Naples in 3 hours: A Whirlwind tour

The first night I found it rather difficult to sleep. My mind was a hive of activity and I needed to acclimatise to the noise emanating from outside. Eventually I fell into a deep slumber. I had requested a wake up call for 7:30 which in retrospect was ill conceived. Italy was one hour ahead and I had failed to take this into account.

I rose the next morning slightly worse for ware. My back felt like it had been subjected to a slab of stone and my cold showed no sign of abating. After showering, I wandered off to the breakfast room. Something was becoming quite palpable. This was the country that gave the world art par excellence and yet the hotel was sparse. Wherever I cast my gaze, the walls betrayed nothing other than magnolia wallpaper. Rather odd. Just as peculiar was Breakfast.

The Breakfast area was a bizarre construct. In a central area, a limited assortment of food was placed on a table. Every single day (since time immemorial?), the menu was exactly the same. Heaven forbid that it should deviate from cornflakes, croissants and watered down pineapple juice. The staff simply stared into infinity like lifeless androids. A perfunctory " Bonjourno " was offered on entry, but otherwise guests were left to their own devices.

Breakfast also provided the opportunity for the residents to shine. A child gave out a rasping cough - a reminder then that I did not have a monopoly on illness. A Malay couple sat transfixed by one another and were oblivious to all around them. The prize however went to a gentleman who was dressed for the ski season. Why he walked in doors with a huge purple puffer jacket is anyone's guess. He also sported a shock of bright orange hair, but their was some symmetrical value. His face, like his locks were an artificial colour - a less than modest permatan.

After digesting the cardboard victuals, I ventured outside. Casting daylight on the city of Naples, did little to diminish my initial thoughts. Rubbish was strewn everywhere. Apparently word has it that the mafia were trusted with cleaning up the area. In more ways than one, this is a contradiction in terms. Suffice to say that instead of making the streets clean enough to eat off, they pocketed the money. Perhaps, indirectly this is a recruitment drive. Refuse will appeal to vermin and with their arrival mafia ranks are sure to swell.

Somewhat disappointed by my venture outside, I decided to plot my next course of action. I returned to the hotel where I started to flick through a travel guide. As Neapolitan roads made me nervous, I decided to book a tour of the city. This was supposed to get underway at 1:30, but by 1:45, I still remained firmly within the hotel reception. A further 10 minutes passed before my designated driver appeared fashionably late. He looked like he had been binging all morning. His hair was unkempt, straggling and hanging over the shoulders. The shirt was either bereft of buttons or struggled to contain his paunch. " You come with me ", he announced". Again I was exposed to the demolition derby that is Italian motoring.

Weaving between mopeds, cars and the occasional pedestrian we reached our intended destination in record time. I had to pinch myself. The driver hadn't broken a sweat and I had arrived in one piece.

I alighted by San Francesco Di Paolo - one of Naples numerous churches:

The venue itself was in the district referred to as Royal Naples. After waiting yet another 10 minutes (this appears to be a way of life here), my guide - a diminutive Italian lady by the name of Luisa appeared. She already had a cosmopolitan group with her. There were people hailing from Spain, Russia, the US and the UK. Incredibly, her mastery of international languages was such that she could cater for all of the aforementioned.

Luisa commenced by providing some background information on San Francesco di Paolo. The church was constructed in the 19th Century by the Bourbons. It replaced a monastery which had existed on the site and was dedicated to the eponymous saint.

The next topic of discussion flattered to deceive. Whilst the Royal Palace of Naples conjures up potent images of opulence and autocratic power, this visage was shattered by the machinations of the modern day:

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present you with the facelift to beat all facelifts. I don't think I have ever seen so much scaffolding in all my life. This monstrosity may be necessary, but it left everyone non-plussed about the marvel that exists beneath. Today, the Royal Palace has been converted into a library. I just hope the interior looks a good deal better.

