“Travelling is a fool’s paradise…I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on the sea and at last wake up in Naples, and there besides me is the stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from.”
- Ralph Waldo Emerson
“I had to read this quote over a few times. I came across it because I was looking for a quote about Naples to put in here, and actually, after reading it again and again, I realized that it didn’t have much to do with Naples at all. But what I think its saying is that you can’t run away from yourself, which with regard to what is about to follow, I considered all the more poignant.”
- Me
I’m sensing you’re getting sick of the lists. One was great, two, three maybe, but there have been a lot lately. Which I completely understand. I get sick of things too. Like Italian men. Well, “sick” is perhaps an exaggeration, but there have been a lot of them too lately. So, this is, in part, an attempt to move away from the lists—which, considering that what follows is a bit of an epic, I think I have succeeded in doing. It is also however, an attempt to move away from Italian men. Which, it turns out, isn’t quite as easy.
***
What is it about me? Do I smell like fish? Lemons? Buffalo milk…? Or is there just a giant sign on my ass saying “Neapolitans welcome!” The saying goes “See Naples and die,” but turns out that for Neapolitans, (who have seen Naples many a time, and not yet died), its more a case of “see me and die.” At least that’s how the one I met this morning put it. Take it easy Rocco, it’s a little early in the morning for suicide. Ok, so his name wasn’t really Rocco, but the rest of the story is true and it goes a little something like this:
(Warning: Some of this is in Italian—relatively simple Italian—but if you don’t understand it, try think of that as a blessing in disguise. For on occasions such as this, I sometimes wish I didn’t either).
***
“Buongiorno signorina!” A man shouted after me this morning. And as my day had gotten off to an incredibly good start, so it was in fact a buon giorno, I turned my head slightly, and with a big smile chirped back “Buongiorno signore!” and carried on walking. I couldn’t help but feel like I was in Roberto Benigni’s film Life is Beautiful. If only he had said principessa! I daydreamed. [Italians for Dummies, Lesson Number One—don’t think Benigni, think Peter Pan. Didn’t Captain Hook teach you anything? Ne-ver smile at a cro-co-dile…]
“Sei Italiana?” he shouted again. No. Still walking. “Spagnola?” No. “Inglese?” Uh-oh, we got ourselves another geography-and-its-discontents scenario here. [See Blog Archive, Nov 2009] “Ma, where are you from? I am curious!” he persisted. [Italians for Dummies, Lesson Number Two: Italians persist). I was tempted to lie, or half-lie, as I often do…New York, Africa…The Seychelles! (Ooh, should try that one sometime). But, for some reason both the exotic and the cosmopolitan variations were washed away by a fervent nationalistic pride as I turned around again and shouted “Serbia!”
Considering it was barely 10am, I thought my list of daily accomplishments thus far pretty laudable, thank you!—Early morning swim: swum, important meeting: attended, duty to country: served. So far, so good. This buon giorno just keeps getting buoner, I thought. (Don’t say buoner out loud. It gives out the wrong idea). But that was about to change. About a minute or so later, a car pulled up beside me, a window rolled down, and I’d like to say BIG was in the car, but nope, it was Rocco.
***
“Scusa, non voglio disturbare, ma….volevo solo dirti che sei BELLISSSIIIIMMMAAA! BE-LLI-SSI-MA!” Got it Rocco, no need to spell it out now.
“Grazie,” I responded graciously, and of course, kept walking. Which would have been the end of it, had he not too, kept driving…beside me.
“Cosí…veramente…non sei italiana?” At this point, I didn’t yet know for sure he was Neapolitan, but I was beginning to sense it. You see, that’s the thing about Neapolitans, they ask you everything twice. Staunch Catholics though they may be, they do have trouble believing…
“Veramente,” Rocco, “no.”
“Ma, parli italiano?”
“No. Forse solo un po’…” (It was good practice, I figured, using all the Italian words I knew…)
“Ma capisci tutto!” This, totally gave him away. The Neapolitans have a particular way of pronouncing the “sc” (that is, the “sh” sound), and an even more particular way of saying the word “KAPISSSHHHHH!” And so with little else to do, I SHrugged my SHoulders in a New-York-mafia-whaddayagonnado-kind-of-way, and said, “Eh…Capisco.” (Yep, I understand Italian.) Are we done here?
