Bustling, chaotic, anarchic Naples. Jewel of Italy’s south. Birthplace of at least three popes and a couple of kings and queens. Sacked and invaded by the Goths, Byzantines, Normans and other long-forgotten races in times immemorial since its founding during the 8th century BC. Glorious, romantic, dilapidated Naples. Its history and virtues recounted and extolled by countless poets, writers, artists, bards and troubadours throughout the ages. The subject of many a cautionary tale (“watch your bags – the city is full of pickpockets!”, “oh, and watch out for the mafiosi too!”) and of Northern Italy’s scorn (“it’s dirty – get out of it as soon as you can!”).
We stepped off the plane onto the tarmac of Naples airport, the Italian morning sunshine making us blink as it slowly thawed our English-spring frozen bones. The April air was heavy with the scent of spring – common enough in Europe at this time of year – but deliciously overladen with the ripe, sultry lusciousness only found in a city of the south.
But despite the weight of history, of legend, of Hollywood myth, where would Naples (or Italy) be without its food, coffee, shopping, mad taxi drivers and peacocking males? Or, in other words, where would Italy be without those things driving three girls to the Continent for a weekend of fun?
Taxi Driver #1
It didn’t take long for us to make the acquaintance of a genuinely mad Neapolitan taxi driver. I’m not sure what made us choose the dishevelled, slightly cross-eyed, hairy, smoking, muttering man to get us from the airport to the pension. It certainly wasn’t the wild-eyed look he gave us as I asked him how much the ride would cost, or the fact that he had to call his company to find out where the street was. But less than fifteen minutes later, we were bundled into his little Fiat, zipping through the streets of Naples, dodging old folks and other equally mad drivers.
Sitting in the front I found it best not to concentrate too closely on the road ahead. Or my sense of overall contentment and future wellbeing would have evaporated in a heartbeat. Instead, I focused on excavating the rudimentary Italian that I had picked up (gleaned from previous visits and years of dining at Italian restuarants) because our mad taxi driver was talking to me.
“Japan?” #1 asked in heavily-accented Italian, fixing his wild blue-eyed gaze on me for what I thought was an inappropriately long time.
“No,” I responded calmly while thinking not so calmly: ‘look at the road!’
“Cina?”
“No. Australia.”
“But you…” And #1 looked at me again, taking both hands off the wheel to make ‘Chinese eyes’, “Cinese?” he asked inquiringly.
I wasn’t sure whether I was more horrified at the fact that he was happy to take both hands off the wheel, or at ease with making a gesture that when I was a newly arrived child to Australia, some less friendly children liked to taunt me with, and which, Chinese all over the world generally find offensive. But there was no malice in his gesture. He seemed genuinely trying to communicate as best he could.
“Si, Cinese,” I said, nodding. A four day trip to Naples where I did not speak Italian was not the place to be educating a random bloke as to the finer points of the race issue.
Taxi Driver #2
#2 was a fair-haired chap who picked us up that evening after dinner to take us back to our pension. But before he did so, grinning, he turned his little car into as close an approximation of a nightclub as possible, turning the station to one playing impossibly painful Euro techno and upping the volume to maximum. Then he stopped to chat to another young taxi driver mate, made gestures at us to indicate ‘hey? hey?! look what I’ve found here!’, had a a bit of a race to the next traffic lights with this mate and then ‘dufed dufed’ danced/drove us home. As we got out, he looked at us expectantly and had we wanted a night out, he would have been the man. But we were three very tired girls who had been up since 5am that morning. And so it was arrivederci #2.
Taxi Driver #3
#3 was a young chap who picked us up the next night (Friday and Saturday seem to be the nights are when all the young, good-looking Italian boys play at taxi driver). Dark-haired with a ready smile, he also seemed quite the Casanova. “Sexy, sexy,” he kept insisting. We assumed he was complimenting us. But as his female TomTom issued directions with a growl and a purr which would have made any male within earshot salivate, we realised otherwise. This boy was far too attached to a machine than was healthy. And so it was arrivederci #3.