Whilst we had been subjected to this veritable eye-sore, I am a passionate believer in balance. The next vista was a reminder of developments in the 20th Century. Beneath Vesuvius lay the port of Naples. Cruise liners still anchor here for the discerning pensioner:

The port evolved into its modern incarnation via the design of Benito Mussolini. In the 1920's and 30's, people migrating to Italy would be overawed by the vision of Il Duce. As they filed through to obtain a visa, three giant windows caught their attention. Each was fashioned in the shape of an "M", their new designate lord and master.

Still suffering the effects of my " insomnia " the previous night, I was glad when Luisa indicated that our next port of call (if you'll forgive the pun) would be a Cafeteria. The structure itself was a homage to the creativity of 19th Century artists; the assortment of cakes and ice cream a testimony to Italian culinary genius:

 






A photograph never lies. Whilst the sense of smell and touch are sadly lacking in this instance, I can assure you that these marvels of gastronomy were in every way masterpieces. Arguably, by virtue of their workmanship they are too good to consume. This fact is not lost on the proprietors, who charged a commensurate rate. In the end I declined savouring these delectables. Louisa attempted to convince me of the espressos redeeming features, but once more I was steadfast. I was concerned that too much caffeine may result in a second sleepless night.

Our unrelenting tour of the city continued. Next on the agenda was the Gallery of Umberto I. It took some 20 years to construct and is a marvellous feat of engineering even by modern standards:

 

Today, the structure is utilised as a shopping arcade. In the centre, the flooring revealed a zodiac which inevitably piqued everyone's curiousity.

Vacating the premises, we moved on to the Castel Nuovo. At this juncture, the Spanish contingent of our group decided to leave. Saying Adios, they removed themselves to a restaurant to enjoy a fiesta. We were now, but 5 people - myself plus four ladies from New Jersey.

As for the Castel Nuovo, the architecture represent an interesting mesh of Neapolitan, Moorish and Spanish art. The entrance was quite revealing:

This edifice is a testimony to various conquests in Naples turbulent history. Between the 13th and 15th Century, it was at the epicentre of a power struggle between the French and Spanish. The Entrance is in fact a triumphal arch built by the King of Aragon, Alfonso. Unfortunately, it has fallen into decay. At least one of the statues has collapsed and the carvings have become weathered with the course of time.

Whilst this was interesting from an artistic perspective, it did not register highly on my scale of personal fascination. My mood soon changed for the better when we walked a short distance of 100 Metres.

As a modern metropolis, Naples is continuously expanding and undergoing construction. About two years ago, the burgeoning metro sought an additional station. Its intended location was immediately opposite the Castel Nuovo. However, as engineers began unearthing the earmarked area, they chance upon the foundations of Naples earliest Greek polity:

Recognising the cultural significance of this site, conservationists now intend to build a museum. This will somehow operate in tandem with the aforementioned station. I look forward to one day visiting the finished article.

As the afternoon began to ebb away, Luisa summoned our transport. It was time to explore the upper tiers of Naples and see how the wealthy and influential lived.

A Room Without A View

No flight would ever been complete without the rebellious, non-conforming child. As we ascended the clouds, the relative tranquillity was pierced by the high pitched screams of a toddler. Eventually, these began to fade. It is conceivable that the parents were forced to "bribe" their reactionary son. Any deviation from this path would have resulted in disquiet from fellow passengers. Additionally sales of paracetamol would have climbed to an all time high at Naples Airport pharmacy.

After 2.5 hours, we began to descend. The unmistakable contour of Vesuvius was the first landmark to greet us. The mountain was adorned by a necklace of light emanating from the city and villages located at its base. As we headed ever closer to the runway, a woman in front made herself presentable. Fixing her hair and mascara, she briefly embraced her husband. Following this Public Display of Affection, some aesthetic heresy had been actualised. Not only had the mascara run down her cheeks like a car haemorrhaging oil, but the cosmetic had made its mark on the husband and his white polo neck. I only hope the purported brand name was a knock off!

