In Napoli, there are no rules

The shame about Napoli is that the buildings have beautiful facades — we walked by the House of the Nile, for instance, with a door knocker fashioned as a sphinx and ornamentation of the same design — but it is nearly impossible to view the facades properly because the streets are so thin. One stands back, cranes the neck a fair bit, and can see a skyline barely peeking over the rooftop. The boys, and couples, and families, on scooters all tear down these streets — streets which to an American might appear to be more like alleyways — at high speeds, without helmets and often clapping, shouting, and diving around parked cars. The south may be the carefree rule-less Italy we hear about. What with the garbage strike, I feel like I’m in Mexico, only less safe.

Max has warned us that in Napoli, there are no rules. He has almost scared us, accustomed as we are to the relative safety of Florence. He says, “Thees ees a major metropolitan ahreea, and you don’t take eh-nee valuables. You pay attention to your camera, your pockets. Een Napoli, they come by so quick, you don’t even noteece.”

At the rest stop outside of Rome, Max says, “We take our stuff weeth us. In Napoli, two minutes is eenough to steal a Mercedes.” Max likes to start his sentences with, “Een Nah-poh-lee…” In Napoli, there is the best pizza. In Napoli, you buy a scooter (stolen) for one hundred euro. In Napoli, the pastries are the best, especially the Babas. In Napoli, there are no rules.

How much fun to be with a true Napolitano, who speaks a dialect of Italian that cuts off the last syllable of every word, a slightly more nasal, speedy language that even Stephanie can’t understand. We are at the eve of the New Year, with homemade bombs and fireworks exploding all around us, in a boisterous, ragtag city center. This is an auspicious way for me in particular to ring in the New Year — here’s to a year that brings travel and adventure, in many languages.