Palazzi Centrale

          In 1549 William Thomas, some-time official at the court of Edward VI, published the earliest description in English of Naples. He praised the city for its “goodly streets and beautiful buildings” and its “fair women”, musing that “Naples contendeth with Venice whether (it) should be preferred for sumptuous dames”. It sounds as though he at least had some fun before he was hanged, drawn and quartered five years later.

          Notwithstanding that genetic augmentation must have had its effect during the centuries since Thomas’ report, the ideal of the Neapolitan beauty lives on – in my imagination, at least – and occasionally manifests itself, in passing, on the streets. More often, however, I am disappointed to see Botox-filled lips – more akin to Donald Duck’s bill than Sofia Loren’s pout.

          Global fashions prevail here, as they will in any other modern city, yet there is still much about Naples that is unique and seemingly baked into its collective psyche. The same can be said of any other place but, for now, I am here and keen to experience whatever is special about the place.

           Another historical observation, this from 1779 by the Irish singer Michael Kelly, is that “despite the cheapness of wine in Naples, I never, during my sojourn there, witnessed a single instance of intoxication”. Nor have I (though it has been only two weeks and I am off the streets much earlier these days). At around the same time, Henry Swinburne noted that violent behaviour was rare in the populace and attributed this to two factors: lack of drunkenness and the ‘safety valve’ of loud and uninhibited verbal disagreement that dissipates the energy that drives physical violence. Only statistics can prove the former, but any Brit can tell that this place is noisy.

          The extent to which the characteristics of a city’s people are shaped and endure over time must have something to do with its buildings and historic institutions. When one or other of the kings* of Naples took his throne, he devised a cunning plan to keep an eye on his various dukes etc by requiring them to maintain residences in the city, away from their country seats, where they could get up to no good and form sneaky alliances against the monarchy. The result of this strategy was the stuff of estate agents’ dreams: urban plots shot up in value. Naples became the first city to build tenements over three stories high, into which poor people were squeezed, while the aristocracy built vast palazzi in all the best spots. All that architecture remains in the centre of Naples, which is famous for its picturesque, laundry-strung, narrow streets squashed between royal palaces and churches so vast they could accommodate half the population were they to be converted into apartments.

          But the churches stand, some empty and derelict, others still used for worship. The palaces also remain, though these are now undergoing perpetual restoration, as the state rooms in all their decadent magnificence are opened up to the public (for a fee) and the remainder of the spaces hung with the city’s trove of art. On a visit to the Palazzo Capodimonte, for example, we trudged through room after room full of religious paintings (not one of which conveyed an iota of joy) and were quite relieved that only one of the two floors was currently open to visitors.

          Despite the city’s adaptations to modernity, it is easy to conjure the 16^th century when so much of the ethos of the time is hard wired into the “goodly streets and beautiful buildings” that remain. What other explanation is there for the unique vibe of the place?

*I forget which of the many.

 

 

 

Amphitheatricals

          In 1971, Pink Floyd played open air concerts at Crystal Palace and at the amphitheatre in Pompeii. I was at the former (which was memorable for the famously immersive ‘quadrophonic’ sound system, the giant inflatables that hovered over the lake in front of the stage and the rumours that even the fish in it were moved by the music) but not the latter. In fact, I didn’t know of it until some years later, when I came across the film of the event, at which there was no audience, apart from a few children who managed to sneak into the closed-off venue.

          After visiting Pompeii last Monday, I brought up the film on YouTube and had another attempt at watching it, but was defeated, yet again, by its dullness, which I put it down to the lack of audience participation. I would rather have seen a good old gladiatorial contest.

