Mr. Sandman

I am really too tired to write something of interest to myself on this the first day of the new year, but it seemed imperative to write something period. Naples on New Year's Eve is what I imagine a city under bombardment is like: constant, loud-ass explosions for hours and hours. Since every Tom, Dick and Luciano has his own arsenal of firecrackers, fireworks, firebombs, you never know where or when something is going to be set off. So you don't leave your house on New Year's Eve in Naples. I was even too chicken to go onto the balcony. The entire city was shrouded in smoke by 5am when I, of course, was awake due to a baby demanding breast.

We went to my husband's sister's house today and ate ourselves into a stupor. Luckily for me, I can tune out the conversation because though my Italian is fluent, my Napoletano is more or less non-existent. So, after lentils, squid, pasta al forno, steak, sausages, salad, and four trays of pastries, I just glazed over and let the screaming discussion wash over me. They are so fucking loud. I thought my family was loud. Compared to these folks my family seems under a monastic vow of silence.