Yesterday, I was strolling along with La Bimba in the stroller, when a broom came lunging out of a basso doorway, nearly decapitating me. The broom belongs to a greasy-haired old lady; the basso’s interior, and as far out as she can lean onto the street from her waist-high door, is her domain. The lady has a slightly deranged look in her eye, and a permanently fixed half-smile to go with her permanently fixed house dress. Her smile always broadens when she sees La Bimba. I admit to quickening my pace a bit when she reaches out to touch La Bimba with trembling hand.
Try as I may, I don’t think I can do justice to the basso phenomenon. On the one hand, it’s not so hard to describe: street level housing, ground floor apartments that open onto the street. On the other hand, you need several hands and maybe a foot or two to capture what it means to live in a ground floor apartment in Naples. In the past, I have described it thusly:
“Residential in Naples means storefront-level housing called bassi. If you live in a basso, you live half your life on the street. I would say sidewalk, but there are too few sidewalks to mention in Naples. The street is where you set up your laundry rack (the bassi cannot string lines across the street like their upper floor neighbors; they would decapitate passing moped riders), your chairs to sit outside. It’s where you fight with your husband, serve your food in summer, smoke, drink, daydream. Your door is always open because you have no windows. Passers-by know what you’re having for dinner even if they’ve lost their sense of smell, know your favorite TV shows (and sometimes gather round to watch them with you), know the hour you turn down the sheets and get into bed. The bassi are what make Naples the most comic-tragic city in the western world.”
(Note that decaptitation appears twice in this short post. I sense a theme emerging).
Many basso inhabitants design their entrances to appear as front doors to country villas. There is latticework replete with climbing vines, potted plants, shrines to the Madonna or Padre Pio or both, shrines to dead relatives, their color glossies curling at the corners, canopies, columns, maybe a little fence. All of this aesthetic care does not, nevertheless, change the fact that when the inhabitant of a basso shakes out her rug, the dust mites hit La Bimba in the face; that when he eats his breakfast, a passer-by can see if the coffee is macchiato or not; that the monthly payments for the giant screen television mounted in the corner of the kitchen cost more than the rent; or that this house is supposed to be a garage, a blacksmith, a print shop.
The basso, along with the motorino, gives Naples its oddness, greatness, stubbornness, Naplesness. No matter how often I complain about it, Naples without the bassi would be just another western European capital, a place that has its physical spaces in all the right places: you shop here, you live there.
Mothers stand cut off at the waist at their Dutch doors like ticket vendors at a state fair, grandmothers hang out their colourful sheets like the welcoming flags of suburban America, fathers scream at their children to not get dirty and to come in for lunch. A woman picks at the pimples on her husbands back. A man drives by on his moped with his dog at the handlebars. Most bassi sit on streets where the sun’s rays do not reach. It is always dark and damp. Still, people are known to smile, and I thank La Bimba for that.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Monday, February 12, 2007
Food Glorious Food
I started an online writing group, friends and family writing together while far apart. There are 18 of us in the group and I’ve already received 6 “assignments.” It’s so wonderful reading these people! Such a creative bunch. I’m a lucky girl.
Yesterday, The Husband, La Bimba, The Nonni, two Spanish ladies, two Neapolitan fellows, and I went to La Rotonda for lunch. The restaurant is on a beach in Bagnoli near the abandoned steelworks. It was a beautiful, sunny day and the meal was good. But I didn’t have too much fun. La Bimba was crankissima, resisting food, resisting sleep. Luckily, Zio Salvatore, one of the Neapolitan fellows, loves La Bimba and carried her around the restaurant. We call him Zio (uncle) because that’s who he is to Lucia. Zio Nicola, Salvatore’s partner, sat next to La Nonna (grandma), and patiently listened to her stories. La Nonna is doing pretty well in Italian. She studies with an immigrant from Lioni, a province of Avellino, not far from Naples. You can eat some good meat in Avellino.
