italiafile

Here am I, back in Naples for the New Year. And a rather sombre one it will be.... for Naples. In common with most of Italy, the council has decided to cancel the huge fireworks display and send the money to the stricken coastlines of Asia where it is needed. Solidarity and Respect are the apt buzzwords, as the toll of Italian dead is now above 600.
It doesn't stop the locals, however, who are letting off bangers and firecrackers in the streets every few seconds.
It has been a lean Christmas in Naples, people cutting back on presents and the feasting, and the sales have been brought forward to start on 2nd January in a vain attempt to kick start the local economy. A year in which the Camorra turf war has re-ignited with 130 murders; unemployment again rising along with the cost of living, and tender shoots of recovery being shown by the Napoli football team. People are hoping for great things in 2005, not least the new direct flights to New York, which has prompted a 'City of Tourism' label being stuck on Naples for the first 6 months of the year.
Behind all the Auguri's and Buon Anno's is the thought of the devastation wrought by the tsunami in Asia and a 'there but by the grace of God....'. It's now 24 year years since the last big Naples earthquake, (people are still living in temporary accommodation), and 70 since the last eruption of Vesuvius. There is no consensus whether the earthquake last week has brought the possibility of catastrophe to Naples closer or given the city another year of breathing space.

However, they will all be out at midnight, having consumed a vast meal, dancing deleriously in the streets and then dancing till dawn at one of the organised events. This week more than ever, the idea of Neapolitans living for the moment hits home.

Happy New Year. See you in 2005.

Too much rain... nobody is shopping....shopkeepers have gloomy aspects. And now even the European parliament has cottoned on to the fact the the Italians have been telling porkies about the inflation rate. Berlusconi crows about historically low inflation hovering around the 2% mark, but everyone knows that things have doubled in price since the euro came along. There seems a very real threat of a deep recession here, and as usual the South will feel it more than everywhere else.
To alleviate the misery I go to the museum at Santa Chiara which now houses the world's largest presepe (Christmas scene) made entirely of chocolate. Many salivating people gaze in wonder, then go straight out and drink some incredibly chocolatey hot chocolate. It makes Cadbury's seem like water. This is thick, glutinous and incredibly sweet, and a whole cup is too much for most people. However, when the rain is falling in sheets, it feels like a well deserved treat.
I go.... in a couple of hours I shall hop aboard the Easyjet to London to spend Christmas with my nearest and dearest. Happy Christmas one and all....

There is a busker who has a marionette which he makes dance to some pretty ropey music he has on a ghetto blaster. It’s happy accordions with a bit of mandolin thrown in, the puppet ‘grooves his thang’ and occasionally people chuck a few coins into his bowl. Today he had a new addition to the team. A large Irish wolfhound appeared from nowhere and went and sat on his haunches beside the puppet, watching the crowd. When he was sure of an attentive audience he threw back his head and howled along with the music. He looked to be having a thoroughly good time, and the coins came flooding in. After about ten minutes of baying he stood up and took his leave, thereby learning the first rule of busking, which most practitioners sadly omit. He left us all wanting more.

Finally I ventured into Napoli Sotteranea despite the fact that it’s only three minutes from my front door. Until now my excuse has been that it is not right to spend a sunny day away from any natural light, but as this morning dawned wet and cold it seems the perfect opportunity to sample the particular delights of walking along a ancient Greek aqueduct.
I had no inkling what to expect. Having seen the excavations under the church of San Lorenzo opposite, and the duomo as well as the catacombs of San Gennaro I was expecting a leisurely amble below ground inspecting the many and various archaeological sites. As I waited for the tour to begin my eye fell on a framed letter which read:

