"Dangerous."
"Poor."
"Cheap."
"Great pizza, bad city."
These are just a few of many negative phrases you may be met with after telling someone you plan to visit Italy's third largest city and capital of Campania, Napoli. Olivia and I actually visited Naples for a day a few years ago during a family trip to Rome. We'd spent the day exploring the ruins of Pompeii and finished off our excursion with a dinner (pizza naturally) in Naples. I remember being so awestruck at the colorful, raw culture and loved how the city felt perpetually stuck in the 70s. But like I said, that was years ago, and I've always felt you need at least a few days to truly qualify as a visitor of a new place.
Flash forward to 2022 and once again I find myself among the company of my sister, sweet Neopolitans, and some of the world's best pizza.
For this stay, we chose a quaint little AirBnB in the Centro Storico (Historic Center) part of town, which as the name suggests, sucks you right back in time. Our apartment is perfect for two, (and most likely owned by a classic Italian nonna given the spotlessness). It's got traditional high white ceilings; a tiled bathroom; a kitchen complete with a table, stove top, sink, (and of course a moka pot which I have yet to master the perfect espresso using); there's a large bedroom with a dresser, and my favorite: a balcony.
The apartment is on the "second floor" which actually means it's on the fourth––damn those Europeans and their misleading level labels! But the stairs are oh so worth it because one quintessential thing you'll notice while strolling through Naples, is the prevalence and significance of balconies. Spanning from the first level of buildings right up to the sixth, each one is dotted with balconies. It's where laundry gets dried, where espressos and conversations are shared, where news (good and bad) is shouted across the street from, and where good ol' fashioned people watching occurs. It's what I've coined the "Italian perch" and I would equate it to stoop-sitting in cities like New York or Boston or Philadelphia (except way cooler obviously).
So as you can imagine, Olivia and I were pretty excited to discover our very own balcony to gaze at on-walkers below from, *sigh* if only we spoke Italian and smoked cigarettes––then we'd really look the part. Something about being on a balcony in Naples––in all of Europe really––gives me the sudden urge to pop a bottle of champagne and spray it onto the street below in a celebratory fashion, as if a war just ended or a big sports match was just championed. Lucky for everyone, I don't anticipate any Italian war news this week and the World Cup isn't until November. Not to mention I can't imagine ever being able to waste a bottle of champagne.
But even now, as I'm typing out this blog on my laptop with an espresso on my right, and a piece of chocolate on my left, the balconies on my street are at full capacity. There's a woman on the same level as me across the street, loudly (and off-key might I add) singing along to some Italian song from the 80s blasting from a radio as she bangs out her freshly washed sheets. The woman directly in front of me is sweeping her balcony to reveal a pearly white tiled floor. The sound of revving motorbikes are creating a hum below on the street not unlike cicadas or peepers in the summertime. A male voice somewhere nearby is shouting out something passionately from what sounds like a megaphone. I know it's not the elegant sounds of Edith Piaf from someone's chateau in the distance or the wafting scent of freshly baked croissants, but I feel so absolutely enamored with this place.
It also doesn't help that I just watched The Hand of God on Netflix (which I can't recommend to you all enough by the way). It's a coming-of-age story about a boy living in Naples in the 80s with his family and it's led me to romanticize the shit out of this city. There's tragedy, success, fantasy, romance, humor, mystery, soccer, and above-all gorgeous cinematography that I think (having now visited) truly pays tribute to Naples.
But back to describing Naples beyond the confines of second-floor balconies and apartment neighbors.
If I could choose one word to describe this place, it would probably be grit. Everything is gritty. The sidewalk is gritty, the restaurants are gritty, the housing is gritty––hell the people are gritty. And I mean that as a compliment! Naples has this air of badassery that just screams rebellion and revolution. Whether it stems from their history of frequent WWII bombings or the generally accepted Italian opinion that their city is stingy, I can't be sure, but the sense of collective hometown pride is palpable.
It's jarring to visit Naples (and truly love it) after just last week declaring Florence to be my favorite Italian city. Florence is all about objectively beautiful things: pretty coats, shiny shoes, pristine art, neat hair, clean sidewalks, fancy food presentation, politeness and order. Naples on the other hand, is a city unconcerned with its own perception from the common outsider. It's trash on the side of the road, scuffed sneakers, cracked sidewalks, cheap food and big portions, graffitied alleyways adorned with hanging laundry, and above all, a somewhat careless attitude towards tourism. While places like Rome, Florence, Venice and Milan rely on the wallets of foreign visitors eager to enter their ancient churches and duomos, Naples doesn't. Naples is poor, and the city itself seems to have made a decision long ago to forgo the tourist driven economy in order to maintain its true character––cheap pizzas, trashy streets, moderate crime and all. And that's probably why I love it most. There's no special treatment in cafés and although Neopolitans are the nicest people, nobody's gonna bend over backwards to level with you in English on their turf.