I am glad to report that Naples airport was fairly amenable and didn't present me with any bureaucratic or logistical nightmares.  It was a peculiar phenomenon. Although by this juncture it was pitch black, the runway was completely empty save for our plane. After removing my handluggage, I alighted the plane and boarded the transit bus. The girl with the faux eye had evidently triumphed over security and was sitting placidly. Other passengers from the flight now broke their silence and began to express themselves in the vernacular. For my part, I didn't have a clue what they were discussing. Perhaps it was just as well. But that said, actions speak louder than words. The Italians are masters of gesticulation and even if I didn't gather the content of their message, I could discern the temper and tempo.

If I may be forgiven for using a nautical term, I sailed through passport and luggage collection. The latter was an added bonus. Believe it or not, my lime green case was the first of the carousel. However, once more this was the calm before the storm. Expedia, in their infinite travel wisdom, had not afforded me the opportunity of booking a transfer to my hotel. Thus I was at the mercy of unscrupulous taxi drivers. Not knowing better I was quickly lulled into a flase sense of security and snared by one of these pernicious characters.

My driver for the night attempted to curry favour by relying on broken English. He asked me where I was from - France, England, Spain, whatever? The gentleman in his middle years and sporting a brown leather jacket was quite sprightly and manifested all the signs of an overactive thyroid. He raced over to his vehicle before taking off at breakneck speed. It was then that I realised I was on my second "flight" of the day. Whilst my body was firmly affixed to terra firma, it was my piece of mind that took to the skies. Those of a certain age and stage will recall an arcade game from the 80's called pole position. For the uninitiated, as the name suggests this was a racer. As the driver weaved his way between one car and the next at an average speed of 70 KM/h, I was reminded of this episode in my misspent youth. That was where the comparison began and ended. This was real life. Unlike the arcade game, I wouldn't get another chance if this all ended unhappily. On a separate note, I was somewhat disappointed because I wanted to enjoy the picturesque nightscape of Naples and its surrounding environs. Instead, I would have to focus my mind on hope and perhaps a wayfairers prayer or three.

In a matter of minutes, if not micro-seconds we arrived at my hotel - the Cavorre. Shaking like the proverbial leaf, I left the car still somehow intact. For experiencing this mercurial talent on the road, I was asked to part company with a kings ransom. It had been a long day and I was loathe to argue. I gave the asking price more in the hope that I wouldn't see his dereliction of duty again.

Upon checking in I was presented with yet another bill. This time it was for municipality tax. It seemed to me that my current rate of expenditure was on par with a budding Rockefeller. Shame that I didn't quite have the deep pockets to match!

The porter at concierge, Paolo, was an amenable fellow. After all the usual bumpf and red tape was finalised, he offered me Room 79. I stated that it was an easy number to remember in the context of Vesuvius history. For whatever reason, the point seemed lost on Paolo.

My room was situated on the fourth floor. In order to reach it, I had to pass through the Entertainment room (consisting of one 28" CRT television) and the Business room (consisting of one overused and abused Dell Tower), before I reached the lift. I must be perfectly honest. I have never seen a smaller lift. For practical reasons, it could accommodate 6 munchkins or 3 homo sapiens. The interior gave pride of place to an advert for a myriad of excursions. Well beaten tracks were on offer - Pompeii, Pompeii and Vesuvius, the Amalfi coast and Napoli at night. Whilst the descriptions were highly tempting, the price provided a reality check. Even at low season, savouring the sights and smells of the locality came at a prohibitive cost.

Upon reaching the fourth floor, the doors opened to reveal a rabbit's warren. A dimly lit corridor led down to room 79. After adjusting my eyes, I crossed the threshold into my temporary abode. The inside was spacious, albeit spartan. The most important thing I suppose was that it was clean. One could hear the incessant traffic outside. Daredevil commuters hooted more as a reprimand than a warning.

After my great expense, I was in need of an ATM. I ventured outside to explore my immediate area. The bus station was immediately opposite, but this proved difficult to negotiate due to hoardings, boardings and the accumulation of rubbish which was ubiquitous. In around 1908, a meteor hit Siberia causing extensive devastation. What I saw outside my hotel was probably comparable.

