italiafile

Italians are obsessed with logos. At the moment, anything written in English is ‘cool’, and I mean anything. Of course, in the south where there is less money, you don’t see much Paul Smith or Tommy Hilfigger. In Naples, the designer of choice is Calvin Klein, because, I was assured by a shop-owner in Florence, CK is the cheapest designer label. Of course if you intend to buy CK it’s better to buy it in a shop with an English name and here Naples excels. “Insupportable”, was one of my favourites, as was “Car Park”, though that was eclipsed by “Men at Working” and the incredibly trendy ‘Gutteridge and Co’ Actually this last shop was on the Via Toledo, and was Naples’ answer to Simpsons of Piccadilly. The frontage was pure Selfridges, with the content of the window being Daks, and men’s sports jackets and slacks. Needless to say when the temperature is 36 degrees there is an endless supply of young Italians staring through the glass at a nice check tweed, or a moleskin trouser, but few can afford what would be in the bargain bin at the Savoy Tailors Guild. It is a sadness then that Gutteridge and Co is no more... Although the frontage remains it now houses the Neapolitan version of Gap, Alcott which sells very cheap things in bright colours.

But a handful of years ago in Italy, you couldn’t shift for the amount of young men wearing Leonardo di Caprio on their chests. Now, back home, any self respecting young lad about town, wearing a Titanic T shirt down to the pub on a Friday evening may be the subject of a few remarks or a glass in the face. In Italy it was a positive babe magnet. Well, I suppose it gave the girl something to look at while she was being suffocated by being clutched to a lads chest during the ‘standing by the vespa looking cool and desirable’ part of the evening.

It was on the Via Toledo that my amusing logo competition took a sinister turn, and I had to slightly alter the rules. Remembering that in the south most people neither read nor speak English, so the translation, or indeed the basic meaning of some of the slogans on T shirts is a little suspect. Someone should do some homework and find out which phrases are not a good idea for plastering all over your body.

I was strangely drawn into one shop, the Italian answer to Fenwicks, for the purposes of having a gander along the rails of swimming trunks. Having lost a fair bit of weight, I was thinking that I might treat myself to a pair of the incredibly well cut swimming shorts the lads wear, until I realised that they are cut for people who are very short in the drop (as we professionals say), i.e. those of us who cant wear 501’s cos we’re gangly buggers, can’t wear nice swimming trunks either, but that’s all by the by by) – I was having a look at the trunks, and being Italy there is an extensive range. The 1950’s style, Burt Lancaster in From Here to Eternity, big trunk is back with a vengeance, and I noticed a rather natty black pair which I plucked out only to see the legend ‘Rent Boy’ embroidered in gold onto the seat. Now I think someone should be told, possibly using electricity and pointed objects, that it’s not a good idea to sell swimming trunks that say “I’m a whore” all over the arse, no matter how amusing I find it.

Now I had a whole new direction in life and I have become obsessed with finding the most outrageous slogan I can find on a piece of clothing. Of course the labels themselves are equally entertaining. As a window shopper of renown, I was pleased to discover a make of swimming trunk called ‘hard uomo’ – but slightly concerned when the model on the box obviously took the maker’s name at their word. Either that, or these trunks have a lot of internal padding, but not the words ‘Rent Boy’ which seems to be a missed opportunity

Thursday dawned bright and cloudless which,unusually, meant a trip to IKEA. The Swedish giant has recently opened in Naples, after a wait of years - it was the Camorra apparently, which was making things difficult. Even now, it is rumoured that the Swedes pay huge bribes to stop the store burning down in the night. Being carless I went on the bus, which meant I arrived at 9.20. Far from being the only person waiting, I joined an expectant throng and duly sat down waiting for the punctilious staff to open on the dot of 10. Imagine my surprise when at 9.45 the doors were flung open and the horde rushed headlong into the area behind the tills where a free breakfast of coffee and Swedish bisuits awaited. Now, any of you who have tasted IKEA coffee be assured it is no better in Italy. It just comes in smaller cups. Neapolitans who cannot turn down anything that is offered free tried their level best to drink the vile brew but, like me, failed. The puckered lips, strange glint in the eye and visible retching by all and sundry made me realise that the biscuits were only there to take the taste away.