          We had travelled to Pompeii from Naples on the local commuter train, a pleasant enough experience at this time of year, when crowds are thin and temperatures are in the teens. I had forgotten just how big the site is and was grateful for Lonely Planet’s guide to the major points of interest, however I look forward to visiting the Archaeological Museum in Naples, where many of the treasures uncovered can be viewed at leisure. Important as it is, Pompeii is one of those sites that is too close to urbanisation and too popular with tourists to afford the moments of lonely reflection that connect the senses deeply to pre-history, such as I’ve experienced at the remoter relics of Mediterranean civilisations, like Choirokoitia, in Cyprus.

          Whereas Pompeii (and Heraculaneum) are uniquely preserved historical treasures, fixed in time, Naples is a work in progress. It has something of a reputation for being messy, chaotic and corrupt, all of which might be reflections of its history as a kingdom, a brief study of which reveals all those characteristics and more (brutality and cruelty, not least). From the time of the Norman conquest in the 11^th-12^th centuries, until the unification of Italy in 1861, various royal houses fought and connived to exert rule over the Neapolitan region. The history is too complex to relate, save to say it reflects Martin Gardner’s* view of biographical history as taught in school being: “largely a history of boneheads: ridiculous kings and queens, paranoid political leaders, compulsive voyagers, ignorant generals, the flotsam and jetsam of historical currents. The (people) who radically altered history, the great creative scientists and mathematicians, are seldom mentioned if at all”.

          Relative to its tempestuous past, the Naples that today’s tourists experience is tame. But wander away from the guidebook recommendations and you soon experience the kind of native life that has lent the city its lawless reputation. The most startling aspect is the use of the streets, especially those that were built before the motor car. They may be narrow and crowded with pedestrians, their shops and cafes spilling out over the pavements, their itinerant traders laying claim to whatever space they can find to set out their stalls, yet still the motorists, on four wheels and two, barge through the chaos. The pedestrians appear unfazed and no user seems to have a ‘right of way’ in the constant struggle to get around.

          If this was a city in northern Europe, everything would be tightly regulated and marked out, yet one senses this will never happen in Naples and perhaps it’s for the best. The intricacies of drawing up and policing an effective code are daunting, whereas the Neapolitans seem to have developed their own system, of making things work by common consent.

          Accepted etiquette is a powerful social constraint, though it is necessary for everyone to be knowingly complicit. When we found a suitable step in Pompeii’s amphitheatre on which to perch and eat our sandwiches, a passing native glared disapprovingly and wagged her finger at us, as if to say, “you are defiling a revered place”. I bet she was never a Pink Floyd fan.

*Martin Gardner, mathematician and writer, 1914-2010.

 

Ciao Napoli!

          Imagine onion soup, served by a no-nonsense waitress in a workaday Parisian restaurant across the road from the Gare de Lyon. It sounds like a cliché, but it really happens and, when it does, one’s expectations are fulfilled and all is right with the world. After all, when in France you want things to feel French, n’est-ce pas?

          Yes, up to a point, but a tourist like me can soon struggle linguistically when situations become more complicated than ordering from a menu – or even before that stage is reached. Then, it comes in handy to be served by a waitress accustomed to floundering foreigners.

          I was trying to be respectful and speak a few words of the native tongue, but the problem was that I have been learning Italian these past few weeks and I was getting merci mixed up with grazie, a miserable failure and one for which no apology should atone. The slightly aggrieved waitress reacted by demonstrating her mastery of English delivered with a side order of Gallic contempt. It was a truly authentic Parisian episode and prompted me to sharpen my linguistic responses pronto, as we were about to catch a train to Milan, where we would overnight before travelling to our destination, Napoli.

          Compared with flying, trains and overnight stops offer a more immersive foreign experience, which is in keeping with our preference for staying a few weeks in rented apartments in the centres of cities. Tourists like us can always feel reassured that English will be spoken by someone, somewhere along the line, but the point of going abroad is to feel the difference and stir oneself out of complacency, for better or worse.

          Insofar as they are large centres of populations with infrastructural complexities, all cities are similar. Their mayors meet at international conventions to discuss problems and swap ideas. Yet, even within a region within a country, each of these urban environments has characteristic elements that are unique, wherein lies the fascination.

