Day Fourteen
It’s half past two in the morning, and Nico’s blood is soaking into the wall. I sprint out of the room, blocking my face with my copy of The Waste Land. I don’t note the irony until much later.
. . . . . .
Here’s the thing about Naples: it is vastly overrated. In my mind, Naples was going to be a Florence, a Budapest, a Prague. Naples was going to be a city I could brag about. Something I could look back on as an eighty-year-old woman drinking an espresso martini by the fire and sigh, saying, “Ah, what a time I had in Naples!”
When I first arrived in Naples, I immediately realized that it was – pardon my French – a trou de merde*. Nothing about it was appealing. Certain romantics might describe it as raw, unfiltered, “honest.” I say it smells like literal merde. (Again, pardon me.) At one point I think I rolled my suitcase through some, too. The smell still lingers in my mind as I write this, many days later. That’s my lasting memory of Naples. That and the pizza – which I must say was fantastic.
After a few days lingering around the city in search of “the good part” (which was not located), we decided it would be best to explore the other areas on the coast. In the central part of the city, if you can see through all the litter, you may come across the Naples train station. It is from here that you must flee the city. Most people come to Naples for the pizza and then get out as soon as possible. I was also one of those people.
*a shit hole
. . . . . .
We traveled to Amalfi first.
PRO TIP: Don’t travel to Amalfi on a whim like I did. It takes way longer to get there than you would think.
In our brains, we thought that if we left Naples at 12, we would arrive at Amalfi around 1:45. Our friends who we met at the hostel confirmed this. We all decided to travel together, planning a wonderful and peaceful day relaxing on rocky beaches and wandering through ancient streets. But, leaving the hostel around noon does not mean leaving Naples around noon. We walked the mile from the hostel to the train station, stopping along the way for groceries and snacks and souvenirs. I don’t think we even arrived at the train station until 1.
Then, an hour-long train from Naples to Sorrento. And let me tell you, these train rides are not for the faint of heart. There are approximately three open seats at any given time. As soon as the train pulls into the station, these empty seats will evaporate into thin air, leaving you to stand for the entirety of the ride. So, you wanted to look cute in Amalfi? Too bad. Your cute blue cotton dress that you ordered online for $39.99 (on sale) that matches the seafaring energies of the Amalfi Coast will not fare well on a packed Italian subway car with absolutely no air conditioning. And I mean no air conditioning. Hundreds of desperate tourists and shattered Italians pressed up against each other like freshmen at a Sadie Hawkins dance. And the smell. I could go on, but I will leave you to imagine.
Once you’ve arrived in Sorrento (and finished kissing the ground), you must board a bus to Amalfi. Follow the hordes of tourists crawling their way outside the station to form some semblance of a line. But – and this is very important – do not stand in this line. This line is a lie. There is no jurisdiction for this line. I watched whole families get turned away after having waited their turn in this line.
It’s everybody for themselves.
So, when the bus finally arrives, you must raise your chin high in the air and shove a free arm through the masses. Trust me, I realize how this sounds. But this is not the time to be nice. Think back to a time that gives you strength – maybe when a fast-food restaurant got your order wrong again and your mom is turning around at a busy intersection to point aggressively at the receipt and convince the manager to give the whole family a free meal – you’ve never felt more seen. Channel that energy here.
Once you’ve gotten on the bus, get a seat on the right side. (Or is it the left?) This is important, because you’ll want a good view of the coast. Also, your life will flash before your eyes about twenty-thousand times as you imagine the bus flipping over the edge and tumbling into the ocean. Existential dread is good for you every once in a while! Especially on vacation!
In my mind, this bus ride was going to take about thirty minutes. The people we were with warned it might take a bit longer, but after surviving the awful train ride to Sorrento, I was blindly optimistic. I plugged the route into my maps – forty minutes. Not bad.
At this point, all my loyal readers (i.e., my mom) know what’s coming. You roll your eyes at me again – how does she keep believing these lies? Of course it didn’t take forty minutes. Silly, silly, silly me.
Two hours later, after nauseously weaving through mountainous one-ways in a charter bus, we arrived in Amalfi.
SIDE NOTE: I think one of the most endearing things about Italy is how small all of their roads are. I think they might be so small because they haven’t been updated since the Pax Romana. Every time a car is about to drive around a tight bend, it must honk. This is because they will fully collide with anyone driving in the opposite direction. However, I did not find this historical fact endearing while on this journey.