Taxi Driver #4, #5 etc.
#4 was an old man who constantly muttered to himself, even as he cursed the traffic and any man, child or vehicle in our vicinity. #5 offered to personally drive us down the coast to Sorrento for 200 Euro (“cheap!” he said, probably fully aware that it was approximately 10 euro per person for a return fare on the train)… and so on.
But like all good fairytales, you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you get to the prince. And so it was that for our final taxi jaunt to the airport, Naples dished up the Prince of all Neapolitan taxi drivers.
The Last Taxi Driver
Having caught the slowest train this side of China from Sorrento back to Naples on account of bad weather and ferry cancellation, we were running late for our London flight. It was no-nonsense time. We dashed to the head of Napoli Centrale‘s taxi rank where three dark good-looking chaps were once again, grinning at each other and at us, in the usual ‘hey hey! signorinas!’ which by now we took as par for course. Away from his mates, this chap proved to be the most articulate, least caveman-like and gosh-darn-it just plain nice taxi driver we had the pleasure of riding with. He apologised for his bad English and the proceeded to talk quickly and easily about his beloved city’s history and monuments and of the interaction between national and regional politics, answering our questions as he went along. All, while not driving like a maniac. It was a refreshing breath of fresh air and it was with a certain amount of sadness that at the airport we bid arrivederci to the Prince of all Neapolitan taxi drivers.
Ego
It is my opinion that any girl who does not have the good fortune to reside in Italy who ever doubts her appeal to members of the opposite sex should immediately book a flight to Naples. My travelling companions were serenaded in Arabic, just for being their delightful selves and there was no shortage of appreciative looks and admiring comments from all other quarters.
As for unattached chaps, there is a fine line between entertainingly flirty and downright sleazy. In initial dealings with the opposite sex, keep it light, keep it playful, keep it complimentary. Perhaps a flight out to Naples should also be a priority for all you boys, if only to learn the formidable chat up secrets of the Italian male.
Coffee
Coffee brewed and drunk in Italy is pure nectar from the gods. But during our first evening, we stumbled across an ambrosia native to Napoli – the café rocher. Slugs of milk chocolate, white chocolate (or cream), a sprinking of crushed hazelnuts and a shot of espresso. The first sip left Khadeeja and I speechless in awe. Only Sadaf, who had made the mistake of ordering some other flavoured coffee, made a face saying: ‘this isn’t so great!’ But she wasn’t singing that tune after her first sip of café rocher on our next visit to the espresso bar.
On A Mission
We were in Naples for three nights and by gum we intended to see all the sights: Capri, Sorrento, Pompei, Vesuvius, Ercolano (trans. Herculaneum) and squeeze in the requisite amount of shopping, coffee-quaffing, pasta-consuming and gelati-slurping. And this, I’m proud to say, we accomplished with flying colours. Even the Prince of all Neapolitan taxi drivers looked at us with an amount of admiration and shock when we told him all that places we’d visited. “But you need a week to see all of that?” he asked.
Our itinerary was not for the faint-hearted.
Day 1: Arrive in Naples late morning. Spend day in Naples shopping and quaffing espressos and margherita pizzas.
Day 2: Up by 7.30am. Off to Capri by ferry. After bobbing outside the Azzura Grotta for around seventy minutes, during which four of our fellow boat passengers had to be taken to land on account of seasickness, we were in and out of the Grotto in less than fifteen minutes. I wasted about four of those minutes wondering why I couldn’t see any of the fabled blue water, and then fumbling to remove my sunglasses once our gondolier had told me to do so. The water indeed glowed an iridescent blue, and one was reminded of the weight of history in this part of the world as the gondolier pointed out an old carved stone lion on the wall, its features almost indistinguishable from centuries of sea erosion. And hearing ‘Volare’ sung by your own swarthy gorgeous Italian gondolier is itself quite a treat.