Like any other Italian city, Naples is jam-packed with rich history and ruins left behind in disrepair to attest for it. There are tons of 16th century basilicas, several with particularly creepy ties to old-world funerary practices and souls stuck in purgatory. Following suit with the rest of the predominantly Roman Catholic country, Naples is a fairly religious city. While many of the traditional church services and ultra-old world practices are no longer a part of 21st century Neopolitan life, the main belief systems are. One street, the Via Gregorio Armeno, is even dedicated to selling only nativity souvenirs. Everything from baby Jesus figurines to full on life-size busts of the Virgin Mary can be found for the right price there.
While Olivia and I strolled along the Gregorio Armeno one day, we couldn't help but notice these pointy little, ceramic, red pendants sold everywhere. They were on bracelets, necklaces, posters, rings, headbands, T-shirts, hats––basically anything that could boast the symbol. At the time we thought they were little chili peppers and chocked them up to some kind of fashionable ode to Neopolitan cooking. But the sheer amount of them we were seeing everywhere led Olivia to ask a woman working inside one of the churches we visited.
"I have a quick question, what are those little red peppers sold at every street vendor? We're seeing them everywhere and wanted to know what they symbolize." She asked.
Humbling us real quick, it turns out they are indeed not peppers at all but red horns rather. Apparently the red horn is the city's sacred amulet and has become a symbol of good fortune and protection for those who don them. Some Italians even go so far as to make the horn shape with their hands when something good happens to ward off misfortune.
I couldn't refuse picking a couple of the lucky charms up from a local seller. Normally I'd say you can't put a price on prosperity while traveling, but if it's under five bucks I'll buy into it.
Now for the part you've all been waiting for: PIZZA. Most people, well-traveled or not, seem to know about Naples' reputation for gifting the world perhaps the most favored dish of all time. Despite a few stubborn native New Yorkers, most would agree that Italians take the cake for pizza over the states all day, and I happen to be part of the majority. In fact, Neopolitan pizza is so out of this world, it actually holds UNESCO-heritage status in an effort to safeguard its long-established method of preparation.
Coincidentally, well actually this one was planned, our AirBnB happens to be one street over from "Pizza Road" which is home to endless world-renowned pizza joints such as L'Antica Pizzeria Da Michele Napoli. Da Michele is not only Michelin star-rated, but it's also famous for being featured in the 2010 movie Eat, Pray, Love. Just like the in the film, Olivia and I popped in for a Margherita pizza each and a couple of Nastro Azzurro beers. Unlike the film however, we chowed down our entire plates in record time without any hesitancy or talk of expanded jeans sizes. Seriously, though, the best pizza I've ever had in my entire life. And it's so simple––as was the menu which only offered four kinds of pizza, and two beverages: coke and beer, I don't even think you could get water if you wanted it.
I've come to the conclusion that where the US goes wrong with pizza, is the focus. Our pizzerias get so bogged down with the endless possibilities for toppings and crusts, we end up making these creations that don't even technically qualify as pizza anymore. I mean throwing a Thanksgiving dinner atop some dough and tomato sauce may please the hungry masses of rural Maine every once in a while, but it hardly passes as pizza.
The Neoplitans however, pour their efforts into perfecting just four simple things: quality cheese, quality produce, a well-vetted dough recipe, and a consistent, tried and true oven method. There's no wonder they only need to have four pizzas on the menu, it satisfies every person's needs. Plus it's cheap, not to mention filling. And by filling I don't mean one-too-many slices of a large Mac-N-Cheese pizza kind of filling, I mean perfectly satiated. At a first glance, you may look at a single Margherita pizza and think it's "waaaay too big" for a single serving, but all I can say is trust the process because before you know it, you're two-thirds of the way done, already mourning the thought of having just one-third left to savor. It's the perfect balance of stretched thin dough, to thick crust ratio that allows you to think you're eating something huge, when in reality it's quite a normally portioned meal (or at least that's what I tell myself anyway).
But yeah eating pizza in Naples for the first time is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, it's the best pizza to ever pass your lips, but on the other hand it's the best pizza to ever pass your lips––and that means nothing else will ever quite measure up. A harsh reality for this gal who eats pizza a la Farmington, ME (yes I'll admit, I even get the ultra-greasy buffalo/fried food ones) at least twice a week at home.
