It’s hot, and connecting Napoli Piazza Garibaldi and Napoli Centrale is dizzying: an illogical flow of signs and escalators that respawn us back where we started. Both stations are busy: loud platform announcements create waves of passengers, and the steady rumble of luggage on wheels comes towards us.
We eventually escape on a short service, and get off at Portici-Ercolano. Again for us, this is a B grade city break; we have chosen a suburb that is 10 km outside of the Airbnb storm. It’s quiet, overlooks a small fishing harbour, and there’s a cluster of elderly men, sitting forward on plastic chairs, playing cards and tanning when it’s not their turn. The shorts are incredibly short, and the tattoos pay homage to various depictions of the Virgin Mary.
Looking back towards Naples, it becomes obvious that the city - as it sprawls and steepens away from the historic port - is more than the narrow streets, which glow with an appealing level of chaos. And over several days, we do our best to stitch the areas together.
Firstly, we work our way through the centro storico. There is everything that has already been mentioned before: laundry lines hanging between balconies, masking the crumbling buildings, with the blue and white of Napoli FC making up the space in between. It is charming, and the streets are full of tourists at different points on their pizza journey: wide smiles of anticipation, or chewing through a doughy crust, or digesting with a gormless look. There is respite from gluten in the churches - there are lots in Naples - and they all seem to be beautiful and of interest to relatively few people. We walk around, do a few loops, and when we’ve seen the same fridge magnet seller for the third time, we decide to look elsewhere.
Around early evening we ride the bus ten stops to Stadio Diego Armando Maradona. The roads are wider, quieter and the residential blocks are well maintained in lively Mediterranean colours. The bars are full of fans, and the club’s ultras too, who are dressed only in black and are several Birra Morettis deep into their matchday. Napoli FC have had a bad season, but the Azzurri is unphased, they are noisy and the hand gestures are theatrical for the entire game. Afterwards the crowd disperses orderly, leaving the travelling Bologna fans to celebrate their Champions League qualification inside the stadium.
The next day, the city is pink for the arrival of the Giro D’Italia. The organisers have designed a sprint finish for stage 12, concluding along the waterfront, in view of Castel dell’Ovo, a former fortress and royal castle. This is the area with overpriced restaurants, hoverboards, and the type of tourist who is prime for pick-pocketing, helping to enforce the Napoli stereotype. But above the eye-line of menu prices, the buildings are impressive, large structures inscribed with details that suggest they’ve changed purpose multiple times over centuries of existence. And the man made dump of rocks opposite are a fine choice for waiting until the temperatures have cooled.
Once the sun has dipped, whilst walking back to our suburban shuttle, we accidentally find a Naples that no one warned us of: clean, wealthy and quiet. There are window displays with expensive boutique clothing, and apartment blocks with private security, old theatres and cafes with pristine outside furniture. It’s unusually normal, and unexpected.
By the time it is dark we are back in Portici-Ercolano and the passiegiata has begun. It is a special one, in celebration of Mother’s Day, a Sunday in Italy that everyone should have the opportunity to experience once. The start of a new working week is only hours away, but families are dressed up, shoulders rubbing in restaurants, and walking beneath the harbour lights. There is a relaxed atmosphere, where stress is alien.
We leave Naples the following evening, aboard the Vincenzo Florio, the nighttime ferry named in recognition of the 19th century Sicilian entrepreneur. It’s calm at sea - there couldn’t be a better evening to cross towards Palmero, and we’re grateful, because we haven’t booked a seat, so its roll mattresses in the aisles for us. To Sicily, andiamo!
Piccolo topo, e una Bella storia