Capri itself is stunning; full of five star boutique hotels, stunning clifftop and Mediterranean panoramas, more Italian designer stores than you can poke a stick at, and the heavenly scent of basil, majoram, oregano, parsley, thyme, lemon trees, myrtle, bougainvillea, wisteria, clover, wild garlic. The isle is where the wealthy have come to play for centuries. I’ll be back, one day, in grander style. Meanwhile, we satisfied ourselves with climbing the long and winding stairs in search of a ‘hidden gem’ of a restaurant. Or so Khadeeja insisted. I wasn’t so certain that such a ‘hidden gem’ existed and wanted to turn back to the port. But Khadeeja prevailed and unexpectedly, about forty five minutes later, we were seated at a table just short of a stunning sea view and I was tucking into my beloved insalata di polipi and Khadeeja and Sadaf were scoffing a fine vegetarian pasta.
Day 3: Up at 7.30am. Fortified by an espresso and an Italian croissant, we caught the train to Vesuvius. We trudged up the slumbering volcano, bested by an old man impeccably groomed in a spotless, cream-coloured coat and shiny black brogues and many Italian women, much older than us, tottering up the slope in stillettos. Respect. Then it was onto Ercolano and countless ridiculous jokes and silly photos of being caught in a volcanic eruption. Next up was the tourist hordes at Pompei, which prompted vague memories of Year 7 Latin class. Then, exhausted and hypoglacaemic, we made our way home, sustained by arancini and pizza slices.
Day 4 (the last day): Up at 7.30am again to catch the earliest ferry to Sorrento. The earliest ferry turned out to be a good forty five minutes’ wait – a perfect interval for yet another café rocher. Sorrento proved to be touristy and what any foreigner would wish for an Italian seaside town. But I preferred Capri. And gorgeous, chaotic, mad Naples.
When you walk down in a dream
but you know you’re not
Dreaming signore
Scuzza me, but you see, back in old Napoli
That’s amore.
Old Deano sure got it right.
*(trans: Taxi! Stop being a strange egg and concentrate on the road!)
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Taxi! Smettere di essere uno strano uovo e concentrarsi sulla strada!* (Napoli, 23-27 April 2009)
Bustling, chaotic, anarchic Naples. Jewel of Italy’s south. Birthplace of at least three popes and a couple of kings and queens. Sacked and invaded by the Goths, Byzantines, Normans and other long-forgotten races in times immemorial since its founding during the 8th century BC. Glorious, romantic, dilapidated Naples. Its history and virtues recounted and extolled by countless poets, writers, artists, bards and troubadours throughout the ages. The subject of many a cautionary tale (“watch your bags – the city is full of pickpockets!”, “oh, and watch out for the mafiosi too!”) and of Northern Italy’s scorn (“it’s dirty – get out of it as soon as you can!”).
We stepped off the plane onto the tarmac of Naples airport, the Italian morning sunshine making us blink as it slowly thawed our English-spring frozen bones. The April air was heavy with the scent of spring – common enough in Europe at this time of year – but deliciously overladen with the ripe, sultry lusciousness only found in a city of the south.
But despite the weight of history, of legend, of Hollywood myth, where would Naples (or Italy) be without its food, coffee, shopping, mad taxi drivers and peacocking males? Or, in other words, where would Italy be without those things driving three girls to the Continent for a weekend of fun?
Taxi Driver #1
It didn’t take long for us to make the acquaintance of a genuinely mad Neapolitan taxi driver. I’m not sure what made us choose the dishevelled, slightly cross-eyed, hairy, smoking, muttering man to get us from the airport to the pension. It certainly wasn’t the wild-eyed look he gave us as I asked him how much the ride would cost, or the fact that he had to call his company to find out where the street was. But less than fifteen minutes later, we were bundled into his little Fiat, zipping through the streets of Naples, dodging old folks and other equally mad drivers.
Sitting in the front I found it best not to concentrate too closely on the road ahead. Or my sense of overall contentment and future wellbeing would have evaporated in a heartbeat. Instead, I focused on excavating the rudimentary Italian that I had picked up (gleaned from previous visits and years of dining at Italian restuarants) because our mad taxi driver was talking to me.