“The underworld… I have the feeling that I have been in the somber place of death, winter and mystery, a dark place where Demeter searches for Persephone, the other face of Naples. On the surface, life, noise, crowds and sun. Underground, a lunar womb. It has been a moving experience to walk in these corridors of purgatory”
:
In the words of the saintly Stephen Fry: ‘what a load of tedious wank’. It was no good. I had to reread this drivel, and on the second time I made out the signature to be that well known South American wordsmith, Isabel Allende. Now I knew why the letter had been framed, but it only served to add the word pretentious to the previous epithet.
I was to be guided around the lunar womb in Italian, there being no English guide available. My only companion was a Parisan woman, who was half Spanish, spoke Italian but not a word of English. Together with our guide, the wonderful Antonella, we made our way down 150 steps to the old cisterna, or water tanks which were kept supplied by the aforementioned aqueduct. 40 metres below the road surface were no Greek pots, Roman bones or the like, but a lot of exhibits showing that the cisterns were used as air raid shelters in the Second World War. Most fascinating was a selection of plant pots with bizarrely healthy looking plants. Yukka’s, calendula in flower, arum lilies, ivies and all manner of greenery looking lush and verdant. Apparently this was a scientific experiment which won a competition some years back. For five years the plants on display have been kept down here lit by simulated daylight bulbs. The caverns are a constant 11 degrees centigrade and naturally maintain 70% humidity. This level of humidity means that the plants have never been watered, but thrive all the same. I was gobsmacked. It was worth paying my entrance fee just for this little miracle.
We walked on, the tunnels getting narrower and darker until we were obliged to take up candles and squeeze along what was an old service duct. Antonella cheerfully explained that fat Americans get stuck in these tunnels. She was a highly entertaining guide, telling us stories about the Marascelli, or little impish spirits that used to steal from houses. Being a Neapolitan and therefore naturally superstitious, she believed in all these spirits, politely requesting the Franco Spanish Parisian lady not to test the echo in the cistern as it made her scared of ghosts.

We spent a highly enjoyable hour below ground, proving Isabel Allendes letter to be as pretentious a load of twaddle as it first appeared, before emerging into daylight and nipping up the road to see a bit of the Nero’s amphitheatre. This lies in the cellar of one of the bassi, which the Napoli Sotteranea institution has bought. It was, Antonella assured us, a genuine bassi albeit a five star one. You’re telling me. It was twice the size of my flat, and had windows.

The woman who lives next door to me occupies one room. It has no light other than the huge metal double doors which open on to the street. A mahogany double bed takes up half the space, the television and baby Belling cooker fill the rest of the room. As recently as the 1950’s such bassi would be occupied by a whole family of up to twelve, sometimes more than one family, and in the summer all the cooking and washing would be done in the street outside. In comparison the flat above the theatre was spacious, airy and light.

I walked home in the drizzle wondering why I had put off the visit for so long. The entrance fee to the underground complex give you unlimited visits for a year, so I had unwittingly wasted 6 months free guided tour time. Perhaps it was for the best. My abiding memory of the place is the description of it as a lunar womb, when in fact it is a miracle of early engineering. Though in Isabel’s favour it is ‘a dark place’ as I discovered when I missed a step in the gloom and pulled a muscle in my back. And that was as near to purgatory as I came.

Alice Douglas. Remember that name. If you ever see her in the street - you'll know her, she looks like a fat Afghan - please tell her I despise her. I loathe her not only for her nasty outpourings in the Home section of the Sunday Times (see earlier rant), but now I learn she has called her unfortunate offspring Hero and Tybalt. I'm not convinced that Shakesperean names should be de rigeur in certain leafy suburbs, but Hero and Tybalt??? Pity the poor girl... What a life she's going to have at Roedean. The only saving grace is that if she ever goes to the north, her name will be pronounced as ear'ole which will make her hate her mother. And as for Tybalt... why not call him Macbeth, or Banquo's ghost, and have done with it? In fact, I shall rename Alice in her Shakespearian mould.. Mistress Overdone.