Eating with family and friends, at someone’s home or at a trattoria or ristorante, is the number one pastime in Italy. Spending five hours at table is a lovely way to spend an afternoon, but I often would like to take a walk in the woods or go to an exhibit. Sometimes I look at the pile of pasta in front of me or the mountain of fried fish in the center of the table and think, “I can’t do it. I’m still full from yesterday.” But then, I do it. Thank heavens for breastfeeding!
Il Nonno (grandpa) has just stepped out for his morning cornetto run. The man has shpilkes, ants in his pants. He paces. Meanwhile, La Nonna keeps falling asleep on the sofabed, over and over again.
Oh, what a boring boring post. I’m reading Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird. She is the messiah. But she doesn’t talk about blogs. Happy Monday.
Yesterday, The Husband, La Bimba, The Nonni, two Spanish ladies, two Neapolitan fellows, and I went to La Rotonda for lunch. The restaurant is on a beach in Bagnoli near the abandoned steelworks. It was a beautiful, sunny day and the meal was good. But I didn’t have too much fun. La Bimba was crankissima, resisting food, resisting sleep. Luckily, Zio Salvatore, one of the Neapolitan fellows, loves La Bimba and carried her around the restaurant. We call him Zio (uncle) because that’s who he is to Lucia. Zio Nicola, Salvatore’s partner, sat next to La Nonna (grandma), and patiently listened to her stories. La Nonna is doing pretty well in Italian. She studies with an immigrant from Lioni, a province of Avellino, not far from Naples. You can eat some good meat in Avellino.
Eating with family and friends, at someone’s home or at a trattoria or ristorante, is the number one pastime in Italy. Spending five hours at table is a lovely way to spend an afternoon, but I often would like to take a walk in the woods or go to an exhibit. Sometimes I look at the pile of pasta in front of me or the mountain of fried fish in the center of the table and think, “I can’t do it. I’m still full from yesterday.” But then, I do it. Thank heavens for breastfeeding!
Il Nonno (grandpa) has just stepped out for his morning cornetto run. The man has shpilkes, ants in his pants. He paces. Meanwhile, La Nonna keeps falling asleep on the sofabed, over and over again.
Oh, what a boring boring post. I’m reading Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird. She is the messiah. But she doesn’t talk about blogs. Happy Monday.
Friday, February 9, 2007
Totonno and Eduardo
There is a famous pizzeria in Brooklyn called Totonno's. It's in Coney Island and is one of the rare brick oven pizzerias. The place opens at lunchtime and closes when they run out of dough. I went there once with some Brooklyn friends and a friend from Minneapolis (who, on the same visit to NYC, walked into the now defunct Mrs. Stahl's knishes and said, "What's a NISH?" and the lady behind the counter said, "Yaw not from around heeyah, awr ya?"). We were the only customers, so the pizzaiolo came and sat with us, an older guy all in white: white t-shirt stretched tightly across big belly, white pants, white apron, white hair. At one point in the conversation he asked us, "You know where Yiddish comes from?" It thought we were headed toward an anti-semitic conversation (paranoid? me?), but, instead, pizza guy explained the actual history of Yiddish (from middle high German, Ashkenaz, Europe, blah blah). Turns out, most Italianist pizza man macho Broccolino is Jewish. He married the daughter of Totonno and took over when his father-in-law retired (or died...I don't know what happened). One of my friends said, "We could have seder at Totonno's!" Imagine: a real matzoh-pizza...like my daughter.
I remembered this story today because my parents, La Bimba and I were in a pizzeria here in la bella Napoli, and on the way out, the owner asked if La Bimba was a napoletana. I said she was half-Neapolitan, half-American. Then the typical conversation ensued...and then turned...
Owner: Your mother looks like a real Neapolitan.
(Laughter).
O: But you're Italian American.
Me: No, we have no Italian blood.
O: So you're American American?
