The title of this post is a bit different from my usual post headings. “Why is this so?” you may ask yourself. First, why are you talking to yourself, weirdo? Second, the reason for the overwhelming feelings of abhorrence that wash over me whenever I hear the word “Naples” (or “Napoli” to the locals) will become clear in due time.
We boarded a train headed for Napoli on Wednesday morning, June 15th, 2011. Aside from waking up early to catch the train and my soreness from wandering through the desert (Ostia Antica is not a desert--I understand this--it is however, deserted, so I stand by my word choice) the day before, I was in relatively good spirits. I even bought myself a neat “adventure hat,” as some of my classmates had taken to calling it. I don’t know the proper nomenclature for it, but it looks like a fisherman’s hat. The point is, I needed a hat so I bought one. And I enjoy wearing it. Plus, the brand of the hat is “Coronel Tapiocca” …is that some kind of Italian version of Engrish for “Colonel Tapioca?” And what the hell does that mean? Either way, it makes my ownership of it so much better.
The train ride was pleasant; our train car was air-conditioned and had outlets by the seats to plug our various electronic devices into. The ride took about an hour.
Upon leaving the train station, I noticed a stench in the air not unlike that of a dumpster, except diluted. It wasn’t unbearable, but it also wasn’t pleasant. I soon found out the reason for the stink: the streets were littered with garbage, and all of the garbage cans were overflowing. It looked like a bazaar had exploded all over the city. As it turns out, the garbage men were not on strike, as I had heard was the case (I forget who told me that; someone in Rome perhaps). The truth is that much of Napoli is controlled by organized crime, who control waste management services (go figure), and they have purposely either stopped trash collection or slowed it to a crawl with the intention of promoting the election of their pet politicians. These politicians’ campaign platforms involve cleaning up the city (literally, not in the sense of reducing crime – why would they want to do that?), among other things.
The bus we took to reach our hotel was crammed full of passengers. There was absolutely no personal space whatsoever… which was great for the guy who stole Sister Terri’s camera out of her bag, but was miserable for the rest of us. I spent the entire ride alternating between patting myself down to make sure my wallet was still where I left it and grasping my bags in a death-grip, cursing myself for not packing lighter. I thought I had had good fortune in getting a seat on the bus (which was mostly standing room), but discovered that my good fortune was merely misfortune in disguise when I had to disembark, which required me to force my way through a six-feet-thick wall of bodies comprised of mostly old men and (I assume) thieves.
I now faced a walk of indeterminate length, mostly uphill, to our hotel, the location of which we only had a vague sense. Turns out, no one in Napoli can give directions for shit. Either that or none of the people Domenica (our translator and a genuinely great person all-around) asked were willing to help, except that rather than just refuse to help, they mostly just made up directions to give us. I suppose it’s possible that none of them had heard of our hotel, but later on in the trip it happened again (actually it happened multiple times, usually with the same results), only this time we were asking where the train station was, and I refuse to believe that no one knew the location of something as prominent as a train station.
We finally found the hotel, which was actually very nice. The people were very friendly and helpful, and the accommodations were better than average. Hotel Toledo became our oasis in the desert of shit that was Napoli. I want to stress that I understand that there are some very helpful, friendly people in Napoli; unfortunately, the ones not on the staff of the hotel were in hiding for the duration of our stay.
After getting about a half-hour to settle into our rooms, we had to leave again to meet an archaeologist at the train station, who we had hired to show us around Pompeii. We headed back to the main station (the one we entered Napoli through), and ate a hurried lunch. We found out after about fifteen minutes that the archaeologist had decided to change our meeting point to a different station, and proceeded to head in that direction. This is where we had some trouble with directions, the locals being of differing opinions regarding the direction the station lay in.
The archaeologist herself was very nice and knowledgeable, so aside from my own physical misery, it was actually a lot of fun. Pompeii was really cool, and we got to see the inside of a villa being excavated, thanks to our guide and her friends (who were also very nice).
The other area I found fascinating was the Villa of the Mysteries. This was a villa on the outskirts of Pompeii that obviously belonged to a very wealthy family. It was very large, as far as Roman domūs (the plural of domus is domūs) go, and doubled as a winery. The really interesting part about it though, was a room in the back of the house depicting the initiation of a Dionysian priestess in frescos covering three sides of the room. They’re pretty well-preserved, too, save for a large chunk missing from the central panel.