***
We weren’t, it turned out. “So, how do you know Italian?”
Eh…where do I begin, I thought, but another whaddayagonnado shrug was all I could muster.
“You had an Italian boyfriend?” Clearly he could kapish my shrugs, for he somehow knew to use the past tense.
I nodded.
“So you have good taste. I mean I thought you did, from how you dress, but now I know…” [Italians for Dummies, Lesson Number Three: Italians believe that the best taste is, of course Italian. Food…fashion…men]. To be fair, though, I was wearing Guccis.
Another shrug.
“And so…?”
“And so,” Rocco, “BASTA CON GLI ITALIANI!” (But not with Gucci, wink).
Uh-oh, I forgot. Italians for Dummies, Lesson Number Four: (and this one applies especially to Neapolitans) “Basta” doesn’t mean enough. It means “more, please.” As in, when you say, “BASTA PASTA!” what you’re asking for is more spaghetti. Well, its not, technically, what you’re asking for, but it is whatcha gonna get. And so, when I said, “BASTA CON GLI ITALIANI,” meaning “GO AWAY ROCCO!” he took it as an invictus to get out of his car. And there I was doing the whole hand gesture and everything! I am talking to you with my hands! In your language! Clear as a friggin’ airport traffic controller!
***
But this pilot just didn’t get it. No, he just kept on keepin’, and as he came running around the car in his defense said, “But I’m nice!”
(And implicit here is lesson number five…) “That’s what they all say,” Rocco.
At this moment, he bowed, kissed my hand, and introduced himself. I’ve actually forgotten what he said his name was, so much to my delight, I guess we’re going to just have to keep calling him Rocco.
“Piacere,” Rocco.
“Piacere.”
Seeing as we were on to introductions, I felt compelled to test my theories and ask him where he was from. NAPOLI. Certo. [I think I deserve some sort of Italians for Dummies Diploma at this stage. In fact, I should add that to my CV. “My knowledge of Italiano is shaky, but I speak Italiani very well—Napoletani, to be precise”]. Anyhow, I must have had “See Napoli and die” written all over my face, for he then enthused…
“You were with a Neapolitan?!”
Another shrug. Another nod.
“WOW!” “YOU REALLY DO HAVE GOOD TASTE!”
[Sure, I’ll pause here and give you some time to take that in. We’ve stepped things up a notch. We are now in NapoliTURBO].
***
In the meantime, I stood there thinking, yes, I guess I do have good taste, Rocco. But I’ve decided I’m going to exercise it on shoes and bathroom tiles. No more men. And certainly, no more Neapolitans. Which is to say, NO.MORE.AMORE.
And though I didn’t say any of that out loud, I think he got it. So, he took a step back. “Can I ask you just one last thing? Can you take off your glasses?” Why, I thought, they’re Italian! They’re Gucci! No, I’m lying. That’s not what I thought. I figured I’ve been asked a lot worse, I figured I’ve been asked to take off a lot more…and I figured, at the rate he was going, he may well have asked me to be the mother of his children! So when I learned it was just the glasses, with a silent phew, I kindly obliged.
“MAMMMMMAAAAA MIIIAAAA! COME SEI BELLLLIIISSSIIIMMMAAA!”
I was ever so tempted to ask for a favour in return, and plead that he leave MAMA out of it…but Lesson Number Most Important—This is Mission Impossible. With an Italian man, and especially a Neapolitan, MAMA is always, in one way or another, there. So I left him with her.
“Grazie and ARRIVEDERCI!” Rocccccoooo!
***
Considering “arrivederci” has the root vedere hidden in it, meaning to see, I assume this word literally translated means something along the lines of see you soon, or “hasta la vista baby” so perhaps I should have thought twice before using it, because we did see each other again, and baby was it soon. I had barely taken two steps when he appeared in front of me again.
“E allora? Dove vai?”