Back at home, my arguments with Fastweb - my telephony supplier - are reaching a pitch only hitherto seen with NTL and BT. I discovered today that the only way to get anything done was to keep ringing back until they got bored of me. I have been waiting for a 'trasloco' for a month, as I am moving flats, and need a new line installing in the new flat, with subsequent transferring of my account and phone number. It hasn't been done, despite three promises that it would be effected by the end of August. Now they tell me it WILL be done tomorrow morning. Harrumph.. and I hope I eat that word.

Naples is the only place where a trip to the bancomat turns into a nice day out. I stood behind a group of three men, one of whom wanted money. The other two decided to check their balances while having an animated conversation about travel agents. It took them twenty minutes, and they were completely oblivious to an increasingly annoyed Englishman sighing and standing behind them in a bored way. In fact, they weren’t oblivious at all, they just didn’t give a toss.

For a change, I decided to go to Capri and see what all the fuss was about. I've been before and loathed it, s now Im hoping that familiarity will stymie contempt. I opted for a ferry rather than a hydrofoil not just for reasons of expense, but mainly because there were so many obese Americans in the hydrofoil queue it would have a) been a lopsided and possibly dangerous voyage, and b) felt more like a trip round Staten Island than a cruise in the Med.

At the ferry terminal all the people in the queue were Italian. The ferry also costs half as much and allows you to sit outside on deck in the sunshine.
The amount of white lard on display is much reduced on this boat, and to top off a perfect moment it has a bar where a very good cappuccino can be bought.


A chug through the nice blue waters and a burnt neck later we arrived at Capri. Once, I’m sure, this was a lovely island. Now it is completely overrun with day trippers, mainly American – see above) and, taking a leaf out of their book, Italian children, who are going the same way obesity wise.

Some sad old romantic called Capri “a piece of Paradise fallen from the skies”, but then he wasn’t faced with a queue for the funicular railway that challenged that at Lenin’s tomb. Blinded by the acreage of Hawaiian shirts on display I sat for a discontented hour on the ‘beach’. It is in fact a small strip of land covered in gravel and sand, which, if Alan Titchmarsh was here, would soon, with a couple of bonsai and a bamboo pipe, be turned into a Japanese garden.

What was completely incongruous was that I was surrounded by young German people. I felt as if I were holidaying in Hamburg, especially with the amusing sun lotion pranks that were being played, rather than one of the beauty spots of Italy.

I say beauty spot. In fact beauty spot/mole – what’s the difference? As you approach Capri on the ferry the dominant building is a concrete block with chimneys. Half Stasi HQ and half laundry block, it just shouldn’t have been allowed.

However, at the top of the island, out of hearing of American and German voices things improved, and I sat quite happily for a couple of hours taking in the views.

I wanted to beat the exodus back to Naples so plumped for an earlier ferry back. There was quite a queue of trucks and vans at the quayside, and when one of the drivers started whistling absent mindedly I didn’t pay much attention. It was picked up by the entire queue of traffic, thirty or so Italian tradesmen whistling together, and it was then that it struck me as odd. Not O Sole Mio, Not Mia carina babbo, but a full blooded version of “My Old Man said Follow the Van” – The Allies landing down the coast at Salerno at the end of the war have a lot to answer for. If I hadn’t been so dumbfounded I would, of course, have run up and down the queue of vans dividing them into two teams: one for My Old Man, and the other team of more accomplished whistlers, to perform Pack UP Your troubles at half speed, thereby dovetailing perfectly. As it was I disappeared into the ferry and slept soundly all the way back to Naples.

I know it's been a month, but I have an excuse this time. I've been moving house. Twice. First of all it was two weeks in London boxing up the contents of my house there, then back here to do the same before I shunt across town to my new 5th floor apartment. With terrace. Apart from the stairs it's lovely.
So the last month has been bubblewrap, boxes and being buggered about by bureaucracy. Nearly all done. And with a week spare I took myself off to Sicily to lie on beaches and swim in crystalline waters at Siracusa. All very civilised.
Meanwhile here in Napoli, people are coming back from their holidays in dribs and drabs. Slowly the city is coming to life again. I actually like it in August, apart from the fact you have to walk miles to get a coffee or a paper.