Personal Narrative
Napoli Satori
Rediscovering Purpose and Passion on the Dynamic Streets of Naples.
“Who has not known a journey to be over and done before the traveler returns? The reverse is also true: many a trip continues long after movement in time and space have ceased.” — John Steinbeck, Travels with Charlie
Starved of nutrition, with almost no vitality, no cash, I shoved all my belongings into a small locker in Rome and boarded the train for Naples. I’d been living directionless. My only goal was to “see” at least one other city in Europe before returning home. Naples seemed like the right choice as it was only two hours by train and the ticket didn’t cost much.
I was depressed, and my somber mood prevented me from appreciating the fresh country air that blew through the train’s open windows. My wild unkempt hair rustled in the breeze as we left the city and entered the forest. I found myself in quiet introspection for the first hour, when suddenly the train passed through a forest fire.
A young mischievous man put his head outside the window. When he pulled back into the train, it was covered with soot and ash. Everyone burst into laughter before running through the car shutting the windows as fast as we could. Smoke and ash came flooding in. The sight of the young guy’s face full of ash made had given me a laugh deep from the gut. It was the first laugh I had in weeks, and it felt good.
The fire caused a rush of adrenaline in me which had the effect of improving my mood. The heaviness in my jaw and in my chest loosened a bit. Unfortunately, once we were through the fire, the heaviness returned.
I was out of place with my environment. My internal feelings were painfully contrasted by the sunny green countryside of lush olive and fig trees. The blue skies and puffy clouds, the afternoon’s shining gold Sun seemed almost to mock me.
I had come to Italy a few weeks prior with the intention of living here for six months, eventually making my way to Prague to see Kafka’s grave, then return home to Brooklyn by Christmas. But with only a few lire left in my pockets and no credit cards or bank account, this wasn’t going to happen.
The train slowed through the city of Naples before reaching the station. Outside the windows I saw ancient buildings of stone. They were dirtier and more haphazard than in in Rome. “Why did I come to this place? What do I expect to find here? Did I really spend my last lira just to come to a hotter and more crowded city? And for what? A cup of coffee?”
The sight of these ancient stone buildings, still in use, had once brought such inspiration to me. I was once inspired by their permanence and resiliency, but today they just seemed to have been missed by Saturn’s scythe.
“Just walk a few blocks from the station, drink an espresso, take the next train back to Rome,” I thought to myself with twisted lips and angry teeth.
Something happened to me, however, as I stepped off the train and walked the length of the platform. Goosebumps passed up my spine to my neck. Though hungry, I felt increasing energy with each step. My mouth involuntarily curled into a smile.
My aura, pores, and spirit seemed to be absorbing the energy of the city. I stepped out of the station onto the streets of chaos. Cars and people seemed to move randomly in every direction. Mopeds and Vespas sped through the crowds on the sidewalks. Fiats seemed to obey no known traffic norms. Rusty old streetcars barreled through intersections as if they had no breaks.
It struck me that this place was the antidote to my condition. Unlike in Rome — where the imagery of grandness, history, and success sharpened the edge of my own inadequacy — Naples greeted me with a physical and mental feeling of possibility and freedom. Gone was the feeling of directionlessness that haunted me in New York and Rome.
Ninety seconds in Naples and I already had clarity. I knew I wanted to get a glimpse of Mt. Vesuvio. I’d never seen an active volcano before. I had a goal again, and it felt great. I wasn’t going to leave here until I fulfilled it.
I had no map and no idea where I’d find Mt. Vesuvio, but I knew it had to be near the sea.
I saw an unassuming caffè across the street. Attempting to navigate my way across the street was as difficult as it looked. Traffic was unpredictable. The streetcars gathered in the center of the intersection, leaving no safe place for pedestrians. Nevertheless, locals stepped across the intersection nonchalantly as if protected by some unseen force.
I tried to mimic their style. I walked with a group of teens across the intersection. To my dismay, they jumped onto a moving streetcar in the middle of the intersection leaving me abandoned to my own fate. There was no safe place for me to stop. Streetcars came barreling toward me blowing their horns. I did the Sign of the Cross and darted across the rest of the intersection in that scurried way that one tries to get out of the ocean before the next large wave comes crashing to the shore. I was so close to the cars and mopeds that I smelled gasoline and exhaust.
Once safe on the sidewalk in front of the caffè, I noticed the adrenaline flowing through me again. I welcomed this feeling.
