Do you want cheese?”, “Do you want coffee?”, “Tea?”, “You want a yoghurt?”. As I tried to keep up the pace with my answers, I eventually collected the breakfast items. We discussed my plan to go to Vesuvius a few days later. He mentioned it’s a nice experience and that I should consider booking a tour to secure a ticket and transport. I explained I’d rather avoid those tours and plan my own journey. As I finished my breakfast, I thanked him for his kind help and tried to turn into a local taking the metro to work.

I started walking to the nearest metro station, “Quattro Giornate”, which I would eventually learn about that evening when I read the Napoli Wikipedia article. Quattro Giornate represents the Neapolitan resistance that occurred towards the end of the second world war, right after the Armistice had been signed and allied forces started liberating Italy from the south. A lot of Neapolitans lost their lives to undermine the Nazis holding the city. Back to the metro, I was surprised to note that during those morning hours that are traditionally characterized as a zombie race in most cities, Neapolitans did not rush. People stood on the escalator, and there were three very long ones to stand on. No attempt to rush to catch the next metro, more like a silent contemplation of the day ahead, a serene approach that aimed at calmly approaching the professional responsibilities ahead. It was a hot day, 30 degrees celsius outside and I could feel it as a Northern boy. People seemed indifferent. Once at the subway track, I heard the radio notifying people of some news. I particularly noticed a long interview from an old man (judging by his creaking voice) and remembered how I thought that in Italy, there is more respect and importance given to older generations. It is still quite common to have grandparents share the same homes as modern families. And I would discover that this was even more likely in Naples than other northern parts of Italy I had previously visited.

I spent my day working from a coworking space called Spaziotra. It’s a great place, with a nice crew and a lovely balcony from which you can take your calls. As background, the main via Toledo which reminisces the benevolent viceroy Pedro de Toledo, who once governed the city during Spanish occupation. Back then Naples was the second biggest city in Europe, right after Paris. The other great thing about my background when taking calls is the flying flag that reads “Napoli 4 Gaza” and shows support of Palestinians. This is something you can view in many other parts of the city. Solidarity is felt throughout.

For lunch I decided to go get myself a nice panino. It’s quite easy to find a nice local grocer that specializes in fresh products. They will make you a sandwich of your choice on the spot. My walk there crossed some narrow touristic streets that host a myriad of book shops. You can find all kinds of old books that look like they were found inside the wooden chest of a 16th century boat. Stories of expeditions and treasures. As I walked down the street I came across a harpist who was enchanting the atmosphere with her melodies. What a beautiful instrument, I thought. When I arrived at the grocer, it was time to focus on my Italian to place my order. It went relatively well I think. You can never know for sure because Neapolitans always have the same face in those contexts, the kind of “boh” attitude that translates into “nothing can really affect me right now, I’m the master of my own destiny” and especially not a foreign tourist attempting to speak Italian.

My afternoon continued at the coworking space and it was almost time for me to decide what to do with the rest of the day. First evening in Napoli was not difficult to plan in terms of priorities. I had to get pizza at all costs. I am a VERY picky pizza eater. I am a FERVENT defender of Neapolitan pizza over the Roman version. So my expectations were through the roof. I passed by Vomero to drop my bag and proceeded to walk my way down the center, passing through the Castel Sant’Elmo, which proudly overlooks the downtown. I missed the sunset at the Google Maps marker that clearly indicated “Best Viewpoint Napoli”. Some other tourists didn’t miss it and I hope they enjoyed it. I proceeded to head down the many rows of stairs in old stone. The two German tourists behind me attempted going down those big stairs with their luggage and went from giggles and laughs to cursing after the first 50 meters going down. I don’t know what happened to them but I hope they went back up instead of continuing for 10 times that distance down.

I arrived in Spagnoli, almost reaching my destination, a pizzeria which I found with a good rating and pictures of quiet tables. Spagnoli is mesmerizing, it’s like being in a movie and feels like what I imagined 90’s NYC could have been. Families sitting on the curve of the road, shouting, speeding, yapping and overall tons of noise in those narrow alleys, where scooters are speeding, often driven by children who consume their youth without a helmet. I convened to get back there to view the Maradona murals after my pizza. I eventually returned faster than expected after realizing that the chosen pizza place was in fact using random pictures and thus didn’t have a sitting space. They were only offering takeaway. That’s pretty cool but I wanted to sit down so I proceeded to find an alternative in the Spagnoli neighborhood. The place, called Pizzeria 400 Gradi, had the vibe I needed. A corner on the side of the road and a few tourists sitting there. The margherita cost 7 euros, double the price of my beer. It was delicious.

I proceeded to walk to the Maradona murals, entering the chaos of Spagnoli. Everyone looked like they were holding stories that could fill books for generations to come. The restaurant owners were trying to get tourists inside their shops. Shouting “pizza, pizza”, they stopped when they saw a football jersey, just like some birds quiet down when a potential threat is approaching. Once they determined it was no competitor of Napoli, they relaxed and continued their serenades. The end of the day was quickly approaching and I decided to go home and relax. I made sure to grab a gelato in Vomero before going home and resting. This was only my first full day in Naples, but it was going to remain a memorable one.

Photos