The third segment of this blog may be a new one for those of you who aren't fans of Italian soccer, or more specifically those who aren't fans of 80s Italian soccer. Maradona, Diego Maradona for long, was a well-known professional Argentinean soccer player between the late 1970s and early 1990s. At the time, SSC Napoli (the Neopolitan team) was fairly unsuccessful and unknown in the world of Italian pro-soccer, that is until they gained Maradona. Maradona joined SSC Napoli in 1984 and stayed with the team for seven years, leading them to two Serie A national championships and the Coppa Italia. For Naples, Maradona was not only the hero of soccer, but a patron saint of the city itself. He symbolized the possibility for success in Naples, an opportunity for the city to be known for something more than dilapidated streets and crowded infrastructure: a force to be reckoned with. In a way, Maradona put Naples on the map from a cultural, social, and sports-world perspective.
And how do Neopolitans repay Maradona for his many contributions? By not letting you forget his face. Literally.
Plastered on bricks, painted on building faces, framed on restaurant walls, and sold in nearly every souvenir shop, is an adaptation of Maradona sporting the classic light blue and white striped SSC Napoli jersey. There's even a little section of the Spanish Quarter (also known as "the bowels of Naples," which in my opinion is a bit harsh, but that's for another time) dedicated to him. Complete with murals, vendors, bars––everything there is decorated as an ode to Naples' favorite athlete.
I honestly wouldn't be surprised to see a framed photo of Maradona placed adjacent to a photo of Jesus in an Italian home here, he's just that important.
Now I know I touched a little on the above-ground history of Naples, but one of the most interesting parts of the coastal city, are it's remnants below. Not only does Naples sport underground catacombs, subterranean churches, and dug-out burial sites, it's also home to Italy's largest underground aqueduct. Now when we think of aqueducts––which for me is about once a year including right now––we typically think of the classic Roman style ones which extend high up into the air with pillars and dramatic arcs. But Naples decided to think outside of the box for their water system, (or under the box I guess) and since I'm fresh off a very informative tour of said underground aqueduct, I can tell you all about it.
The complex design truly began with the Greeks who apparently founded Naples first and actually came up with its name which is derived from Neapolis which means "new city" – creative huh? Anyway so in order to gain access to fresh water, they used tons of slaves and laborers, to dig deep into the earth to create more than a thousand wells. Later down the line, when Naples fell under Roman rule, the Romans took the whole well idea to a whole new level, carving out numerous tunnels to allow water to flow from water tank to water tank, bringing fresh water to both private estates and public plazas. Plus, they even built tunnels to various near and far cities like Pompeii and Salerno to provide them with water from afar.
The material that the whole shabang is made of is called "yellow tuff." Tuff is a volcanic sandstone that's considered some of the best material for construction due to its flexible properties that allow buildings to withstand earthquakes. It's also a living material which provides a perfect environment for plantlife given the condensation within the underground aqueduct and consistent temperatures. So where there's light, there's green growth down there!
The tunnels are pretty insane to walk through, and they each still have the carved out hand and foot-holes used by ancient laborers to navigate throughout the aqueduct above the water. The aqueduct was working all fine and dandy until 1884 when a Cholera outbreak was spread city-wide through the water, causing a multitude of untimely demises.
In the late 1930s, just prior to World War II, the underground water storage area found itself a whole new purpose as a bomb shelter that would protect vulnerable Neopolitans from air raids. The tunnels were completely dried up and partially covered with concrete to create a flat floor of sorts that could support human life. Between 1943 and 1944, more than 2,500 women and children lived in this underground "bunker" while 500 bombs were dropped on the city above by Germany and the United States. With zero light, seven toilets (holes in the ground rather) and just one well left open to serve as an oxygen and light source, life underground became just as miserable as the war torn world above. Illness spread like wildfire, food rations were sparce, and if the lack of fresh air wasn't enough to kill those who were down there, the lack of light and hope for eventual freedom was. Around 450 people died due to conditions in the underground aqueduct, however that number could've been significantly higher had those women and children been forced to live above.
Alright, class dismissed, that's all I have for today's history lesson.
Welp, today sadly marks my last full day in the gorgeous country of Italia. As expected, this leg of the trip has been more fulfilling (and actually filling) than I ever imagined. From the food, to the people, to the customs, to the lifestyles––I feel a sense of home and understanding in Italy, and an especially strong admiration for Naples now. I know for sure this isn't my last time visiting, and who knows maybe next time I'll stay for good.
You know that mythological story about lotus-eaters? The one about the Greek island that was overgrown with delicious lotus plants and trees which would make those who consumed them completely forget about their home and loved ones and instead wish to stay forever? History certainly does repeat itself because that might be what's going on here... only the "Greek island" is actually Naples... and the lotus is actually pizza.
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