“Japan?” #1 asked in heavily-accented Italian, fixing his wild blue-eyed gaze on me for what I thought was an inappropriately long time.
“No,” I responded calmly while thinking not so calmly: ‘look at the road!’
“Cina?”
“No. Australia.”
“But you…” And #1 looked at me again, taking both hands off the wheel to make ‘Chinese eyes’, “Cinese?” he asked inquiringly.
I wasn’t sure whether I was more horrified at the fact that he was happy to take both hands off the wheel, or at ease with making a gesture that when I was a newly arrived child to Australia, some less friendly children liked to taunt me with, and which, Chinese all over the world generally find offensive. But there was no malice in his gesture. He seemed genuinely trying to communicate as best he could.
“Si, Cinese,” I said, nodding. A four day trip to Naples where I did not speak Italian was not the place to be educating a random bloke as to the finer points of the race issue.
Taxi Driver #2
#2 was a fair-haired chap who picked us up that evening after dinner to take us back to our pension. But before he did so, grinning, he turned his little car into as close an approximation of a nightclub as possible, turning the station to one playing impossibly painful Euro techno and upping the volume to maximum. Then he stopped to chat to another young taxi driver mate, made gestures at us to indicate ‘hey? hey?! look what I’ve found here!’, had a a bit of a race to the next traffic lights with this mate and then ‘dufed dufed’ danced/drove us home. As we got out, he looked at us expectantly and had we wanted a night out, he would have been the man. But we were three very tired girls who had been up since 5am that morning. And so it was arrivederci #2.
Taxi Driver #3
#3 was a young chap who picked us up the next night (Friday and Saturday seem to be the nights are when all the young, good-looking Italian boys play at taxi driver). Dark-haired with a ready smile, he also seemed quite the Casanova. “Sexy, sexy,” he kept insisting. We assumed he was complimenting us. But as his female TomTom issued directions with a growl and a purr which would have made any male within earshot salivate, we realised otherwise. This boy was far too attached to a machine than was healthy. And so it was arrivederci #3.
Taxi Driver #4, #5 etc.
#4 was an old man who constantly muttered to himself, even as he cursed the traffic and any man, child or vehicle in our vicinity. #5 offered to personally drive us down the coast to Sorrento for 200 Euro (“cheap!” he said, probably fully aware that it was approximately 10 euro per person for a return fare on the train)… and so on.
But like all good fairytales, you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you get to the prince. And so it was that for our final taxi jaunt to the airport, Naples dished up the Prince of all Neapolitan taxi drivers.
The Last Taxi Driver
Having caught the slowest train this side of China from Sorrento back to Naples on account of bad weather and ferry cancellation, we were running late for our London flight. It was no-nonsense time. We dashed to the head of Napoli Centrale‘s taxi rank where three dark good-looking chaps were once again, grinning at each other and at us, in the usual ‘hey hey! signorinas!’ which by now we took as par for course. Away from his mates, this chap proved to be the most articulate, least caveman-like and gosh-darn-it just plain nice taxi driver we had the pleasure of riding with. He apologised for his bad English and the proceeded to talk quickly and easily about his beloved city’s history and monuments and of the interaction between national and regional politics, answering our questions as he went along. All, while not driving like a maniac. It was a refreshing breath of fresh air and it was with a certain amount of sadness that at the airport we bid arrivederci to the Prince of all Neapolitan taxi drivers.
Ego
It is my opinion that any girl who does not have the good fortune to reside in Italy who ever doubts her appeal to members of the opposite sex should immediately book a flight to Naples. My travelling companions were serenaded in Arabic, just for being their delightful selves and there was no shortage of appreciative looks and admiring comments from all other quarters.
As for unattached chaps, there is a fine line between entertainingly flirty and downright sleazy. In initial dealings with the opposite sex, keep it light, keep it playful, keep it complimentary. Perhaps a flight out to Naples should also be a priority for all you boys, if only to learn the formidable chat up secrets of the Italian male.
