Dmitri was born and raised (to the age of 14) in Marseille. He was named after his maternal grandfather, a Russian. That ancestor arrived in the city in the 1920s, with an interesting (if rather confused) history, and in straitened financial circumstances. More about him another time, perhaps.
Now, Marseille labours under the reputation of being a somewhat “frisky” town. And that, according to Dmitri is entirely unjustified.
“It’s just like any other big, busy city,” he says, “you just need to keep your wits about you and take appropriate precautions.”
If I’m feeling like a smartarse, I’ll say something in reply along the lines of “Yeah, precautions like carrying a Kalashnikov and wearing a bullet proof vest.” and Dimitri will make a rude gesture at me.
But he’s right. Marseille is a big, busy, city like many others, packed with interest, and I enjoy visiting it immensely.
So, I thought it a little rich of him to complain that we were risking life and limb by visiting Naples, a city I know well, but which he doesn’t, and one about which he seemed determined to remain stubbornly ignorant. And prejudiced.
He’d been reading internet travel forums looking for horror stories since we boarded a train in Paris.
“It says here that pizzerias in Naples are terrorised by groups of nuns demanding free food with menaces.”
“Oh, come on Dima. You must know that is rubbish!”
“Ah ha! But I have here an actual news story from a real and reputed journal that reports that a Neapolitan nun has been imprisoned for her mafia connections!”
I was ready for this one. “That was in 1985. We were at university in 1985, Dima. The world was different. Dinosaurs still roamed the Earth in 1985. And it turned out that she wasn’t a nun at all. Read to the end.”
“Humf!” He actually said “Humf!” “OK, an Australian guy here says that he personally met someone who heard from a man who read it somewhere that a tourist was run over by a police car in Naples. And he was fined by the police for making a mess on the pavement by bleeding on it. And then he was robbed by street urchins. What’s an urchin?”
“English word for un oursin.” Gotcha. I teach English. Dmitri defers to me when he doesn’t know.
“Robbed by shellfish? But that’s stupid.”
“Like I said Dima, that is all rubbish. Naples is fine. Just another big, busy city…”
Naples is not just another big, busy, city. Naples is exceptional.
Were I to live in Italy (and I sometimes chew on the idea), I would choose Naples as my home, for many, many reasons. Here are just three.
• Naples is an archaeological treasure house. The absolute highlight among the highlights is the Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli, and the best bit of this is the collection of objects from Pompei and Herculaneum. This place is better than the Louvre or the British Museum.
• The Cimitero delle Fontanelle – caves full of the bones of thousands of dead Neapolitans. Kids love the place! Well, mine did. Actually, this is a touching, curiously peaceful setting that provides a very human and personal history of the city from the 17th to the 20th century.
• The P-Plan Diet – Naples has the best pizza. If, that is, your taste runs to crisp, light bread bases made from properly kneaded, long-fermented dough, topped with sauce made from field-grown, sun-ripened tomatoes, a spot of mozzarella, some basil and maybe some olives or anchovies. If, on the other hand, you prefer undercooked deep-pan sludge-sponge, topped with industrial milk-related extruded cheese-like gunk, some more sludge, but this time orange, a couple of slices of miscellaneous ultra-processed pig bits, and a handful of pineapple cubes tinned in syrup, Naples is probably not a culinary destination you should choose. In Naples, one can eat pizza for breakfast, lunch and dinner, eat a remarkably varied diet and come out the other end of the trip feeling (and looking) pretty damn good. I’m not going to supply the name and address of my favourite pizzeria. Find your own – it’s a fun way to pass a few days. Though I’d avoid the places with 4.9 stars and 18,000 reviews. Just a suggestion.
Yes, Naples is chaotic. Yes, the traffic is abysmal. Yes, you need to stay awake and aware. Yes, there is a small but nonetheless extant possibility that Vesuvius could explode during your stay and tip the city into the sea, which does add a certain frisson. But Naples is also very alive.
We took rooms on the Isola di Nisida in the harbour because it was Dmitri’s first visit and the view over the Bay of Naples at sunset is rather good from here. For food we crossed the short bridge to the shore turned a couple of times left, took a right, and stumbled upon a pizzeria that smelt right.
We decided on a takeaway because the evening was fine, so we could go and sit on the harbour. We fell into conversation with the young Senegalese taking orders, waiting tables, doing the washing up and sweeping the floor. Everything, in fact, except making the pizzas. Because he was the apprentice.
Pizzerias in Naples belong to a guild called the Associazione Verace Pizza Napoletan. (According to Dmitri, this is almost certainly run by the Iron Knuckled Seriously Booted Aggressive Sisters of the Immaculate Slice). The duration of the apprenticeship seems to vary widely according to which website is selling it, but our new friend told us that he was 18 months into a two-year training, and he was now allowed to manipulate the dough. But only under close supervision.
Dmitri: “So, do you get nuns coming in here?”
New Friend: “From time to time, yes.”
Dmitri: “…And, do they pay for their pizzas?”
New Friend: “Yes. Everyone pays for their pizzas. No discounts, no credit.”
Dmitri: “Oh.”
New Friend told us that his plan was to finish his training and then to return to Senegal with his certification and open a Neapolitan pizzeria in Dakar.
“But first I will need to save some money. I was thinking of heading North where the wages are better. Work in a restaurant. Maybe Genoa, maybe France.”
“You should head to Marseille,” said Dmitri, “Restaurants in Marseille are always looking for good staff.”
“Marseille? You are mad! That place is crazy dangerous. The priests in Marseille all carry Uzis under their cassocks and they are the gang bosses! I met this Australian guy and he told me that he personally read about a man who heard about…”
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