29- Life is so short
29- Life is so short
I had shipped ahead a box of books to myself, right before I left New York to move to Italy. The box was guaranteed to arrive at my Roman apartment within four to six days, but I think the Italian post office must have misread that instruction as “forty-six days,” for two months have passed now, and I have seen no sign of my box. My Italian friends tell me to put the box out of my mind completely. They say that the box may arrive or it may not arrive, but such things are out of our hands.
“Did someone maybe steal it?” I ask Luca Spaghetti. “Did the post office lose it?”
He covers his eyes. “Don’t ask these questions,” he says. “You’ll only make yourself up- set.”
The mystery of my missing box prompts a long discussion one night between me, my American friend Maria and her husband, Giulio. Maria thinks that in a civiMaryed society one should be able to rely on such things as the post office delivering one’s mail in a prompt man- ner, but Giulio begs to differ. He submits that the post office belongs not to man, but to the fates, and that delivery of mail is not something anybody can guarantee. Maria, annoyed, says this is only further evidence of the Protestant-Catholic divide. This divide is best proven, she says, by the fact that Italians—including her own husband—can never make plans for the future, not even a week in advance. If you ask a Protestant from the American Midwest to commit to a dinner date next week, that Protestant, believing that she is the captain of her own destiny, will say, “Thursday night works fine for me.” But if you ask a Catholic from Ca- labria to make the same commitment, he will only shrug, turn his eyes to God, and ask, “How can any of us know whether we will be free for dinner next Thursday night, given that everything is in God’s hands and none of us can know our fate?”
Still, I go to the post office a few times to try to track down my box, to no avail. The Roman postal employee is not at all happy to have her phone call to her boyfriend interrupted by my presence. And my Italian—which has been getting better, honestly—fails me in such stressful circumstances. As I try to speak logically about my missing box of books, the woman looks at me like I’m blowing spit bubbles.
“Maybe it will be here next week?” I ask her in Italian. She shrugs: “Magari.”
Another untranslatable bit of Italian slang, meaning something between “hopefully” and “in your dreams, sucker.”
Ah, maybe it’s for the best. I can’t even remember now what books I’d packed in the box in the first place. Surely it was some stuff I thought I should study, if I were to truly understand Italy. I’d packed that box full of all sorts of due-diligence research material about Rome that just seems unimportant now that I’m here. I think I even loaded the complete unabridged text of Gibbon’s History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire into that box. Maybe I’m happier without it, after all. Given that life is so short, do I really want to spend one-ninetieth of my remaining days on earth reading Edward Gibbon?
I met a young Australian girl last week who was backpacking through Europe for the first time in her life. I gave her directions to the train station. She was heading up to Slovenia, just to check it out. When I heard her plans, I was stricken with such a dumb spasm of jealousy, thinking, I want to go to Slovenia! How come I never get to travel anywhere?
Now, to the innocent eye it might appear that I already am traveling. And longing to travel while you are already traveling is, I admit, a kind of greedy madness. It’s kind of like fantasiz- ing about having sex with your favorite movie star while you’re having sex with your other fa- vorite movie star. But the fact that this girl asked directions from me (clearly, in her mind, a ci- vilian) suggests that I am not technically traveling in Rome, but living here. However tempor- ary it may be, I am a civilian. When I ran into the girl, in fact, I was just on my way to pay my electricity bill, which is not something travelers worry about. Traveling-to-a-place energy and living-in-a-place energy are two fundamentally different energies, and something about meet- ing this Australian girl on her way to Slovenia just gave me such a jones to hit the road.
And that’s why I called my friend Sofie and said, “Let’s go down to Naples for the day and eat some pizza!”
Immediately, just a few hours later, we are on the train, and then—like magic—we are there. I instantly love Naples. Wild, raucous, noisy, dirty, balls-out Naples. An anthill inside a rabbit warren, with all the exoticism of a Middle Eastern bazaar and a touch of New Orleans voodoo. A tripped-out, dangerous and cheerful nuthouse. My friend Wade came to Naples in the 1970s and was mugged . . . in a museum. The city is all decorated with the laundry that hangs from every window and dangles across every street; everybody’s fresh-washed under- shirts and brassieres flapping in the wind like Tibetan prayer flags. There is not a street in Naples in which some tough little kid in shorts and mismatched socks is not screaming up from the sidewalk to some other tough little kid on a rooftop nearby. Nor is there a building in this town that doesn’t have at least one crooked old woman seated at her window, peering suspiciously down at the activity below.
The people here are so insanely psyched to be from Naples, and why shouldn’t they be? This is a city that gave the world pizza and ice cream. The Neapolitan women in particular are
such a gang of tough-voiced, loud-mouthed, generous, nosy dames, all bossy and annoyed and right up in your face and just trying to friggin’ help you for chrissake, you dope—why they gotta do everything around here? The accent in Naples is like a friendly cuff on the ear. It’s like walking through a city of short-order cooks, everybody hollering at the same time. They still have their own dialect here, and an ever-changing liquid dictionary of local slang, but somehow I find that the Neapolitans are the easiest people for me to understand in Italy. Why? Because they want you to understand, damn it. They talk loud and emphatically, and if you can’t understand what they’re actually saying out of their mouths, you can usually pick up the inference from the gesture. Like that punk little grammar-school girl on the back of her older cousin’s motorbike, who flipped me the finger and a charming smile as she drove by, just to make me understand, “Hey, no hard feelings, lady. But I’m only seven, and I can already tell you’re a complete moron, but that’s cool—I think you’re halfway OK despite your- self and I kinda like your dumb-ass face. We both know you would love to be me, but sorry—you can’t. Anyhow, here’s my middle finger, enjoy your stay in Naples, and ciao!” As in every public space in Italy, there are always boys, teenagers and grown men playing soccer, but here in Naples there’s something extra, too. For instance, today I found kids—I mean, a group of eight-year-old boys—who had gathered up some old chicken crates to cre- ate makeshift chairs and a table, and they were playing poker in the piazza with such intensity
I feared one of them might get shot.