Me: (Attempting to side-step the whole, What is a real American, what happened to the Native Americans, what is a Jew discourse) Our roots are in Russia, Poland, Eastern Europe generally.
O: Oh, so you're Ashkenazim.
Me: Exsqueeze me? Baking Powder?
Yeah, the owner of Eduardo's pizzeria on Corso Vittorio Emanuele knows all about the history of both the Ashkenazim and the Sephardim. When I asked him how he knew all this he said, "Sometimes I read."
We start studying the Talmud next week.
I remembered this story today because my parents, La Bimba and I were in a pizzeria here in la bella Napoli, and on the way out, the owner asked if La Bimba was a napoletana. I said she was half-Neapolitan, half-American. Then the typical conversation ensued...and then turned...
Owner: Your mother looks like a real Neapolitan.
(Laughter).
O: But you're Italian American.
Me: No, we have no Italian blood.
O: So you're American American?
Me: (Attempting to side-step the whole, What is a real American, what happened to the Native Americans, what is a Jew discourse) Our roots are in Russia, Poland, Eastern Europe generally.
O: Oh, so you're Ashkenazim.
Me: Exsqueeze me? Baking Powder?
Yeah, the owner of Eduardo's pizzeria on Corso Vittorio Emanuele knows all about the history of both the Ashkenazim and the Sephardim. When I asked him how he knew all this he said, "Sometimes I read."
We start studying the Talmud next week.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Take it to the bank
I’ve pretty much spilled the beans and shared the news of my blog. I feel…I feel…sullied.
Today I went to a bank to try to open an account. The bank had a security door, a narrow tube, like those mail tubes that suck a capsule with stuff inside…okay, I have no idea how those work…anyway, a narrow tube that opens on one end, then closes, then reopens into the bank. I was not allowed to enter with the stroller, a fact I figured out from the head-wagging teller. One kindly Neapolitan woman asked, “Are you trying to go in?” I said, “Yes,” and then she proceeded to go in herself. I said, “Gentilissima,” which means “how kind,” and she shot me a dirty look. Lucky for her she was already inside the tube or I’d have, POW, right in the kisser! So, then a man tried to help me get the stroller in the tube. We failed. He went in and when he came out, I said, “Someone could have at least come outside to tell me.” He defended the bankers: “They couldn’t hear you.” Oh so now Neapolitans need actual words to communicate? This is the land of gesture. I’ve seen entire conversations take place with just flailing hands and couple of well-placed thrusts of the chin. The man then told me I had to wait for the guard. Many, many minutes passed. I decided to go to the bakery to park the stroller. The ladies who work there know me, so I figured no problem. And, indeed, no problem. I returned with La Bimba in my arms, in her “eskimino” (yep, the Italian for snowsuit), though it was now baking outside. The guard arrived, a young, handsome guy, who informed me, “You can’t bring the stroller inside and we can’t open the emergency door.” Got it. Then he added, “I was in the bathroom.” Either he had the stomach flu that’s going around, he was doing some lines and had to get all the powder off his nose, or he was simply lying about having a coffee. I finally got inside the bank and the aforementioned tellers started cooing at La Bimba, which pissed me off because though it’s nice that they think she rocks da house, I remain chopped liver (“What am I? Chopped liver?” translates as “Am I transparent?” here. I’ve never understood the chopped liver line since a plate of it atop some Ritz never went ignored in my family). The tellers sent me to the manager, who was a slick and slimy type. He asked, “What’s your work?” I said, “I’m a full-time mom.” He said, “Oh, so you don’t do anything.” I THOUGHT NEAPOLITANS WORSHIPPED MOTHERS!!! Then he took my information and said he’ll contact me after a background check. La Bimba and I returned to the bakery, bought some bread, and headed home.
And that was Tuesday.
