See Naples... And Die

Hey, goomba I love how you dance the rumba. But take some advice paisano, learn-a how to mambo (If you're gonna be a square you ain't-a gonna go nowhere).

     

There's a famous quote by Goethe, "See Naples and die!" which he was probably himself quoting (very few people say what they are said to have said). He meant, "It's so awesome, you can go to heaven knowing you've seen the best there is to see. It's all downhill from Naples, freunden!

I did not find much evidence of its charm in my brief time there. Mostly footpads and cutpurses trying to pry jewels from the eyes of stone idols (is how it seemed). I was there on account of it being the only place flying to Malta that day. So I had to take a train to catch a plane.

Crept out of the "cinema room" at a very early hour and took my final quiet walk through the Bari dawn. Very familiar with the route to the train station by now. Got in the line for the coffee, waved off the suggestion of an Americano (which I am consistently offered), got a croissant and a macchiato and waited for the 7:17 to Napoli.

Boarded in the rain, first of the trip, and it got heavier the further West we traveled. Three hours vanished while I finished the book about the Egyptian revolution. It was good. God bless those Ivy League kids with rich parents who travel the world as journalists. She captured a chaotic time in a very thoughtful way.

Everyone around me slept, their heavy hoods covering their faces. A train of Jawas.  Wake up, don't you know there was a revolution in Egypt? Don't you want to know about it?

We changed trains at someplace called Caserta, the new train was so tiny I almost missed it. Like, it was just two small old-school cars linked together. When we got to Naples, it was coming down hard. Stopped in a cafe, but an old dude in slippers stood right in front of my table clenching and unclenching his fists. Hard to eat with that going on. Then he sat next to me, so I got up and left.

Outside, I teamed up with some other folks trying to get the hell out, and we convinced a cab driver to take us to the airport for almost nothing. He insisted the girls sit in front with him. "Don't tell my wife," he joked.  Har!

He chatted them up the whole trip. "Did you know Napoli is the BEST city in Italy? I have never left it. There are four castles here and many palaces! What are you studying? Why are you alone? Why are you leaving Napoli when there is no place as nice?" Despite the rain and his priapism, we made it in one piece. 

My ticket was for an airline called Ryanair, which has "won" Worst Airline in Europe six years in a row. It worked out all right for me, though. I think the bad rap comes from how they nickel and dime you on everything. Like, it's: "Cheap tickets! Twenty euro to Paris. Oh, you want to bring your purse? Another five euros, it's nothing. Yikes, a bag! Yeah, that's another ten. You want a cup of water? Wow, you must be an Ivy League kid with rich parents traveling the world as a journalist."

I think most airlines monetize these things, but they don't start off pretending to be cheap. They were creeps about it too, chasing people down and taking their bags away. Oh! There was a charge of FIFTY-FIVE euros if you didn't download their app and check in with your phone.    

They actually sold lottery tickets on board. The flight attendants had to walk up and down the aisle asking people if they wanted any scratch-offs.   

Anyway, it was fine for me, but I read all the instructions. A started a book by Bulgakov called The White Guard. I had meant to read it in Ukraine, but I did not read it in Ukraine. 

Rainy in Malta as well, but it was island rain. Taxi guy blasted bad covers of "Fast Car" and a live Counting Crows concert on the way to Sliema, the Maltese town where I am staying. I made myself laugh imagining him asking me not to tell his wife. Two trains, a bus shuttle to the plane, a plane, and two taxis. A good day's work. 

My hosts are a family of four with an enormous envy-inducing home. Gorgeous marble staircase climbing up up up with marvels on every floor. My room is huge. Everyone was very friendly, and when they went out to walk the dog they showed me a nice place to eat. My hostess asked the manager of the restaurant to "take good care of me." 

I got a lamb chop and shared it with a little stray calico cat who came meowing up. The dear thing. When the waiter determined I was American he asked me if I wanted The Maltese Falcon, which was the name of the house red. I said yes. It's the Americano of Malta, but I wasn't insulted (instead, delighted). 

Had two glasses, bade farewell to Madame Calico and my senses, and drifted home. The whole family was still up to greet me. I slept hard. 

This is an interesting place, very much itself but soaked heavily in the baked-bean gravy of British colonialism They drive on the left here, which makes crossing the street an exercise in double takes. English is the primary language, with many natives unfamiliar with Maltese, and they have those red phone booths.

They also do that wicked, wicked UK thing where the liquor is poured first into a measuring horn before being added to your glass. Make sure the punters get the Queen's portion, mate! And yet!! It's a supremely magical place with history, stray cats, ruin porn, charming traditions, majestic views, and sparkling sea, on every triq. Triq means "street."

When DH Lawrence first saw it, he said: "The sun rises up in a gorgeous golden rage, and the sea so fairy blue! Rocks as pale as butter, islands like loitering shadows, heaped glitter!" A little more eloquent than "See Naples and die."

From what I could see in the morning light, it sure looked like Lawrence had it right. The rain had totally stopped, and it was just me, the laughing sea, and a hundred more stray cats. They are beloved here; I saw many crude shelters made for them, filled with food, and there was even a statue of a stray in the park by the promenade. Marvelous. I got a doughnut and jumped on a ferry to Velletta. That's the capital, you know.

It was too early to get a shot of the approach from the ferry (sun in a bad place), but I planned out exactly where I would stand on the way back. I wanted to be home again at noon, because my host told me an old woman rides up our triq on a bicycle selling bread every day at that hour. The elderly street residents lower baskets of coins by means of strings and pulleys, and the woman fills them with bread (first removing the coin).  I sure wanted to see that! 

But first, the gardens, churches, and stones of Valletta. A place of true charm! Especially on a day like this was. Teasing breezes, spiced air, bells. I leaped happily down the gangplank and into it, climbing up, up, up, stone stairs and terraced pavilions. 

Near a giant fountain, a cruise ship disgorged several hundred tourists. It was like the devil vomiting wasps. I sure disliked them, but I had to recall that great quote from Evelyn Waugh - "The tourist is always the other chap." 

Touche, Waugh. Touche. Assuming he said it.

I blended with them, and together we bought magnets and souvenirs at the charming little kiosks. Explored quite happily for hours, inspired and taking many notes and pictures. Everything was beautiful to me, especially the rough little back alleys with their ripped grandeur. Each crumbling little pied-à-terre was a duchess with typhus. I brushed back their grey stone hair and told them they were still as lovely as ever. Don't tell my wife.  

St. Paul is said to have wrecked a ship here and brought salvation to the natives. I love stories like that. His wrist bones are supposed to be rattling around in a reliquary up in a dome, but I went to a bookstore and got guilted into buying a Penguin edition of The Siege of Malta. I felt so sorry for the lady in her dusty little underground store off the path. 

She told me they fire a giant cannon at the Upper Barrakka Garden at noon, so I went on upper and sat in that many-arched garden and watched sailboats and marveled at the coves and fortresses on the horizon. At the stroke of noon, they played The British Grenadiers over a sound system, and two dudes in Grenadier drag yanked the string on a cannon. It was loud and drew a crowd. 

It occurred to me I had intended to be home to see the bicycling baker at this time. I had traded bread for artillery. Punished myself by finishing the Bulgakov in the garden. It was Russian as all hell, this book, which meant mostly impenetrable, suddenly incredibly funny, sad, meaningful, confusing again, then over. 

I left it on a trash can with the Maltese Cross stenciled on it in red and white paint. Got my shot of the skyline on the way back. Just like I planned it. If anyone asks, I'll tell them it was the approach. (Don't tell my wife).