Glimpse - Your Stories from Abroad

“You’re not going out alone, are you?”

I had stopped at the front desk of my hostel to get directions to Naples’ harbor, and a young man was just checking in. He seemed very concerned.

“Yes,” I said, after an uncertain pause, “To dinner. Why?”

“Because it’s not safe to walk around alone at night,” he said, peering at me very seriously. His companion looked at me with wide eyes and nodded. I assured them that I was accustomed to it and had already been living and studying in Italy for a number of months.

“Where are you studying?” the man asked.

“Perugia.”

“Well, this is different,” he said. “Naples is different. It’s the South. I wish you wouldn’t go out alone.”

I remembered the ominous message from my Italian friend that I’d puzzled over on my train ride to Naples earlier that day: “Have fun, but be safe,” it said. “After all, it is the South.”

But I was unwavering in my resolve. I was used to traveling alone, I told the young man. I was quite confident I could take care of myself.

He looked at me a moment and chewed his lip. “At the very least, please cover up all that beautiful blonde hair,” he said finally, with a small sigh.

I thanked him for his genuine concern, and to show him I was truly appreciative, took my black hat out and tucked my hair up under it. He nodded with a taut smile. “And please," he said, "be careful.”

I was spellbound as I walked the winding road in Borgo Marinaro, the moon-kissed port of Napoli, where gentle waves licked the rocks on my left and a line of bayside restaurants sparkled on my right. The city lights shivered on the ocean, and realizing that I, for the first time in a month, was not shivering, I took off my coat and breathed in the silky warmth of the night air. Spotting a restaurant that seemed to be floating on the sea, I picked my way through splintering sailboats until I found what I was looking for: a tavolo sul mare (table on the sea).

I treated myself to a sumptuous dinner. The wine itself was enough to convince me of the majesty of this place. I picked up the bottle to examine what hidden jewel I had stumbled upon: Lacryma Christi, or Christ’s Tears, a lush wine made by monks from grapes grown on the fertile volcanic slopes of Mount Vesuvius.

After dinner, as I meandered alongside the sea, I struck up a conversation with four fellow wanderers: an Italian, a Spaniard, and two Portuguese. They were going to the wedding party of their Neapolitan friend and wanted to know if I’d accompany them.

Their friends welcomed me warmly into their apartment, and for three hours I joined in their merriment, laughing and listening to music and the occasional brave partygoer who got up to sing. At 4 a.m., I realized I had to get some sleep. I thanked them all and made my way back to the hostel.

As I walked the lonely streets, my blonde hair flowing uncovered behind me, a car pulled up beside me.

“Che bella!” the driver oozed, and his friend whistled. I ignored them and kept walking. “Want a ride, bionda?” he said, trying English. Still, I didn’t respond. The passenger banged his arm on the side of the car. “Bionda, bionda!” he called. I looked straight ahead, but my heart was pounding. I realized I was holding my breath. I half-shouted a “No!”, hoping they would drive on. But they didn’t leave.

For several minutes, the car drove beside me as I walked in the shadows, alone. Finally, they stepped on the gas and sped off. No sooner had they moved on, a new car pulled up beside me. This car had several men in it, and they continued to say anything and everything to try to get my attention. At one point, they were so close I could have reached out and touched them. For a full five minutes, the car crept along beside me. Finally, I reached my street, which was dark and deserted. I turned; the car turned, too. There was no one else on the street. When I stopped at the gate of my hostel, they stopped behind me. Determined not to panic, I pushed the buzzer.

“Pronto!” I heard almost immediately; the gate uttered a dull click and I pushed it open. It clanged shut behind me. I didn’t look back. Finally, I heard the murmur of the car’s engine as it pulled away. For the first time in the last 10 minutes, I took a full breath.

Over the rest of my semester in Italy, I learned more about the South. I learned that the region was much poorer than the North, with higher crime rates, higher unemployment rates, and lower literacy rates. I found that my experience walking alone in Naples was not unique: Many other girls had been followed by cars full of Italian men late at night. I met plenty of people who had been pick-pocketed or robbed in Rome or Naples; I heard stories of others who had been violently attacked or raped.

I read about organized crime and its hold on the poverty-stricken regions of the South, which stood in stark contrast to the glorious history of industry in the North, of companies like Fiat and self-made men who had harnessed capitalism and raised the national standard of living. And the more I learned, the better I understood the meaning behind that ominous text message. “Have fun, but be safe. After all, it is the South.”

Still, Naples held a fascinating allure. Yes, it was big, dirty, and poor, but in the midst of its teeming and dangerous streets, there were magnificent sculptures, buildings, and castles. Wedged between three ugly skyscrapers, I had spotted an ornate ivory fountain gushing crystalline water. And I couldn’t forget the smile of the maitre d' at my restaurant when I showered him with praise for the delicious meal and the 20-somethings who had invited me into their home on their wedding day. I had picked up something of the regional pride while eating Southern food and savoring the volcanic wine.

But when I tell a Northern Italian that Naples is my favorite city in Italy, he invariably doesn’t take it too well. He curls his upper lip slightly, puffs air from his nostrils, looks at me quizzically, and says, “Why?”