An Italian Year to Remember
The plan was to move to Naples, Italy from the Berkshires, rent out the house and return to Massachusetts in three years. I only lasted one. I love archeology, history, art, pizza and gelato. Living in the backyard of Pompeii, Herculaneum, Baia and Paestum were accessible and unfurled before my dashboard begging to be inhaled and explored. And they were, but the road got bumpy.
Trouble began after moving into a 200 year old villa overlooking the ocean, which I nicknamed the “mullet house.” Straight on it looked normal (attractive, even), but on the other side it had a lot of explaining to do. Questions about the house started after the first night. Waking up, my nostrils burned, like horseradish and rotten eggs had taken up residence. It was August with no air conditioning, which didn’t help. I opened the windows only to discover the smell was worse. And then came the earthquakes.
In pictures the villa was a true gem. At one time it was a single family home, over the years it was divided into two homes. I joked with the realtor that if she could get me a Nonna who liked to cook as a neighbor, I’d be ecstatic. She obliged. The house even had a modern kitchen with updated appliances and two sets of balconies; one overlooking the city below and the other the bay. It had the requested three bedrooms, two bathrooms and a garden. It was on budget and within a reasonable commute. It seemed too good to be true. And so it was. On the day I toured with the realtor, the house didn’t have an odor and the ground underfoot was still. The neighbor who practiced bagpipes on his balcony was out of town, along with the prostitute next door.
The location didn’t improve the morning I walked out to see one of our car windows smashed in. Glass glistened on the front seat, almost looking pretty. It’s worth noting this was the only time in my year in Naples I felt (was) vandalized. I felt nothing but safe as I took to the rails and walked down graffiti ridden alleyways alone. The only reason I mention the car’s window is because it was another strike against the house that seemed to take joy in my discomfort.
Italy was lonely. Forget the fact my Italian was lacking (Oddly, my German improved?!), they don’t speak Italian or German in Naples. They speak Neapolitan. It was rare to find English speakers. And while “Google Translate” is helpful for practical purposes, for starting friendships and understanding cultural nuances it is not. I began to miss those conversations I took for granted, the ones where the checkout clerk tells you about their allergies or the hairdresser shares a new recipe. I found out quickly I in fact need people and the ability to communicate, especially when the earthquakes hit, which were often.
The house was symbolic and reminded me of a valuable lesson, not everything is as it appears in pictures (remember when scrolling social media) and if you ever move to the Naples area, know Mt. Vesuvius isn’t the volcano to be wary of. She’s docile like a slumbering lion with a belly full of milk. It’s Campi Flegrei you need to pay attention to. The bagpipe player and broken window were just unlucky, but it turned out the prostitute and Nonna were (mostly) lovely.
I’m happy to be back in my one traffic light town. I came home with my tail tucked between my legs and have stayed close to home since…except for the occasional farm stand grilled cheese and apple cider donut. I wouldn’t trade the past year in Italy for anything. It will take a lifetime to unpack and process everything experienced: the yacht burning to a crisp outside the kitchen window, the church where women seeking true love go on Tuesdays to kiss an ancient vile of blood held by a nun, the Nonna whose job as a seamstress at Prada ended when her husband threw a raw egg at a garment she was working on and then there’s the man who was run out of his clothing business by the camorra and now sells Neapolitan paintings out of the trunk of a hatchback, and the abandoned ghost towns with coffins and billowing curtains. Oh, and the town of Bari, where Nonna’s open their kitchens to the public and sell homemade pasta and taralli and….
