Sunday, December 12, 2004
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.
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.
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