Italian Days, Part XIII

The special Naples-ness of Naples

On a Naples street, summer of 2026 (Jay Nordlinger)

Dear readers: The previous parts of this journal can be found at the following links: I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, VIX, X, XI, XII.

Arriving in Naples and exiting the station, I feel something I haven’t felt in days: a breeze. Ah, the Bay of Naples! Not only beautiful, but also useful.

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Outside the station, there are military of some sort, young men with berets and sticks, swaggering. I think: “There’s a thin line between protectors and bully-boys.” An old, old story, in Italy and everywhere else.

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Walking through the city, I have a sense of being in a movie, set in Naples. Naples is a movie set. But I have to chuckle. “The movies look like Naples, Jay. It’s not that Naples looks like the movies.”

See what I mean? Let’s get horse and cart straight!

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All the clichés about Naples are true. Chaotic, unruly, colorful, free-wheeling, lush, talkative, exciting.

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Let’s talk about the traffic for a minute. It’s not that there are no rules. But the rules are like slang, rather than a formal language. Drivers know what they can do without hitting anyone or being hit.

At a crosswalk, drivers will let pedestrians pass. But they don’t want to stop moving. They will keep rolling, knowing how fast they can go without grazing you.

This is unnerving to the pedestrian—but only in his first hours in town. He gets used to it …

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If sidewalks are crowded, you may walk on the street for a bit. You know what I see? The driver of a van, wanting to pass walkers on the street, goes up over the curb onto the sidewalk for a bit.

Swear. I saw this with my own two eyes.

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Naples is grimy and even brutish, here and there. But suddenly—a relaxed splendor. Friendly beauty. “Vedi Napoli e poi muori,” goes the old saying. “See Naples and then die.” This saying was spread ’round the world by Goethe in his Italian Journey.

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There are grand plazas, open spaces—but mainly nooks and crannies. Many more byways than highways.

Go uphill with me for a sec:

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Funny thought, funny observation: There must not be many dryers in Naples. Clothes are hanging everywhere. (And air-dried is better than machine-dried, you may agree.)

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I wonder: Are any city’s songs better known throughout the world than those of Naples? “O sole mio.” “Torna a Surriento.” “ ’A vucchella.” “Funiculì funiculà.”

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Riccardo Muti champions the music of Giuseppe Martucci, a Neapolitan who lived from 1856 to 1909. In particular, he conducts Martucci’s Notturno, Op. 70, No. 1. As Muti says, you can see the moon over the Bay of Naples as you listen.

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Speaking of music, there is a street named after Scarlatti in this city. Which one? Not which street but which Scarlatti? Alessandro, the father, or Domenico, the son?

Alessandro. Via Alessandro Scarlatti.

He was born in 1660. His (more) illustrious son, also a composer, was born in 1685—same year as Bach and Handel.

That was a good year.

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Another street: Via Acton. Huh. Are the Neapolitans honoring our Acton, the great English liberal? No, this is Ferdinando Acton, a Neapolitan admiral and statesman. But guess what: he was a cousin of our Acton—who was born in Naples.

Well, I never …

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Have a view of the city (and beyond), from way up:

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Something blights the city—and other Italian cities, but especially this one, I think: graffiti. People have scrawled graffiti as if it were their job. Why this is permitted, and why it is not cleaned up, I don’t know.

These scrawlings are not artistic or charming or “authentic.” They are vandalism and defacement and uglification. To say it again, they blight Naples.

Let people scrawl on the walls inside their homes if they want …

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I like the sign on this school: “Don’t dirty it up. This school belongs to everyone.”

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Earlier in this journal, I said that I had seen something I had not seen when I was a student in Italy, 42 years ago: vegan ice cream. We did not know the word “vegan,” or at least I didn’t.

So it is with gluten-free pizza …

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Tomato sauce in Italy is … tomato sauce. What do I mean by that? The sauce is made of tomatoes, and little else. Back at home, our tomato sauce tends to be … what? Not all that tomato-y, frankly.

I could go on and be more specific, but I’m no Julia Child …

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A Neapolitan waiter tells me, “Spaghetti with tomato sauce is my comfort food. When I’ve had a bad day or am anxious or angry: I want nothing else.”

I understand.

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Toward the beginning of this journal, I commented on, and marveled at, the word “eh.” In Italy, it can have multiple meanings, uttered in multiple tones. To hear a little girl in Naples say “eh” is … enchanting.

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A boy of about 13 is jawin’ with his mates in raw Neapolitan, and, leaving them, he shouts over his shoulder, “Capì?” “Do you understand?”

As if from a movie …

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In this journal, I have mentioned, and shown, the Scala opera house in Milan and the opera house in Rome. Here in Naples, there is the fabled Real Teatro di San Carlo, the Royal Theater of Saint Charles.

Have a glimpse, through an archway:

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The hotel in which I’m staying forms part of a “complex,” let’s say. I would like to show you a little of the complex, for the sight is typically Neapolitan:

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The entrance to the courtyard is an old, old door. It must have been a grand, or at least a stately, door, once upon a time: a portone. (They still call it that: a portone.) The first time I go through it, I bump my head. I think anyone over 5-foot-7 or so would have to duck.

When the door was measured and made, how many had to duck? Very, very few, I bet.

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Do you like the color of this building? I do. I think it works well in this environment.

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The beggars here in Naples seem to be less … professional than the ones I encounter, every day, in New York. They also seem to be needier.

There are needy beggars in New York, to be sure. But mainly, I see the professional ones, who are well fed and well clothed. They show up for “work,” every day. Sometimes I see them in the morning, alighting from the subway, getting ready to put in their shift.

This happens day after day, week after week, year after year (literally).

One woman I see in Naples “sings for her supper.” She holds a sign saying that she is poor and she sings, lustily, soulfully.

I admire her. She is giving something.

This is a big, big subject, and I’m moving on …

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Another big subject: black Neapolitan kids, jiving with the other Neapolitan kids, in “raw Neapolitan,” as I have described it. (They are probably made to deal in standard Italian in school.)

Will it all work out, the immigration in Italy and elsewhere in Europe? Time is telling, day after day …

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You know what I see in Naples, which I find rather remarkable? Remarkable enough to remark on it here? Italian tourists. Lots of Italian tourists.

It’s kind of touching. (Why shouldn’t they too want to see Naples?)

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Man, do these people eat late and stay out late—men, women, boys, girls, families.

A quick photo:

Another one for the road:

Thanks so much for joining me today, you guys. Really appreciate it. Later on.