I ran into the caffè and was hit with a welcome feeling of calm. I could feel the coolness of the marble tiles on the floor and hear the refrigerators keeping the pastries cold. Tapping my foot with excitement, I asked the counterman, “Dov’e il mare?” (“Where is the sea?”) He answered in a long series of directions that I couldn’t understand.
I bought an espresso for 1000 lire (75 cents). Even the espresso was less expensive here. I took one long inhale of the strong scent of powdered sugar and chocolate in the air, and ran back into the street.
After the espresso, I found the sea but not Mt. Vesuvio. I was sure it was supposed to be across from here. I walked back into the series of ancient alleys, stopping to read a chalk-written menu on a sandwich board. It said that for 10,000 lire (about $7 USD at the time), I could get a two course meal and a half-carafe of red wine. “I can’t pass this deal up!”
I walked in and sat down. A red and white checkered tablecloth greeted me. I smelled garlic, lemon, and fresh seafood cooking. I hadn’t sat down to a meal in a restaurant in weeks. This wasn’t a fancy place. The decor was simple, the plaster on the walls cracked, and the wooden floor was worn. There was an old record jukebox in the corner of the room. The pictures on the walls were in black-and-white.
I thought I was alone when an old man appeared from the kitchen. I told him I wanted the deal from the menu outside. He nodded, and returned with red wine and a basket of bread.
The amount of bread alone was more food than I had eaten in the past two days. As I reached for more, I saw a roach crawl up from underneath the table. There was a time in my life, not too long ago, that this would have sent me straight out of the place. But not today.
I was so hungry that I would have fought a poisonous snake for that fresh warm bread. I killed the roach with my napkin, and threw it on the floor. Soon the old man was back with a bowl of linguini and clams with garlic and oil. I’d never tasted anything this fresh from the sea before. I tried to eat it slowly to savor the flavor, but I lost that battle.
The waiter barely had his back turned before I had finished it. He turned around to look at me while I was soaking up the remaining olive oil with the bread. He was expressionless. I felt the need to justify this. “Io ho fame!” (“I’m hungry”) I said.
“Hai fame?” (“You’re hungry?”) he asked. I had not meant to suggest that I was still hungry, but I only knew present tense verb conjugations.
I repeated, “Io ho fame!”
The waiter went into the kitchen, and returned from the kitchen with a short older woman. She had a large pot in one hand and a large spoon in the other hand. “Lui ha fame,” (“He is hungry”) the waiter said to her.
Without saying a word, the woman scooped all of the remaining pasta and small clams from the bottom into my bowl.
“Grazie tanto!” (“Thank you so much”), I said. As they returned to the kitchen, I felt tears welling up in my eyes.
As I finished the meal, people started coming in. The waiter seemed to know them all. They all seemed to know each other too.
I ate my grilled calamari slowly. Each bite tasted like it was marinated by the sea. As time passed, the crowds grew larger. Someone put some coins into the old record jukebox, and a duet played. An old man sung a verse, then a woman would sang a verse. Next, everyone (including the waiter) joined in for the chorus.
I felt a warmth and serenity I hadn’t felt since Christmas Eve, long ago. Feelings of bittersweet nostalgia welled up. I was missing the sense of camaraderie that these people had here.
Although they had arrived in separately everyone interacted with a sense of familiarity. Groups were permeable. A man got up from his family’s table to join another group at another table. The children moved between everyone’s tables. They all seemed surprised and delighted to find each other here.
I got the sense that at all of these people had seen each other at their best and worst. There was a perceptible sense of community. There was an “in this together” feeling that I loved. I resolved to bring this sense of community back with me, even if I had to build it myself.
Departing the restaurant, I looked towards the sea. The clouds were parting and I saw a mountain emerging across the harbor. I moved through the alleys towards an open piazza to get a better view.
The clouds lifted some more. Finally, in the early evening summer sun, there was Mt. Vesuvio, towering over the city! I had to strain my neck to view the top of it. I finally understood the people of Napoli: They celebrated life in a vibrant and continuous way because, at any moment, this volcano could blow up, leaving the city in ash and dust. They lived every moment like it was there last because this was their constant possibility.
That day marked a turning point in my life, a move away from hopelessness and depression. Whenever I feel my strength failing, I think of Naples, and that old couple who showed me kindness. I remember the people singing together after a hard day’s work, and the beauty of towering Mt. Vesuvio. When I left for Naples, I only hoped to find espresso. In the end, I found meaning there.
Naples reminded me that my days and numbered, and the locals showed me how to live well: Eat, sing, celebrate — and always together, with gusto!