Eventually I was able to withdraw funds. I then ambled about taking visual note of the streets, their shops and the Neapolitans. Two gentlemen greeted one another " Salam Alechem " - " Alechem Salam" came the response. Whilst Naples gives the impression of an affluent, western metropolis, it is somewhat dispelled by the recession. The economy has particularly suffered in Italy. It is in such dire straits that managers stand sentry outside their concerns hoping to attract well-healed customers. Fortunately, that isn't me.

Realising that by now it was 11 pm, I decided to call it a night. I needed to re-energise for the adventures that lay ahead.

Kings of the Sky

My journey, as in times past, began at Golders Green Station. I arrived at the National Express stop with a good fifteen minutes to spare. As expected, a crowd had already begun to congregate. A woman anxiously paced back and forth as she tried to contact the helpline on her mobile. The phone was on loud speaker, so all and sundry could hear the automated message. Her intention was to get the 09:35 to Edinburgh, but by now it was one hour later.

Out of the corner of my eye, a middle aged lady perhaps in her sixties was ambushed by a playful retriever. It was quite amusing. As the woman was pint sized herself, the dog very nearly succeeded in pushing her to the ground. A few moments later, a scrawny 20 something lad appeared hauling an oblong case over his shoulder. A sticker in emphatic black characters announced "handle with care". Clearly, the young lad had a very loose understanding of the concept.

Golders Green would not be Golders Green without the appearance of some orthodox Jews. I would surmise a recently married couple, barely out of their teens, materialised. They carefully scanned the timetable.

My coach, the A5 to Luton, was scheduled for 10:45. 5 minutes later and with little fanfare, it arrived. The vehicle was filled to the rafters. The driver insisted that only pre-booked tickets would be accepted. Of the burgeoning community of prospective commuters, only myself and one other managed to board. The rest were left to await the next bus.

My last memory of of Golders entailed a throng gathering outside HSBC. Reverting to type, this poor excuse for a bank had probably run out of money or suffered a total computer meltdown. In any event the idea that this little branch represents the "World's local bank" is the grossest misrepresentation of facts since "the Neverending Story".

"I love it when a plan comes together". I found the first available seat and got a little shut eye. After a journey lasting little more than 40 minutes, I arrived at Luton Airport. Never one to sit on my laurels, I went to the Monarch desk almost immediately. No queues. No headache. The helpful attendant took possession of my luggage and I was on route to security.

By contrast, security evokes all that is quintessentially British. The discomfort of queuing, the pregnant pauses, removing every last metallic vestige are all fulfilled under the visage of the stiff upper lip. The queue itself was rather representative of our motorways. After a while it  became convoluted and meandered in every direction. Matters were further complicated as demand outstripped supply. Would be fliers denuded of shoes, belts and money found themselves shy of trays to place them in. In spite of this potential minefield, I was soon on my way. As I looked around, I realised that one lady was sporting a false eye. I was curious as to whether this might present a problem. Esoteric and warped, but I guess that's how I'm wired up.

Alas, when it comes to variety Luton is found wanting. In fact it is almost as bland as the padded cells in a sanatorium. There are perhaps 10 retail outlets in total. I visited WH Smith's in the hope of procuring End Game by John Gray. My desire was kindled by the promise of £250,000 for anyone who can solve its cryptic riddles. After a 15 minute wait, a shop attendant informed me that they didn't have it in stock. My best laid plans had been foiled again.

In the current economic climate, we have evolved into creatures of necessity. The eateries like starbucks have no doubt generated a healthy profit margin. However, this has been offset by poor customer service. As I waited in (long) line for a cup of coffee, lesser mortals abandoned their place and opted for alternatives. I had hoped buying a mocha would be a simple, academic operation, but I was to be sorely disappointed. I paid for my order only to discover that someone else had taken it! Fortunately, after some consternation and deliberation, I was offered a fresh cup.

There was one shop that strangely seemed surplus to requirement. Victorias Secrets was completely empty. Perhaps the apparent allure of stick thin models and "edible" underwear is passez. Even the arcade games attracted more people as they looked to run down the clock.

Eventually, my stomach, by reason of its cries informed me that it was lunchtime. I went to the non-descript restaurant where there was a variety of Di Dis sandwiches. I paid a princely sum for a cheese and coleslaw combination.

