Stuck For Time

          On a bustling street in Naples, I saw a chap standing amidst the seething throng, having his nostril hair trimmed with an old-fashioned-looking clipper device. Was he the recipient of a service, like shoe-shining, for busy men-on-the-go who need to smarten up their appearance or primp some aspect of their personal grooming at the last minute? I couldn’t stop to check, as I was navigating the crowded pavement, trying not to lose sight of my Other Half, who was already some distance ahead and disappearing fast.

          Nevertheless, I was intrigued by the public execution of what I have always considered a private, bathroom-based procedure and, subsequently, recalled when I first became aware of the necessity for it. At the age of five or so, I watched with awe as my father wielded a small pair of scissors up his nostrils while making a funny face in the mirror. It was, perhaps, three decades later that I purchased my own, dedicated tool for the same purpose.

          I have never enquired whether this is a singularly male phenomenon, by the way, but one thing is for sure: it is a symptom of ageing. As the years go by, hair thins out on the scalp and sprouts more prolifically elsewhere, a bioprocess for which there must be a scientific explanation, if only I had time to seek it out. But the allocation of one’s time within a diminishing lifespan becomes more critical the closer one gets to its conclusion – which is one reason why I should have given up reading that last novel after chapter one.

          There were warning signs in both the title – There Is No Antimemetics Division – and the author’s name – qntm (sic) – that should have caused me to by-pass this work of fiction and opt instead for something more mainstream, but I was swayed by the opinion of a stranger (a published critic) and the nagging feeling that it was time to step out of my novel-reading comfort zone and try something unfamiliar while my mind is still sufficiently flexible to accommodate the shock of the new.

          Not that it’s a bad novel. It’s well written, has a plot and relatable characters. It’s just that I couldn’t grasp the premise of the story and that’s a problem that makes page-turning a bit of a chore. For those who might be intrigued, there is an explanation of sorts, halfway through: “If something can cross over from conceptual space into reality, taking physical form, then something can cross in the opposite direction “. If only that had been inserted into the first chapter, I might have made the decision to cut my losses and quit earlier but, by then, I had developed a dogged determination to get to the bottom of things. Besides, I had paid good money for the publication.  

          Not that I relish dwelling at length on the subject of aging, but the past few weeks have been somewhat loaded with incidents of friends and relatives coming face-to-face with the deterioration of physical health that comes with it. It does make one conscious that life and its pleasures – should one be fortunate enough to enjoy some – are time-limited and ought to be made the most of. So, the dilemma, as illustrated above, is whether to be adventurous and plunge into the unfamiliar, or to stick with the “I know what I like and I like what I know” principle. Perhaps it’s a sensible compromise to combine a little of each, dipping a toe in from the safety of dry land, so to speak?

          There are some things, however, that I would leave off my 'bucket list': bungee jumping is one and public nostril-hair trimming another.

 

 

Expect the Unexpected

         I hadn’t expected to spend New Year’s Eve on my own, yet there I was, dodging rockets on the terrace of our Airbnb in Naples, while my other half languished nearby in l’Ospedale dei Pellegrini. Having that morning complained that she was experiencing a mini firework display of her own, in her left eye, we had sought an examination from a high street optometrist, who duly diagnosed a detached retina and sent us off to an appropriate medical facility for urgent treatment.

          Prompt and effective medical intervention (a retinopexy) saw to it that no lasting damage ensued, so high anxiety ebbed away and relief washed in. Though there were moments during the next few days of recovery when doubts about the efficacy of the treatment did surface, they turned out to be unfounded. In fact, we were even able to see a positive side to the experience. Our engagement with the Italian public health service* had brought us into contact with real people, who were friendly, caring and helpful – interactions you don’t necessarily get as a run-of-the-mill tourist on the regular circuit.  

          Of course, we had laid plans for our final week in Naples, but the patient’s recuperation involved a lot of lying down and the avoidance of strenuous physical activities (both of which restrictions are unnatural to her) so we tempered our programme accordingly. The last few days were the ideal time to poke our noses into some of the huge churches in the neighbourhood, since we had hitherto prioritised attractions more appealing to us.

          Places of worship are of interest to the atheist insofar as they reflect art, architecture and the phenomenon of the enduring need for religion. Occasionally, they can inspire a semblance of spirituality or, more likely, contemplation, as when I find myself alone in some simple, remote chapel in a quiet, rural setting. But the ultra-lavishly decorated churches typical of Italian cities have the opposite effect. All the wealth and resources spent on these buildings to glorify a fairytale deity smell to me of corruption and the inequities of social oppression.

          The infrastructure of religion dominates the centre of Naples. L’Ospedale dei Pellegrini (the Pilgrim’s Hospital) has a massive church at its heart and, as its name suggests, was founded to assist religious pilgrims. Even now, years after being absorbed into the public health system, the waiting area outside the ward features an altar, complete with statue of Mary. And, in the doctor’s consulting room, I counted three crucifixes on the walls. So, we atheists must take a practical view if we are to overcome the bitter taste of religion. It has shaped the world we live in, but our hope is that its days are numbered. Those numbers, unfortunately, are not in my favour, so I take solace in the aforementioned interests of art, architecture and history.

          More to my liking is the Palazzo Venezia, an ancient relic of a building constructed in 1396. Although it is set in a courtyard, directly off the very narrow, crowded tourist drag of Via Benedetti Croce, it is easily missed as you inch your way past the trinket shops and cafes. But, when I did spot the unassuming entrance, I was immediately intrigued. It is one of the earliest examples in the world of a foreign ambassador’s residence and, although it’s modest in scale and decoration, beaten up and bashed around a bit, an aura of its former charm lingers – not least in its hidden garden, a rarity in this part of the city.

          Had I found it earlier in our sojourn (a word that surely has origins in common with soggiorno, Italian for living room, or lounge) I would have visited every day, just to inhale its history. There was just enough time before we left to introduce my Other Half, by then more active, to the crumbling palazzo. Her enthusiasm matched mine but, with our departure imminent, we talked of returning to Naples for a re-immersion in its charms.

*There is an arrangement for reciprocal public health services between the UK and many other countries, Italy among them.

 

 

 

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.