Daiiiiiiii Rocco! You said the glasses were the last thing! “Per caffé.”
I’m pretty sure my intonation alluded to a fullstop at the end of that, but of course he took it as an invitation. Damnit, I should have said I’m going for a bikini wax or something. Though who’s to say that wouldn’t have invited the same response…
“Perfetto! Andiamo a prendere un caffé.”
No Rocco, there will be no andiamo-ing. You, me, finito, e basta. Oh bugger I used the B word again.
“Perché no? Perché non andiamo insieme? Io voglio caffé, tu vuoi caffé…” Yeah yeah I get it, what is this, a lesson in conjugation?
“Devo lavorare.” I need to work, I told him, holding out my bag to show him its contents. [Lesson Number I’ve Lost Count: Remember, they don’t believe you. You must always provide proof.] I’m not exactly sure how or why I thought the Sunday Times Magazine and Filofax in my bag were to serve as proof that I was going to do any work, but then again, there was a big fat brown envelope in there too, which did seem pretty professional. “I need to read, I need to write…” I added, and I really wasn’t lying because by this point I had already begun tossing this blog around in my head. Basta pasta, basta pasta, basta pasta. The words slurped around in my head like spaghetti bolognese and there it was…I had my title. I had my title, and I was hungry. That’s the other thing about Italians, everything is always somehow related to food. So perhaps, that’s why…you’re always hungry for more…
***
I, in that moment, wasn’t really hungry for any more Rocco, but unfortunately that feeling (like all the others) wasn’t mutual.
“So can I have your number and take you out for coffee some other time?”
Haven’t you had enough of me saying this word already? “No.”
“Percheeeeeeé! I just want us to be friends!”
[Another lesson. They don’t do with “question marks” really well. It’s usually just a long string of exclamations, and quite often—as he demonstrates here—lies, but I’m not even going to open that can of worms. Tomatoes yes, worms no.]
“Do you live around here?”
I nodded in some roundabout way saying yes and no. My MAMA told me never to tell strangers where I live. Or the other trick, answer the question with a question: “Do you?”
“Si.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what,” Rocco, “you live around here, I (maybe) live around here (a lesson in English conjugation, for a change?) so if and when we bump into each other again, maybe we can go for coffee, maybe we can be friends.” What? He lied, so I lied. That ain’t happening. Of course, he guessed it…
“But we’ll never see each other again!” That’s the other thing about Neapolitans, it’s always a case of now or never. You gotta eat the pizza while the pizza’s-a-hot! Incidentally…DIDYOUKNOW?…that Elvis’s “Now or Never” is sung to the tune of O Sole Mio, which need I mention, is a Neapolitan song!? He coulda picked any other melody in the whole world, but no, he chose that one. Why d’ya think that is?
***
So that was more or less the end of that. Of course I did see him again five or ten minutes later, when I arrived at the nearest coffee shop, (an Italian one, no less), and he somehow miraculously “happened” to be standing in the vicinity. But luckily, I was on the phone to MAMA, recounting the whole Neapolitan adventure, and luckily...he was Neapolitan enough to respect that. So he stayed away.
But I’m pretty sure that’s not the last of him, and it sure as hell won’t be the last of them. Neapolitans, or Italians, that is. Perhaps I could avoid coffee shops, or Guccis, or smiling, for a while…but I don’t think this matters. No, it doesn’t matter. There will always be another Rocco.
And I have another story to prove it. Don’t worry, this one’ll be short. The day that infamous Neapolitan affair ended, I went to a party. So bar, not coffee shop. Check. I was wearing Choos not Guccis, so check that. And considering the whole affair had just ended, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t smiling much either. So three out of three. And yet, I ended up, you guessed it, talking to an Italian man the entire evening. Now, he wasn’t Neapolitan, in fact I don’t even think he spoke Italian, and his name wasn’t Rocco either. But guess what, and I say this rhetorically because you never could or would have guessed…that…his…surname…was…Nappolini. Here, in one last nod to Rocco, I’ll spell it out for ya. NA-PPO-LI-NI. So it may or may not be me, but there definitely is, something fishy goin’ on.