You may have done the calculations. If so, I commend you. We arrived in Amalfi at a cool 4 o’clock Post Meridian time. Our bus was leaving at 8.
What’s even more comical about this is that one of our friends Nancy who we were traveling with had to catch a flight to Rome later that night. So, she had to leave Amalfi at 5. We basically sat out on an over-populated beach for an hour, and then Nancy had to do the entire journey all over again.
. . . . . .
There are many other stories I could tell about our week in Naples (really, our week avoiding Naples). What I’ve noticed about travelling is that it is hard to describe to others what you have experienced for yourself. It is easy to recount travel nightmares and miscommunications and the like. What’s difficult is explaining the feeling of smallness that grips you in these other moments of discovery. Like, jumping off a huge rock that juts into the Tyrrhenian Sea and feeling so very cold and alive. Or the wind ruffling your hair beyond restoration as you lean over the edge of the boat that is taking you to Capri. Or even the walk back to your tent at night in the forest of Sorrento, when everything is quiet and you seem to unfold into the world and it is all perfectly gentle and still.
. . . . . .
So there I am – the middle of the night. It is our second-to-last in Naples. I am reclining after a long, long day.
I am sharing a room in the hostel with two British guys named Jack and Rico. They are app developers and are supposed to be in India. However, they forgot to obtain work visas and got stuck in Italy for a few nights.
My phone has probably been dead for about a day. (Typical!) I don’t have a charger. (Typical!) Luckily for me, I am rooming with techies. Jack offers to charge my phone through his computer.
So I’m reading and Rico’s trying to sleep and Jack is asking me questions about TS Eliot. And I’m answering because he’s charging my phone and it is half past two in the morning.
All of a sudden, Rico arises from his slumber.
“Dude, we need to turn the light off. Turn the light off, where’s the light switch?”
“I think it’s by the door.”
Rico stumbles over to the door. He can’t find the switch.
“Where is it, bro? Where’s the light switch? There’s no bloody light switch.”
Rico walks around the room with steam coming out of his nose. He can’t find it. This is when he proceeds to punch the wall.
Jack and I look at each other as Rico exits the room. Neither of us really know what to do. I bury my face in “Prufrock.”
A few minutes later, Rico returns. I think his walk was supposed to calm him down, but now he’s only angrier. He begins to pack his bags in a furious rage.
“What are you doing, bro?”
Jack is concerned.
“I’m leaving. I’m leaving bro. I can’t do this.”
“Can’t do what?”
“I can’t do this app with you. I’m done. I’m out.”
“We’re so close, though, bro! We’re so close! What are you doing?”
“I’m going back. To England. Now.”
“But we just got here? We’re so close. We just have to get to India. We’re so close.”
“I can’t be a team player, bro. This is why I box. I work alone.”
Jack begins packing his bags.
“Don’t follow me.”
At this point, both guys are getting in each other’s faces. The argument is heating up, and I’m getting a bit scared. I block my face with my thin book of poetry as if it could protect me at all. I try to look as casual as possible and sprint out of the room.
I sit at the top of the stairs and listen to these two guys arguing about app development and team-work and India and seed money. Then, I see Rico storm out of the room with all of his belongings. I figure at this point it is safe to return.
Jack is still packing his bags. There’s blood on Rico’s sheets. My phone sits on the ground, no longer charging in Jack’s computer.
He looks over and smiles.
“It was really nice to meet you.”
He leaves, and I sit in the silence of the emptied room. Both guys have left socks and water (and literal blood).
I’m so tired I just lock the door and fall asleep.
. . . . . .
No other anecdote perfectly describes my time in Naples than this – chaotic, severe, probably dangerous, blood involved. (I didn’t mention that I cut my hand while jumping off previously mentioned rock into the sea in Sorrento. And having to wrap my feet in bandages every day from all the walking. Lots of blood involved!)
There are so many other stories – enough to fill a short novella that you would begin reading in The New Yorker and then get too exhausted after reaching paragraph three. I could tell you about the people we met throughout our journey, or the wonderful food we ate, or all the creepy waiters that still somehow endeared us to Italy while simultaneously raising every red flag. (Can I say this as a feminist?)
But it is too much, I won’t even attempt it. For now, all I can say is (and this somewhat self-effacing), “Ah, what a time I had in Naples!”