I would bet good money that the electricity consumption of Naples doubles in the weeks leading up to Christmas. In the centre every street is bedecked with lights; every shop is twinkling, flashing, chasing and slow fading . It makes the West End of London look as though its in deep mourning during Advent. The Neapolitans have also grasped the concept of the Christmas tree to their collective bosom, and they are everywhere. Decorated to the hilt, festooned with lights, the old Neapolitan proverb of ‘more is more’ holds true.
In the Galleria Umberto a huge Christmas tree has been erected and covered in requests to Babbo Natale, or Father Christmas as he is known in the English speaking world. I was fully expecting these hand written notes to reveal childrens’ desires for Christmas, but apart from a little letter asking Babbo to bring his father back for the festive season, all of the rest of the entreaties were from adults, pleading their cases. ‘Dear Babbo, please bring me a man for Christmas’ was the recurring theme. Some were more specific: ‘babbo, I would like Luca Tomaso for Christmas, love from Adriana in Torre del Greco’. These were interspersed with prayers for recovery from illness, souls to rest in peace and children to love their parents. It made a fascinating half hour of reading, and judging by the crowd, everyone else thought so too, apart from perhaps Luca Tomaso who would no doubt run for the hills when he saw who was after him. One of the Neapolitan sports is to steal this 20 foot high tree. They have succeeded three out of the last four years. The year they failed they opted to burn it instead. Quite how a large betubbed Xmas tree is able to vanich into thin air with no-one seeing it being divested of its twinkly lights is a mystery. But then so are many things in Naples.

Churches throughout the city throw open their doors for all and sundry to venture in and gaze upon the historical presepi. One, in the Via Toledo, not only tells the Christmas story, but also progressed through most of the New Testament in different tableaux. The crucifixion was lit by a blue spotlight and a strobe, so not terribly historical, especially as between that and the next scene depicting Christ ascending to heaven, ran a woman holding the Turin Shroud.

On one of my shopping forays to the outer parts of the city I was thrilled to discover a shop with a stupid name. It’s strange how such a little thing can make or break a whole day, but I have set myself targets and it is now incumbent on me to meet them. Here in a side street in Vomero is a purveyor of training shoes and sports footwear. Like many other shops of this type it looks for a simple English name which epitomises its stock. Further along the same street are branches of ‘Footlocker’ and ‘Shoesport’, so in an attempt to come up with something different the owners had plumped for the redoubtable ‘Athletes Foot’. It quite made my morning. It’s the best one I’ve found since I passed a highly indifferent clothes shop calling itself ‘ Personalities and their interpretations’ . The stock was so plain as to be interpreting the personality of a trainspotter in a branch of Milletts.

Considering Christmas, like most holidays in Naples, is more concerned with food than presents, (a real feast day), the Neapolitans are doing their level best to empty all the shops of their stock. Presents here tend to wait for La Befana, on the 6th January, the hoary old tale being one of an old woman who gives good children sweets and bad ones, coal. Apparently this old crone, la Befana, who looks remarkably similar to old English woodcuts of witches, played host to the Magi one night as they made their way to visit the baby Jesus.


I had to pay my Electricity bill this morning. I chose to while away an hour standing in a queue at the post office. As the much heralded ‘orderly queuing system’ was working, apart from the insistent few who come in, march to a window and ask to be served ahead of the queuing masses and are shouted down by the staff as well as the public, I stood in a single line which snaked its way round the auditorium like space of the central post office. There is a second, shorter queue designated solely for pensioners, which means only the young and ablebodied have to waste most of their morning waiting to pay their electricity bill. This post office is another monumental piece of fascist architecture, and has just been restored. The exterior is now a white marble, with modernistic windows and a vast flight of steps in black marble. The slightest drop of rain and they become a skating rink, which is unfortunate for the pensioners trying to get inside to collect their pensions. The building itself is a semicircle, though you would only be sure of this if you took up a light aircraft and looked down on the edifice. It is huge, the façade now bears a working illuminated art deco clock, and the original inscription: Built in 1936. XIV year of the era of fascism’, which isn’t to everyones taste. There has been an argument raging in the press as to whether such an acknowledgement to Italy’s past should be removed, and for once I can see both sides of the argument, especially as Naples elected another Mussolini to parliament not so long ago. The restoration work has yet to start inside. There is a foyer with a huge piece of heroic sculpture, and three halls; banking, postage and telecommunications. Each of these has around 30 cashiers windows, which still allow an inordinate amount of floorspace for people to queue. Each of these halls is about 40 feet high, and lit appallingly. The banking hall has a mosaic ceiling of thermal tiles, and a number of filthy air extractors. Standing below them in the summer you can almost see the legionella bacteria falling onto the unhappy bankers below. What natural light there is comes from windows made from an early glass brick, the precursor of most of the warehouse conversions in London.
It seems that the Post Office might want to sell off this particular building, and the council would dearly like to get its hands on it. It must be one of the biggest buildings in Naples, and is as central as you could hope for, but even so, the council don’t want it for themselves. They have plans for this white marble elephant, and want it to become the Pompidou Centre of the Mezzogiorno. It would be ideally suited to such a role, but I am doubtful whether Naples has enough exhibits to fill it without emptying all the other museums.