With time still to spare, I decided to catch up on emails, facebook etc. An internet kiosk was purportedly operating adjacent to Starbucks. I went over to one of the workstations and lo and behold it swallowed up my money. In typical fashion, there was no one on hand to rectify the issue. In the absence of an information desk, I went to security who washed their hands of the matter. The computers, they argued, fell within the remit of a third party. I would have to contact them. It was evident that I would not be able to recoup my lost monies. But in the interim, I was in revanchist mood. I grabbed a scrap of paper and carefully marked it "Out of Order". I may haven fallen a foul, but I was adamant that no one else would be snared.

I was glad when Gate 22 finally opened. The wait had been too long and Luton airport is in great need of a retail therapists overhaul. As I made my way, I grabbed the complimentary paper which was laced with the usual tabloid smut and sensation. The sports section did not make much better reading. Tottenham had lost 4-1 at the weekend with Poccetino claiming that Spurs were unlucky. With too much fantasy and fiction, I soon jettisoned the paper.

Embarkation was seamless enough. In their infinite greed, Monarch airways (Kings of the Sky) had charged me for a limitless number of extas. When the dust settled, I was surprised not to be in Business class. For the time being I would content myself with seat 7C.

Unbeknownst to the flight crew, I was accompanied by an uninvited guest. In the days running up to my trip, I was struck down by a cold. No matter what I took, I could not shake it. It's a cliche, but we still don't have a cure to the common cold. Unfortunately, I have a jinx when it comes to such things. Every time I go abroad, I am afflicted by either a cold, a bad back or if I'm really unlucky a dose of both. In order to lighten the burden, I asked the attendant if I could have a cup of tea. But even this straightforward task proved beyond them. The boiler had broken and there were no hot beverages for the passengers. Instead, I closed my eyes and dreamed of warmer climates. 

Blithe Spirit

In the immediate aftermath of my cursory glance at Pompeii, I had wanted to visit its sister city - Herculaneum. Unfortunately, neither time nor money had afforded me the chance. I returned to Albion's shores and confined Herculaneum to the inner recesses of my mind.

In subsequent years I satisfied my travel curiousity by island hopping across the vast azure stretch the Roman's named mara nostra - the Mediterranean. Cyprus, Crete and Rhodes were principal locations. A blog delineating my adventures in Crete can be found here. However, nothing quite resonated in the same way as that initial trip to Southern Italy.

The tragedy that befell, Pompeii, Herculaneum and two smaller coastal villages is well documented. For the purposes of this blog, I will outline my own account extrapolated from the primary sources. The story, as the Mad Hatter instructed Alice starts at the beginning. Contrary to more orthodox minds, it does not commence on the Italian mainland, but some 1000 miles away in the Holy City of Jerusalem.

In 70 CE, the Roman general Flavius Titus besieged Jerusalem. For 4 long and gruelling years, the Jews had withheld the onslaught of the world's greatest military machine. Despite myriad internal divisions and a lack of strong leadership, they had hoped to redeem Jerusalem and preserve their independence from the pagans. Alas it was not to be. According to the historian Josephus, Titus gave unequivocal instructions to destroy the city, but leave the Temple unmolested. In a moment of zealous fury, the Roman legionaries now drunk with a blood lust paid little heed to their commanders prime directive. The Temple began to burn on the 7th Av. Two days latter it had been reduced to ash. Ever since that fateful event, global Jewry has commemorated the tragedy as a fast day.

As the last embers of revolt were quashed on the fort of Masada, the defeated Jews continued to hope for Divine intervention. Their situation had never been worse. They were forced from their country in a mass dispersion. The choice their Roman overlords gave them was decidedly unpalatable. Either they could embrace death as those last rebels on Masada, or they could persevere in servitude. In the event, 50000 Jews were relocated to Italy. There they were tasked with building monuments. Amongst the constructions was the amphitheatre Flavius, known today, albeit inaccurately, as the Colosseum.

