The Descent Into Naples

February 27-28

I was warned that Naples was depressing. Even Rick Steves, one of the best travel writers for Italy, warns that it is crime-ridden and says just about the only thing to see is the Archeological Museum, where most of the recovered treasures of Pompeii and Herculaneum are on display.

The rail station wasn’t bad. Indeed, it was almost up to the standards of France and Spain. It had escalators, for instance.

It’s all downhill from there. We got a cab. the driver kept running back and forth to somewhere before he finally put our bags in the car. I don’t know what he was doing.

I booked a hotel less than half a kilometer from the museum. I reckoned that it had to be a decent neighborhood. After all, the Rijksmuseum, the Louvre, hell even the Sex Museum in New York are all in pretty tony neighborhoods.

Maybe this actually qualifies as a better neighborhood in Naples. I wouldn’t know. 

We were headed for the Belle Arti Resort on Via Santa Maria Di Costantinopoli in the old city. And it was full dark when we got the cab.

The longer the ride lasted, the darker the streets became. We followed a winding narrow alley uphill past barricaded doorways covered with spray paint.

I was getting very worried. Then we entered a stretch that was brighter and had couples on the sidewalks and in cafes. It was still dirty and smeared up, but better. 

Then the street closed up and grew a little darker again We saw people camping on the sidewalk. All the walls look like casualties of a graffiti war among street gangs.

I had a sinking feeling that this was our street. It was.

The hotel had e-mailed to say they didn’t have 24-hour desk service and so they needed to know when I expected to arrive. I had told them, and we were right on time, and no one was there.

I told Joanna to wait in the car. 

I went up to the big carriage door, and found the little door set inside it. After a few tries, I was buzzed in. It opened on a small courtyard.

I couldn’t let the door go because it would close by itself. I held it open while the cab driver brought me the bags. I put them inside the door one by one and then helped Joanna through the doorway.

I paid the driver and went inside. We came to another locked door with Belle Arti, on it. 

It took several experiments before I found the right button to push. After a few rings, a voice came over the intercom.

I wasn’t very calm anymore. He didn’t speak English, and I had forgotten all my Italian. I just wanted to get inside.

After a few short exchanges, the voice said something like “un momento.”

We waited a few seconds and nothing more happened. I started to pound on the door.

A group of people were coming through the outside gate. I hoped they belonged here. 

One man brought up the rear. “Mr. Hutchinson? Welcome.”

Some welcome. We were locked out.

The man introduced himself as Mario. We had been in communication by e-mail. He and the voice on the intercom had been in another building.

No wonder nobody came to the door when I pounded on it. The only people inside would have been guests, who were probably frightened that they were under attack by a street gang. Maybe armed with spray paint.

Had I known the Belle Arti operated by remote control, I never would have booked it. I guess that’s why they don’t tell you right away and give you a discount if you pay in advance.

The inside of the building looks a lot better than the decrepit outside. The room is OK, although the floors could be cleaner. 

The shower is a pain in the ass. There’s no place except the floor to put anything. I had a bar of soap in my kit, and that was a help.

I guess you’re expected to use the ceramic liquid soap dispenser on the sink to wash, because they don’t provide anything else.

We got directions to a restaurant, but the route we had to take became very dark and looked too dodgy. We stopped instead at a place down the street from the hotel, but all they offered was a buffet. No way am I going for that.

We went next door to a small joint whose name I didn’t catch. 

We shared grilled squid with a tasty caponata, and a plate of very flavorful vegetables.

I had a couple of glasses of a local Aglianico and we called it a night.

The Museo Archeologico is closed on Tuesday, so we were in no hurry the next morning. We got out a bit after noon.

We walked two blocks to the museum, to make sure we knew the way. Then we walked through an antique portico, which like everything else here is smeared with graffiti but has the added distinction of serving as a pissoir. 

Off that is an arcade, Europe’s 19th century forerunner of the indoor mall. It had a high glass roof and Beaux Arts ornamentation. The stores, all closed, had high glass doors.

It must be carefully watched and certainly has to be closed at night because there is almost no graffiti in it.

We walked up a street and were looking at the signs at a bus stop when a man came up and stood a little too close to give us the unnecessary confirmation that this was a bus stop.

We nodded and walked on. A minute or so later, he was in front of us again.

He asked Joanna if she was Japanese. We said we are Americans. Another man stepped up. Americans?

The first man shook hands with Joanna and then with me. He bumped into me and I felt the same tickle inside my jacket that the lady on the subway had given me a few years ago in Rome.

I stepped away. What the hell is going on? (I knew damned well, of course.) 

He did the same thing the lady had done. He uncovered his hand and showed me that the open purse on his wrist was empty. 

Then he and his partner continued up the hill.

That brighter, more open space we passed on the way to the Belle Arti is full of cafes, so we went there for lunch. 

We stopped at a bar and split a terrific omelette made with spinach and cheese. I had an OK house red, but don’t know what it was. Then Joanna and I shared a crepe.

The man who waited on us had a very good command of English, with a slightly British accent, although I was pretty sure he was Italian.

Later, Joanna asked him what herb was in the pot on the table. He said he didn’t know because he didn’t work there regularly. 

He was there to help out his friend, who had just taken over the place.

He was born in Naples, but has lived for several years in Australia. He was on holiday, as he put it.

While we were eating, a guy came up to us twice trying to sell us a cigarette lighter. Another came through the restaurant begging for change.

We walked a short way farther down a street called Porta d’Alba, which is filled with book stands, to Piazza Dante.

The square is dominated by a public building of some kind which is fenced and gated and has a couple of dozen statues on the roof. Not quite St. Peter's, bit still very Baroque.

It also merits three soldiers standing guard in the middle of the plaza. One was holding a machine gun. 

I’m really having flashbacks to Phnom Penh. The place is filthy and beat up. There are crooks everywhere. 

There’s a 16th century palazzo on our street. The top stories are covered with Baroque sculpture. The walls as high as an adolescent can reach are covered with graffiti. 

Same thing with the Museo Archeologico.

I’m letting this get to me too much. Joanna keeps telling me to lighten up.

After all, we’re being careful, and the food is still good, and so is the wine.

We may go back to the same place for dinner. It isn’t far and there’s light all the way. They also have a selection of craft beer. I may try some of that before we leave.

So here’s wishing you good food and drink. May all your trials be as trivial as mine. And may you send all the pickpockets away empty-handed.

Be well, all.

Harry