The piazza it occupies is bordered by other office blocks built around the same time. The Questura, the Provincia, and the Association for the Mutilated and Wounded. Not the most prepossessing title for an insurance company but in huge art deco lettering it certainly catches the eye.

The queue moved at an invalided snail’s pace. Around me tempers were lost and regained, until the fateful moment I was only two away from my chance to rush towards a cashier waving my electricity bill. At this moment, it being 11:30, all the cashiers put up ‘closed’ signs in their windows and left their desks. One brave man left in vision behind the toughened glass shouted ‘Sciopero’ and fled. After waiting for an hour, with no forewarning, the staff had gone on strike. I was expecting a riot. Behind me a groundswell of murmuring became raised angry voices, which subsided after only a few seconds. Italians recognise the right to withhold labour, it seems, and all of them turned and quietly left the building. Only one, a woman drowning in fur, was volubly furious but she was swept along in the tide and deposited outside with the rest of us, to slip and skate down the marble steps. I bet this didn’t happen in the 14th year of the era of fascism.

Row today about tea. A Neapolitan said it made you fat. I pointed out that it was the six spoonfuls of sugar he put in that made him fat. He was not convinced. Apparently hot stained water is fattening.

It seems that the Times article was veering towards the scaremongering if not blatantly untrue. As I don't take the Times I shall instead vent my spleen about the Sunday Times, which I religiously read. Why? I hear you cry as one. PIcture the scene; a Monday morning at the local edicola; I am faced with an Observer, over half of which is devoted to Sport; an Independent on Sunday which is only a hairs breadth thick; the weighty tome of the Sunday Times. All cost 5 euros as near as dammit, so The ST wins on bulk if not content. And it does last me a week. Or it would, if the European distribution department ever managed to deliver a complete paper. 248 pages the main section promises. More often than not it lacks 148 of those. When it does arrive intact it drives me to the point of distraction. I loathe most of the columnists, from Jasper Gerrard, to Minette Martin, via Mr Woodhead, ex schools inspector. However, most opopbrium is reserved for Rosie Millard who writes smugly of her property portfolio. Why should I fund her buy to let empire. However, even Rosie has been ignored recently in favour of a witch who writes in the HOmes supplement. This woman has bought a hovel in Wales which she is having problems making habitable. Her husband has left her, and I can only sympathise with him. She spends most of her column writing vicious things about her ex, and I really resent paying for her spleen to be spread across my Sunday paper. I detest this woman. I would willingly name her, but for some reason she isn't in this weeks edition. I can only hope the editor has had enough of her self pitying whining and cast her adrift. Or perhaps her husband has issued her with legal injunction. Or a lethal injection, I really don't care which. Perhaps I am not the average Sunday Times reader and fail to appreciate her incisive comments, but then as the average ST reader would be, judging from the contents of the paper, a millionaire with homes in Chelsea and Tuscany whose other half is shagging the aupair, secretary, or both, and is faced with a stress inducing choice of public school or ski lodge in Closters for their obese/anorexic child with attention deficit disorder I realise that I am indeed lucky. And that's worth 5 euros of anyones money.