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.