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.