Coffee
Coffee brewed and drunk in Italy is pure nectar from the gods. But during our first evening, we stumbled across an ambrosia native to Napoli – the café rocher. Slugs of milk chocolate, white chocolate (or cream), a sprinking of crushed hazelnuts and a shot of espresso. The first sip left Khadeeja and I speechless in awe. Only Sadaf, who had made the mistake of ordering some other flavoured coffee, made a face saying: ‘this isn’t so great!’ But she wasn’t singing that tune after her first sip of café rocher on our next visit to the espresso bar.
On A Mission
We were in Naples for three nights and by gum we intended to see all the sights: Capri, Sorrento, Pompei, Vesuvius, Ercolano (trans. Herculaneum) and squeeze in the requisite amount of shopping, coffee-quaffing, pasta-consuming and gelati-slurping. And this, I’m proud to say, we accomplished with flying colours. Even the Prince of all Neapolitan taxi drivers looked at us with an amount of admiration and shock when we told him all that places we’d visited. “But you need a week to see all of that?” he asked.
Our itinerary was not for the faint-hearted.
Day 1: Arrive in Naples late morning. Spend day in Naples shopping and quaffing espressos and margherita pizzas.
Day 2: Up by 7.30am. Off to Capri by ferry. After bobbing outside the Azzura Grotta for around seventy minutes, during which four of our fellow boat passengers had to be taken to land on account of seasickness, we were in and out of the Grotto in less than fifteen minutes. I wasted about four of those minutes wondering why I couldn’t see any of the fabled blue water, and then fumbling to remove my sunglasses once our gondolier had told me to do so. The water indeed glowed an iridescent blue, and one was reminded of the weight of history in this part of the world as the gondolier pointed out an old carved stone lion on the wall, its features almost indistinguishable from centuries of sea erosion. And hearing ‘Volare’ sung by your own swarthy gorgeous Italian gondolier is itself quite a treat.
Capri itself is stunning; full of five star boutique hotels, stunning clifftop and Mediterranean panoramas, more Italian designer stores than you can poke a stick at, and the heavenly scent of basil, majoram, oregano, parsley, thyme, lemon trees, myrtle, bougainvillea, wisteria, clover, wild garlic. The isle is where the wealthy have come to play for centuries. I’ll be back, one day, in grander style. Meanwhile, we satisfied ourselves with climbing the long and winding stairs in search of a ‘hidden gem’ of a restaurant. Or so Khadeeja insisted. I wasn’t so certain that such a ‘hidden gem’ existed and wanted to turn back to the port. But Khadeeja prevailed and unexpectedly, about forty five minutes later, we were seated at a table just short of a stunning sea view and I was tucking into my beloved insalata di polipi and Khadeeja and Sadaf were scoffing a fine vegetarian pasta.
Day 3: Up at 7.30am. Fortified by an espresso and an Italian croissant, we caught the train to Vesuvius. We trudged up the slumbering volcano, bested by an old man impeccably groomed in a spotless, cream-coloured coat and shiny black brogues and many Italian women, much older than us, tottering up the slope in stillettos. Respect. Then it was onto Ercolano and countless ridiculous jokes and silly photos of being caught in a volcanic eruption. Next up was the tourist hordes at Pompei, which prompted vague memories of Year 7 Latin class. Then, exhausted and hypoglacaemic, we made our way home, sustained by arancini and pizza slices.
Day 4 (the last day): Up at 7.30am again to catch the earliest ferry to Sorrento. The earliest ferry turned out to be a good forty five minutes’ wait – a perfect interval for yet another café rocher. Sorrento proved to be touristy and what any foreigner would wish for an Italian seaside town. But I preferred Capri. And gorgeous, chaotic, mad Naples.
When you walk down in a dream
but you know you’re not
Dreaming signore
Scuzza me, but you see, back in old Napoli
That’s amore.
Old Deano sure got it right.
*(trans: Taxi! Stop being a strange egg and concentrate on the road!)
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