Today I went to a bank to try to open an account. The bank had a security door, a narrow tube, like those mail tubes that suck a capsule with stuff inside…okay, I have no idea how those work…anyway, a narrow tube that opens on one end, then closes, then reopens into the bank. I was not allowed to enter with the stroller, a fact I figured out from the head-wagging teller. One kindly Neapolitan woman asked, “Are you trying to go in?” I said, “Yes,” and then she proceeded to go in herself. I said, “Gentilissima,” which means “how kind,” and she shot me a dirty look. Lucky for her she was already inside the tube or I’d have, POW, right in the kisser! So, then a man tried to help me get the stroller in the tube. We failed. He went in and when he came out, I said, “Someone could have at least come outside to tell me.” He defended the bankers: “They couldn’t hear you.” Oh so now Neapolitans need actual words to communicate? This is the land of gesture. I’ve seen entire conversations take place with just flailing hands and couple of well-placed thrusts of the chin. The man then told me I had to wait for the guard. Many, many minutes passed. I decided to go to the bakery to park the stroller. The ladies who work there know me, so I figured no problem. And, indeed, no problem. I returned with La Bimba in my arms, in her “eskimino” (yep, the Italian for snowsuit), though it was now baking outside. The guard arrived, a young, handsome guy, who informed me, “You can’t bring the stroller inside and we can’t open the emergency door.” Got it. Then he added, “I was in the bathroom.” Either he had the stomach flu that’s going around, he was doing some lines and had to get all the powder off his nose, or he was simply lying about having a coffee. I finally got inside the bank and the aforementioned tellers started cooing at La Bimba, which pissed me off because though it’s nice that they think she rocks da house, I remain chopped liver (“What am I? Chopped liver?” translates as “Am I transparent?” here. I’ve never understood the chopped liver line since a plate of it atop some Ritz never went ignored in my family). The tellers sent me to the manager, who was a slick and slimy type. He asked, “What’s your work?” I said, “I’m a full-time mom.” He said, “Oh, so you don’t do anything.” I THOUGHT NEAPOLITANS WORSHIPPED MOTHERS!!! Then he took my information and said he’ll contact me after a background check. La Bimba and I returned to the bakery, bought some bread, and headed home.
And that was Tuesday.
Saturday, February 3, 2007
Mel Brooks
When La Bimba has a wet diaper and is crying, I say, "You're hysterical! You're wet and you're hysterical!" The Producers, the original, is one of my favorite movies, and Gene Wilder's line, "I'm hysterical! (Zero Mostel splashes water on Wilder's face). I'm wet and I'm hysterical!" is my favorite line. What's yours? Yeah, I'm talking to YOU.
I had a Peruvian boyfriend for a short time. In an effort to share some of my culture with him, we watched The Producers and Woody Allen's Bananas. I thought he might have related to the latter due to his hailing from a South American nation, but he found neither film funny. Needless to say, the relationship did not last.
There appears to be a scheduled outage on blogger in about 7 minutes. I guess that means I should publish this and go back to the episode of Strangers With Candy I was watching yesterday. That is one twisted sitcom.
I had a Peruvian boyfriend for a short time. In an effort to share some of my culture with him, we watched The Producers and Woody Allen's Bananas. I thought he might have related to the latter due to his hailing from a South American nation, but he found neither film funny. Needless to say, the relationship did not last.
There appears to be a scheduled outage on blogger in about 7 minutes. I guess that means I should publish this and go back to the episode of Strangers With Candy I was watching yesterday. That is one twisted sitcom.
Friday, February 2, 2007
Dude, where's my car?
Today our car was towed, not because it was parked illegally, but because evidently the comune needed to make some money. The baristas on Corso Vittorio Emanuele said they started towing at 7am and finished up around 1:30pm, just in time to head home to mamma for lunch. If Naples were simply lawless, across the board lawless, that would be challenging, annoying, exasperating...yet freeing. But the fact that there are laws and that they are applied willy nilly, that's just petrifying. You never know when the powers that be are going to decide to nail you, so you live in mild to massive fear of being, well, nailed, like Jesus to the cross. You stand in front of the police officer wailing, "Why hast thou forsaken me today instead of yesterday or tomorrow?"
