Once Upon A Street in Napoli

Tired out from travelling and in what I like to call the “museum zombie” mindset, Tristan, Kelly and I wander down from the Archeological Museum of Napoli to our next stop, Napoli Sotterranea. We have over an hour until the next tour starts, so once we find the entrance and figure out how much a ticket costs we wearily look around for a place to buy a drink and sit down. I indulge in a soda, and though I am craving an Orangina they no longer seem to exist in Europe, so I settle for an orange Fanta (everytime I say that word the stupid jingle “wanta Fanta!” pops into my head. Yes, I want a Fanta, so please shut up!) The bubbly processed sweetness tastes good and the three of us settle down on a bench next to the old San Paolo Maggiore church and watch the life of Napoli walk by as we recharge.

Napoli seems so much more Italian than Florence or Rome. Perhaps it is the lack of tourists. In our hour of sitting on the main street of the historical center we only see one tour group pass us by. Everyone else crowding the busy street are Napolitani, creating their community together outside on this lovely Saturday afternoon.

Children have finished their Saturday half-day of school, and are out on the street in force. Unlike other Italian cities, the vast majority of Napolitani children seem to be overweight. Too much pizza, but it’s hard to blame them when the pizza is that good. Walking, running, strolling, zooming by on Vespas, the schoolchildren swarm the streets of Napoli. The three of us are amazed to watch a gang of what must be eight-year-old girls walk by. Seemingly without an adult to accompany them, these little girls walk down the street well dressed, each swinging their own little purse and talking loudly and animatedly to each other. They’re busy entertaining themselves, impetuously going down the street then coming right back up five minutes later, turning when one decides they have thought of something to do, such as run up the stairs to the church and get a better look around. We saw that group of girls several hours later at the famous pizza place, di Matteo, located on that same street. While we were eating our pizza they came up the stairs and walked right through the crowded restaurant as if they owned the place. They spent ten minutes back-and-forthing, and talking with all the waiters who were rather exasperated by these little girls. The old woman sitting next to us yelled at them to keep it down, as they shouted up the stairs to the waiter. It amazes me to think that we were slightly worried for our safety in this city, with the numerous warnings we were given to watch our belongings, not wear watches or jewelry, and keep an alert eye out, and here this gang of eight-year-olds is, out on the streets for hours, and not a concerned parent in sight.

As I finish my Fanta in the tiny little piazza, a Vespa comes and parks near us, driven by a young man in his late twenties, dark haired like all Italians seem to be, normal looking with decent clothes and only a tinge overweight. In his lap is a big bouquet of yellow lilies, and seated behind him is an old man holding his cane and crutch. The young man helps the old man swing his leg around, and slowly the two of them walk over the cobblestones and into the church. Ten minutes later they re-emerge, bright lilies gone, and return from whence they came. Whether he is being a good nephew, grandson, or neighbor, I am impressed.

Mostly revived, the three of us are looking around, really enjoying people watching, observing the different life styles and clothes styles here. The group of smartly dressed women at the café across the street. The cars that try and fail to roar down this street clogged with people, Vespas, parked cars, children, and café tables. The dry yellow grasses on the church steeple across the street.

As we watch, we spot a woman all in white, holding her train and a bouquet of little calla lilies, and walking down the street with a purpose. The wedding party comes into view, the bride in front and the guests and photographer trailing. She walks up the steps of the church next to us, and her new husband bounds up the stairs after her, two at a time. The photographer comes with them, and a few moments later we see him standing on the railing and telling them to shift a little to their left. The rest of the party waits at the bottom of the steps, and the children everywhere cry “Auguri! Auguri!” to the couple, Italian for good wishes. After a few minutes of pictures the bride, groom, photographer and his assistant come back down, pausing for a photograph while descending the steps, and go to take photos at the next church, which is just across the street and over one building. And, afterwards, I amusedly watch as the whole party congregates and seems to take a picture in front of a gelataria on the corner! Amazing. Maybe one of them owns it. Maybe the couple met there. Maybe they could get the perfect angle of the church in the back ground. Who knows. The party continues down the street, chatting, talking, photographing, and enjoying their wedding day.

More than any single place in Napoli that we saw, the people of the city were the best part of the trip.