There is anecdotal evidence to support the theory that Jews lived in both Pompeii and Herulaneum. If their masters were in charitable mood they could eventually achieve manumission. As free men, they were permitted to indulge in all Roman life had to offer. They took foreign wives, but certain Jewish characteristics remained ingrained. Dietary restrictions - koshrut - were adhered to.

It stands to reason that in the ancient world, little was understood about earthquakes and volcanic activity. Facets of the unknown were simply bracketed under the remit of the gods. There was also a collective resignation regarding an earthquakes destructive capacity. The Roman senator Seneca dismissed the idea of abandoning towns and cities. If a populace were relocated, what could stop an earthquake hitting their new environs?

Although a lack of understanding clearly benighted the people of Pompeii et al, mother nature itself provided them with a clarion call. In 62 CE, the region was hit by a massive earthquake. It was so devastating that 17 years later repairs were still underway on some of the structures. But in spite of their precarious situation, the city persisted. One appealing factor was the arable land. Vineyards were a good source of income and grew in abundance on the slopes of Vesuvius.

Eventually, however, the inevitable could be delayed no longer. On 25th August 79 CE, exactly 9 years after the Jerusalem Temple had been set alight, Vesuvius erupted enveloping everything in its path. By the time the dust settled two days later, a microcosm, a whole way of life had been wiped off the map.

Genesis of an Idea

In July of 2001, I travelled to Italy for the very first time. Ancient Rome had always featured as a personal interest and I was able to take in the various sights and sounds. Apart from visiting the Eternal City, I ventured further south to Vesuvius and Pompeii. However, I made one fatal error. I booked a day excursion from Rome. Time was against me from the outset.

I climbed aboard my designated coach anticipating a seamless journey. For so long, my experience of Pompeii had been limited to the spartan pages of a school text book. Now I was to see the antique town in person. That at least was my hope.

After meandering the length and breadth of Italy's capital, we finally reached a highway. Nonetheless, we were in for a rude awakening. Normally, one expects to reach an average speed of 80 km at this point. But the needle on the driver's speedometer struggled to move beyond 8 km. What had gone wrong, I hear you cry? The answer is both simple and the source of much consternation. Italians are amongst the world's greatest artists, lovers and wine connoisseurs. Where they are found wanting is on the roads. On one occasion, I attempted to cross a road in Rome. An elemental task one might assume. But to the oncoming biker, both myself and the traffic lights were a mere anomaly. My whole life flashed before my eyes. I darted for the opposing pavement and made it by the skin of my teeth. The adrenalin coursed through my body as I lived to cross another day.  Suffice to say then that Italians are amongst the globes worst motorists.

Cue: Blackadder's asthmatic ant with heavy shopping! As the sands of time began to dissipate, I began grinding my teeth. My back was also suffering. After 4 hours, the picture became much clearer. Virtually at Naples itself, a brown fiat had given up the ghost. The vehicle had been abandoned. The local police (if they existed) had elected to leave it in situ. There was no point ruining a delectable lunchtime for the sake of national traffic. By default the fiat, a symbol of Italian pride, had become an object d'art. As gridlock became a modus operandi, passers by looked dispassionately at its damaged hulk.

Upon arrival, it became blatantly clear that half our day had evaporated into the ether. The guide announced rather sheepishly that we would have two hours to beat a trail around Pompeii! I was disappointed to say the least. I tried to make the best of a bad situation.

I can't say that I remember much from that tiny fraction of a day. If you'll forgive the expression - we visited the brothels, replete with graphic murals and examined a myriad of villas. Much to my chagrin, a great many artworks had been pilfered by the museum of Naples.

Before we knew it, we had returned to our trusty coach. The guide had another unpleasant surprise in store for us. On the way back to Rome, we stopped at Sorrento - made famous by the eponymous song. There to greet us were the paradigms of tourist villainy -  purveyors of souvenirs. I avoided them like a Biblical plague. My counterparts, however, were not so lucky. After the Italian national debt received a shot in the arm, we were permitted to leave.

At the end of the day, I ventured back inside my hotel room feeling that I had been short changed. Whilst the empty Fiat represented the core excitement, my desire to experience Pompeii had not been satiated. One day I hoped to make amends.