The baristas and I chatted about why Naples is the way it is. It seems to boil down to a complete and utter lack of civic responsibility. Neapolitans are fiercely proud of their culture, but do not feel that the spaces outside their private homes belong to them. All those invasions -- Goths, Bourbons, Spanish, McDonald's -- left the locals feeling oddly isolated from the streets they walk on, drive on, spit on. Peer into any basso on any day and you will find a napoletana scrubbing her floors, walls, appliances, and children until you could eat off them and then toss her cigarette butt, crumpled cigarette pack, and spent lighter onto the street in front of her door. She will have to walk into the litter she created, her children will play in it, her dog will eat it. It seems completely insane if you don't know Neapolitan history. To be frank, it seems completely insane even if you do.
So, The Husband spent my birthday (yes, me and Punxsutawny Phil are special today) unsequestering the car. On the up side, my American neighbor C. baked me a cake! An American cake, yellow with chocolate frosting. I was truly touched. I plan to nibble on it all night long, leave The Husband a slice, pretend that there had been only two slices. Moderation is everything.
My father told me he doesn't like the profanities in my blog. This from a man whose favorite author is Henry Miller. Watch out, Dad! I'm blogging you!
The baristas and I chatted about why Naples is the way it is. It seems to boil down to a complete and utter lack of civic responsibility. Neapolitans are fiercely proud of their culture, but do not feel that the spaces outside their private homes belong to them. All those invasions -- Goths, Bourbons, Spanish, McDonald's -- left the locals feeling oddly isolated from the streets they walk on, drive on, spit on. Peer into any basso on any day and you will find a napoletana scrubbing her floors, walls, appliances, and children until you could eat off them and then toss her cigarette butt, crumpled cigarette pack, and spent lighter onto the street in front of her door. She will have to walk into the litter she created, her children will play in it, her dog will eat it. It seems completely insane if you don't know Neapolitan history. To be frank, it seems completely insane even if you do.
So, The Husband spent my birthday (yes, me and Punxsutawny Phil are special today) unsequestering the car. On the up side, my American neighbor C. baked me a cake! An American cake, yellow with chocolate frosting. I was truly touched. I plan to nibble on it all night long, leave The Husband a slice, pretend that there had been only two slices. Moderation is everything.
My father told me he doesn't like the profanities in my blog. This from a man whose favorite author is Henry Miller. Watch out, Dad! I'm blogging you!
Thursday, February 1, 2007
My Deli Guy
My Deli Guy, Gianni, is a Jehovah's Witness and I believe this is why he sells organic products in his little shop on Via dei Tribunali. He is completely against the consumption of Coca-Cola, but he sells it anyway. He likes to occasionally discuss my Jewishness or how it's possible that I, voluble friendly American, wound up with The Husband, brooding silent Neapolitan. Opposites attract...
Gianni has three children. I've seen his wife, beautiful, and one of his daughters, gorgeous. He occasionally overcharges or leaves one of your purchases out of the bag, both on purpose according to The Husband, but I don't think so. I'm just sure to check the bags and scan the receipt before leaving.
When I was thinking about writing about My Deli Guy (il mio salumiere), I imagined a hilarious, delightful post. This is, rather, a rather boring subject.
Moving on.
First Susan Sontag, then Wendy Wasserstein, and now Molly Ivins?! What the fuck is going on? Why are all these amazing women writers dying of cancer too too young? It's freaking me out. I am not one to cruise the obit pages, but I am a New York Times online reader (not a Times Select customer, excuse me, not that special) and these deaths just keep jumping off the page/screen.