I think everyone in the group was feeling on edge that whole day. Upon returning to Napoli from Pompeii, all I could think about was taking a shower and passing out. I wasn’t even hungry. But apparently when I wasn’t paying attention, the group voted to go out to dinner to the original pizza place (I’ve been sick of pizza since the end of our first week in Rome), a decision fueled largely by Sister Terri’s offer to pay for all of our meals. I was miserable and already uneasy about Napoli as a whole, but I had little say in the matter, as I had no clue where the hotel was in relation to our (then) current location. So I settled for making snarky comments the whole time, which, upon reflection, probably didn’t make anyone any happier. But I didn’t care.
This was another case of not knowing where the hell anything was, and so we decided to wait while Domenica asked some of the ever-so-helpful locals for directions. While this was going on, the entire group was standing on the increasingly sparsely-populated street, when out of nowhere a group of boys that couldn’t have been older than twelve stopped right next to us and started throwing around a soccer ball. It didn’t take long for the ball to get “accidentally” knocked our way, and one of the urchins threw his arms around me, as if he turned around suddenly to fetch the ball and didn’t see me there. “Bullshit” I thought to myself, and pushed him off of me. I knew damn well that this entire charade was meant to be a distraction so that another member of their group could pickpocket me or someone else in our group. I knew this not only because I had heard that this was a common ploy, but also, common sense told me that (1) groups of children don’t just suddenly decide to play ball in close proximity to a group of people who are obviously tourists when there is more than enough room literally ANYWHERE else on the street to play; and (2) unless the child was mentally handicapped, which he was not (I was able to determine this the second I saw him), a child simply does not just embrace a stranger unless he had an ulterior motive.
The next morning we set out for the docks, to catch the ferry to the Isle of Capri. Capri means “goats” in Italian, so it’s actually called the Island of Goats. I found that funny. But there were indeed goats there. We arrived on the island, and everyone wanted to go to the Blue Grotto, so I went along with them. The whole thing is a huge rip-off, with a fee (12 euro) to get on the motorboat, another fee (12.50) to get onto a rowboat, and a third fee (5 euro) to swim inside the grotto. The annoying part is that no one tells you when you buy the initial ticket that there are any more fees involved. I therefore opted to not enter the rowboat, and I saved some money. I definitely do not regret staying on the boat, but I do regret buying the initial ticket. That’s valuable beach time wasted!
There’s really nothing else to say about our day at the beach, other than it was a much-needed day off, and the water was beautiful.
We had all bought tickets for the return ferry that left at ten-to-eight, so we had all day to lounge on the beach and swim. When seven-fifty rolled around, we all boarded the ferry and waved goodbye to the island. I promptly fell asleep.
We disembarked and started walking back to the hotel. There were about twelve of us (all students; the professors had misheard the time of departure for the ferry and had to wait til the next one at ten twenty), but because we were all varying degrees of tired, the group dragged out until about half of us were trailing behind by about a block. On the main street leading up to the alley our hotel was on, when we were about two blocks from turning onto off of it, I heard the roar of a motor and a scream behind me. I turned, baffled and a little frightened, and saw Lauren disappearing into the alley we had just passed. A man riding a scooter had tried to snatch her purse as he rode by, but it was around her neck, so he ended up dragging her behind the scooter for about twenty feet until the strap on her purse broke. As this was happening, I had begun to run toward them, yelling, but it was over before I could reach her. Miraculously she was relatively unhurt, just a bit bruised and scraped up, and badly shaken. Also, her assailant had failed to get her purse.
We hustled back to the hotel, passing nearby locals who seemed unwilling to get involved (seriously, no one even said anything; they all just stared knowingly, as if they had seen it a hundred times before). I just glared at them and kept walking, expecting someone else to try something untoward. I heard a few scooters pass on the way back, flinching as I heard their motors. I think we were all deeply affected by this. Lauren was well-cared for by some of the other girls, and when the professors got back, they took her to the hospital, just in case. I had fallen asleep by the time they had returned, exhausted both mentally and physically by that point (I had glorious dreams of beating the crap out of the asshole on the moped), but I got the full story the next morning. Apparently the hospital staff were brusque but professional. The room Lauren was brought to was shared by a lady and her daughter, and she expressed great distress upon hearing Lauren’s story, saying that she felt ashamed for her city.
We decided that it would be best for everyone if we left that morning, and even took cabs to the train station, as none of us wanted to set foot on the streets of Napoli ever again.
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