Napoli, Napoli

(This will be edited later to add some photos/links to photos. Hey, it's nearly 5 am. A girl has to sleep sometime.)

I wish I could say I like Napoli.

I find it fascinating, though. It’s a strange, strange place where all people drive as if they’re characters in Grand Theft Auto and litter receptacles are far better known by their other name: the side of the street. “Campfire girls,” women who have been trafficked into prostitution, linger in predictable, semi-rural areas along our routes. They tend to be rather pretty, and often, but not always, African.  (Prostitution is legal here, but not the trafficking. Still, who is likely to complain? The customers? Hardly. The women who are the victims? Slaves tend not to get a say. So it continues.)

I haven’t seen that much of the city.  We’ve been elsewhere during most of my stay. There is a hop-on-hop-off bus tour that we may take. I’ve asked Amy if all of Naples looks like the area in which she lives (much of it run-down and dirty); she says all that she’s seen so far looks this way. (However, apparently looks can be deceiving. Many people maintain a run-down exterior to hide their wealth, while inside their homes are quite posh.)

Typical side-of-the-road view:

Amy and Joe’s housing is nice: the military families live in what we in the US would call a gated community, with a remote-controlled gate, burglar bars, and security doors to keep thieves out. The people of Napoli are not violent, but some are very willing to divest a family of its more valuable possessions.

I haven’t witnessed the famous garbage-burning yet, but I imagine I will eventually.

On July 8, two days after we arrived, my niece Paige turned 18. That evening we (minus Joe, who worked late) walked to a pizza restaurant not far from Amy’s home. Dinner is served very late, so when we arrived at dusk, we were among the first customers. The (I presume) proprietor glared at us as we entered, a greeting so very much unlike what we would expect and in fact encounter everywhere else (at least so far).  Perhaps if we were in a more touristy area of the city we and our Euros would receive at least a polite welcome. Here, in this neighborhood restaurant, I presume that they presume that we’re military. (I’m not, of course, but it is the military that brought our little group to the area.)  We were, however, cordially seated by a woman, and through hand gestures and keywords, Amy and the server were able to negotiate our order. The restaurant, which I’ll call Red Umbrellas because I don’t know its proper name but it can easily be spotted by those umbrellas as we go down the street, truly was charming. Dining was alfresco, as it so often is in Italia, and only alfresco. (I wonder if the place closes in the winter? Carryout only? Make note to ask Amy.) We took photos, but they’re too close-up to show the environment. On the other side of the restaurant two men with guitars were warming up, quietly practicing, starting, stopping, discussing. They didn’t begin their performance before we left. By the time the pizza arrived at the table (including the hot-dog-and-french-fry pizza), the restaurant was filling up. While the proprietor had offered us a non-welcome, he was far more effusive with what I presumed were his regulars.  When he greeted a group of six, it was easy to tell which of the group he knew and which he didn’t: air kisses and hugs for his friends (including men), a perfunctory but polite handshake for the others (including women).

Despite the insane driving and the trash, it’s clear that this neighborhood truly is a neighborhood. At home, I barely ever see those who live mere feet from me. Here, people linger on the sidewalks and under the red umbrellas, smoking, arguing, watching the cars go by. Here, people interact.

So there's that.

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Stop signs are rare; stoplights are even more so. This intersection was negotiated by all these drivers without the benefit of either one. (Sorry about how dark the movie is, but I took it at dusk.)