          Our first day in the scruffy yet deliciously vibrant centro storico of Napoli was spent ‘tasting’ the place with all our senses. Knowing that we have a few weeks to savour its delights in depth, we felt no need to rush at things. The abundance of religious buildings alone would overwhelm all but the most intrepid explorers of antiquity, let alone those of us with a limited appetite for over-wrought church interiors.

          My plan is to pick them off, one by one, as the fancy takes me and as prompted by an unusual guidebook, A Traveller’s Reader by Desmond Seward, a “topographical anthology” of extracts from historical documents ranging from the serious to what might be described as tittle-tattle. For instance, a Protestant Englishman visiting San Domenico Maggiore in 1594 reported that the monks there “sing, or rather howl, rest to the souls” of their benefactors, a sliver of contemporary commentary that brings a bit of real life to an other-worldly institution by mocking its celebrants.

          When you stay in a city so old, its antiquity infuses daily life. The backdrop of ancient buildings, though they are adapted to modern living, oblige a respect for bygone eras and instil an understanding of how society functioned and how it subsequently adapted to the present day. The question of how we shall be living in our cities in the centuries to come may be fodder for sci-fi but, looking at the evidence so far, the past is likely to remain at the heart of life – so long as it is neither razed nor erased, that is. Meanwhile we, the tourists, do our bit to ensure an enduring future of this city’s past, by paying towards its upkeep.

Subscribe to the Cause

          When The New Yorker magazine sent me an email courteously reminding me that my annual subscription was about to renew itself, my reaction was to try to recall the last time I had logged in to read it. I mean, $110 is good value for a year’s worth of high-quality, liberal journalism, but it’s only one of several such subscriptions and, on reflection, it’s obvious that I’d been over optimistic in relation to my capacities, mental and fiscal, to keep up with them all. Furthermore, I don’t live in New York, nor did I ever and I’m struggling to justify similar outlays on the Washington Post and New York Times.

          Years ago, I would have had less interest in what the US press has to say, naively assuming that it was, in general, a bastion of the democratic principles upon which the constitution was founded. These days, I hang on its every word, hoping for some signs of vitality in the fightback against MAGA extremism, which seems intent on dumbing down culture, impoverishing the masses and suppressing any criticism of the blatant establishment of an unassailable plutocracy – national self-harm on a catastrophic scale. What’s that you say? Let them get on with it? Well, the thing is, MAGA is bullying not only its own citizens into compliance, but ours too, so it’s as well to keep an eye on their techniques and call them out early here.

          President Trump’s latest tirade against those European states that have not fully embraced his right-wing agenda is an example. There is a point to be made that Europe is complacently and smugly stuck in its (wonderfully varied) ways, but a little subtle persuasion, aka soft power, would be more acceptable to our 19^th century sensibilities. The stereotypical characterisation of Americans as brash but well-intentioned has been toppled from its flimsy foundations, only to be replaced by one that is selfish, ignorant and cruel, as embodied in its current President. (And now that this article has been published, it will probably be used to exclude me from visiting the Land of the Free*)

          Meanwhile, there is a case to be made in favour of Europe being the best place on earth to live. Its inhabitants enjoy relatively high standards of health, wealth, welfare, education and personal freedoms, in addition to which they have access to unprecedented levels of cultural depth and diversity, thanks to centuries of cross-fertilisation across its porous borders. My Other Half and I are about to travel by train from England to Italy. At no point do we expect to be questioned as to our political affiliations during border crossings. Acquaintances assume that we are ‘snowbirds’ and ask if the weather will be warm in Naples, but our intent is to spend a few weeks immersed in the local history, customs, language and cuisine. As for the weather, que sera, sera.