It is still unseasonably warm here and I am developing a true fear of extreme heat. My father is more concerned about floods. My father cracks me up sometimes. The other day, he was talking about one of his tennis buddies, no youngster, and said, "He thinks he's running, but he's actually standing in one place." I love that.
I recently exposed this blog to my parents, so I will try not to offend them in any way when I write about them. Okay, folks?
One of the things I've learned from arguing with The Husband is that the argument, "Well, I could be much more of an asshole if I wanted to be!" is a weak one. I use this argument when I feel he is not noticing the great things I do for him, like bring him coffee in bed almost every morning. So, if I am feeling unappreciated or underappreciated, I use the could-be-more-asshole defense: "You know, I don't have to bring you coffee in bed. And I could criticize you more. And I hate your yellow shirt." This is supposed to counteract the ways in which I am an asshole, making them seem mild compared to how assholey I could be. Are you following me? I'm impressed if you are because The Husband certainly isn't. He just looks at me blankly as he should do since I am not making any sense. NON HA SENSO is what I say to him whenever he says something I don't agree with. Despite our circuitous, ridiculous arguments, we do sometimes come to an understanding. Like yesterday, we came to understand that we both would like solo time without La Bimba or each other, but that only I ask for it because he is not of the character to do so (that's a paraphrase of one of his NON HA SENSO lines). Whether this means either of us is going to get some free time to sit by the sea, read in a cafe (like they do that in Italy, hah!), go shopping ALONE ALONE is not yet clear. Luckily, the nonni (grandparents) are coming, so I can have some ALONE time when The Husband is at work. What do you say, nonni?!
Gianni has three children. I've seen his wife, beautiful, and one of his daughters, gorgeous. He occasionally overcharges or leaves one of your purchases out of the bag, both on purpose according to The Husband, but I don't think so. I'm just sure to check the bags and scan the receipt before leaving.
When I was thinking about writing about My Deli Guy (il mio salumiere), I imagined a hilarious, delightful post. This is, rather, a rather boring subject.
Moving on.
First Susan Sontag, then Wendy Wasserstein, and now Molly Ivins?! What the fuck is going on? Why are all these amazing women writers dying of cancer too too young? It's freaking me out. I am not one to cruise the obit pages, but I am a New York Times online reader (not a Times Select customer, excuse me, not that special) and these deaths just keep jumping off the page/screen.
It is still unseasonably warm here and I am developing a true fear of extreme heat. My father is more concerned about floods. My father cracks me up sometimes. The other day, he was talking about one of his tennis buddies, no youngster, and said, "He thinks he's running, but he's actually standing in one place." I love that.
I recently exposed this blog to my parents, so I will try not to offend them in any way when I write about them. Okay, folks?
One of the things I've learned from arguing with The Husband is that the argument, "Well, I could be much more of an asshole if I wanted to be!" is a weak one. I use this argument when I feel he is not noticing the great things I do for him, like bring him coffee in bed almost every morning. So, if I am feeling unappreciated or underappreciated, I use the could-be-more-asshole defense: "You know, I don't have to bring you coffee in bed. And I could criticize you more. And I hate your yellow shirt." This is supposed to counteract the ways in which I am an asshole, making them seem mild compared to how assholey I could be. Are you following me? I'm impressed if you are because The Husband certainly isn't. He just looks at me blankly as he should do since I am not making any sense. NON HA SENSO is what I say to him whenever he says something I don't agree with. Despite our circuitous, ridiculous arguments, we do sometimes come to an understanding. Like yesterday, we came to understand that we both would like solo time without La Bimba or each other, but that only I ask for it because he is not of the character to do so (that's a paraphrase of one of his NON HA SENSO lines). Whether this means either of us is going to get some free time to sit by the sea, read in a cafe (like they do that in Italy, hah!), go shopping ALONE ALONE is not yet clear. Luckily, the nonni (grandparents) are coming, so I can have some ALONE time when The Husband is at work. What do you say, nonni?!
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