          Nowadays, we live in Plymouth, a provincial city. It has history but it is one-dimensional – the development of the Royal Navy dating back to Henry VIII – and its cultural life, until recently, has been similarly limited. The character of the city is changing now that the Navy’s presence has withered and been replaced by diverse economic activities. At the same time, the population has been augmented by newcomers from home and abroad, who add their cultures to the mix. Yesterday, I had Turkish coffee and burak at a café in town, where once only teacakes and pasties were available. It was not as immersive as being in Istanbul, but at least it’s not overshadowed by dictatorship.

          By the way, although it was with regret that I pressed “cancel my subscription” on The New Yorker, as soon as I did the algorithm made me an offer I couldn’t refuse: renew for only $30! Chipping in for the cause just became more affordable.

*The U.S. plans to “enhance” its border security measures significantly by requiring social media disclosures from European visitors.

 

Lingering Language

          When, recently, I came across a prose sentence that contained the words ‘desuetude’ and ‘decrepitude’, it struck me as having crossed over into the field of poetry. Was that the author’s intention? If avoidance of poetic form had been intended, they could have chosen to write ‘decrepitness’ (though, on checking, I see that it is generally no longer in use. It has, as it were, fallen into a state of desuetude.) Besides, alliteration and assonance are but two of poetry’s constituent ingredients.

          I’m probably overthinking the issue, but that can happen when you’re out for a solo stroll – or a ‘constitutional’, in old-fashioned parlance. When our local gym closed for a two-year re-fit, I was spared the indignities of traipsing up there in sports wear to slog away on a cross-trainer to keep the old ticker in shape. I made a plausible case (to my Other Half) for not joining another, nearby, on the grounds that it was twice as costly and I could get my exercise by walking and cycling instead. Not only are they cost-free, but these are useful activities that can be co-opted to a purpose, like running errands for her, for example. My case having prevailed, I now undertake, most days, to make such excursions.

          Whether I walk or cycle depends on both the weather and my intended goal. Cycling in the rain is no fun and can be dangerous – in traffic especially. Walking in the rain, if you surrender to the spirit of it, can be akin to the childish delights of puddle splashing. Cycling on a fine day can be exhilarating, though the ‘wind-in-your-hair effect is these days somewhat cancelled by safety helmets. Still, you can cover a lot of ground on a bike in a short time, which is ideal for multi-stop missions. Walking in fine weather is a more leisurely affair and allows opportunities to listen to a podcast or observe and consider one’s surroundings. Some days, it’s a toss-up as to which I’ll choose.

          One particular day, I walked across a park and, on coming to the road, had a view of the back of the parade of shops along it. One of them, a restaurant, displayed an advertisement painted directly onto the brickwork. Although in an advanced state of decrepitude, the old-fashioned typeface remained unambiguously legible: “Catering for Beanfeasts, Parties & Clubs”.

          It was the word “beanfeasts” that intrigued me. Reminiscent of the era of Billy Bunter and jolly bunfights (whatever they were), it seemed quaint and in need of having its origins explained. The dictionary is unsure of the etymology but describes it as a meal given by employers for employees; but who “feasts” on beans these days? Even vegan cuisine has more exotic options for celebratory meals. The word may be heading for redundancy, but one certainly hopes that the tradition will not.

          Whether we like it or not, some words inevitably lose their relevance or pungency because of changes in behavioural patterns, economic activities and social etiquettes. Future generations may well scratch their heads over the origins of everyday verbs, such as ‘to google’, for example. But lose some, gain some; the English language continues to give birth to words and phrases as required, not only by behavioural changes but also by other languages and cultures mingling as the internet universalises communication between us. The Oxford Dictionary is updated regularly to acknowledge the newcomers, so I anticipate a new verb soon will replace ‘to google’. Could it be ‘to AI’?

         I hope we can come up with something more elegant than that but, meanwhile, it’s encouraging to see the adoption of words and phrases from across the globe, for while the mother nation itself faces decrepitude, at least its language has not fallen into desuetude.