The surroundings: the Gay-Odin shop beneath my room turns out not to be a bar for like-minded Vikings but a very fancy cioccolateria.
Further down the street there’s a barbershop where evangelists can have their hair done,
and the square at the end of the street is adorned with three prime examples of Fascist architecture.
Across the street from the front door is the Bar “Dany 2000” where I have my morning cappuccino before school, and my flatmates have milk and decaf. Giuseppe and his two sons run the place; Angelo looks like Nicholas Cage and his brother Gian-Carlo looks like a chubby little devil. They know everyone who lives and/or works in the street, when they have their Saints’ days, number of kids, etc.
(Some of) the fellow students: Jaqueline, a bronzed French lady in her fifties (I presume) with artificially raised (I presume again) eyebrows, who’ll talk your ears off if you let her. Or so I’m told; I’ve been spared this ordeal, perhaps my French was found lacking. There’s an Austrian called Rudolf who wants us to tell people he’s Czech and who looks like a young Alexi Sayle. Also: a charming multilingual American teacher called Luigi, a sweet English guy called Ben (who, being a “red-blooded Englishman”, doesn’t mind being called sweet but objects to anything anorakky that might (possibly, you never know) come to mind, like vegetarian or geek), primary school teacher Hurya and digital imaging teacher/researcher Clothilde from Paris, fiftysomethings Marie-Noel (French, born in Marocco) and An-Marie (Danish, wed to Japanese) who work for the EU in Brussels. Austrians seem to be in a majority; there are three in my class alone.
From Tuesday on I’m also taking three cookery classes a week, so those days are full and exhausting. It means Italian classes from nine to one followed by pranzo (lunch, usually until three if you want to do it right), a bit of sightseeing and/or shopping and some rest. Out the door again at five to take the Funicolare up to Vomero for cooking and eating, and back at the apartment at ten. All this in >30° temperatures, dropping to a toasty 22-25° at night. The only thing to wear are tank- and spaghetti-tops really, but my supply is limited. Sometimes I do a bit op KIPping on the Funicolare but the ride only takes ten minutes and on the way up it’s rather busy with commuters. I am making good way on my tabi sock though, as I often knit before going to bed, listening to a book or podcast on the Nanopod.
On Saturday I go to the beach in Pozzuoli with Ben, Hurya, Alexi and Clothilde.
I didn’t bring a bikini so I shop at la Rinascente in advance and find something in black that fits. Am going to stand out like a supernova, since my legs haven’t seen the sun in over a year. My new Birkenstock slippers are giving me a blister; so much for orthopaedic shoes. The “beach” is mostly made of concrete, but we don’t get charged for using a parasol, and the water is lovely. The Italians are definitely “anche in vacanze“, flocking to the coast in droves. Napoli is getting emptier by the day. More shops and restaurants are “chiuso per ferie“, and on Sunday you can almost sense the tumbleweed.
The corso cucina is just excellent. In six evenings we’ve made only two things I probably won’t cook again. Scarola (a kind of endive) seems to be a local favourite, but with too much anchovies even I don’t like it. Our chef Pino (yet another version of Giuseppe) is an architect and the headmaster’s brother, but above all an excellent cook and charming host (the kind of charming I’m usually allergic to, but which fortunately comes with a very nice wife here, one who makes her own liqueurs). Apart from Christian and Stefanie, an Austrian couple (it’s like a bloody Anschluss) and me, the ladies from Brussels are also there for a few nights. We’re all supposed to speak Italian together because we have to learn and Pino doesn’t speak English, but sometimes we’re just not bothered. Only to be polite. On the last evening we get the recipe for homemade Limoncello as an extra. Yum!
In week two things get more difficult in class. I find it harder to maintain concentration and I seem to need more examples before understanding a grammar point. Sometimes my mind’s a blank when it’s my turn to come up with an example: something I’m not used to. We finally get to do the imperfetto, expanding our possibilities to bore others with descriptions of past habits. Comes in handy for my presentation on I Vichinghi.
The night before the last day of school I sleep badly, and I decide to skip the first part of the morning. I still feel like shit (or: like my age) when I drag myself from Dany 2000 to school (Giuseppe and sons will also be in vacanze from Saturday, so we say goodbye and I forget to take a picture, fook!), but I don’t want to miss this afternoon’s excursion to Pompei. Which is interesting, and I take some good pics. I never knew there was more than one version of “cave canem”, but it makes sense: many mosaics were prefabbed in workshops elsewhere.
This family had stepped out of its time machine to spend a day in Pompei:
I learn a new French expression from Hurya: “plaquet de chocolat” means “sixpack”. Talk about indulgence.
Saturday is my last chance for the archaeological museum; they have an excellent collection but you have to walk all over the place to get from one highlight to the other. The finds from Pompei and the Gabinetto Segreto are definitely the best bits. The funniest statue is a headless toga with a bulge halfway: you do the math. My feet are already contemplating homocide when I meet up with Rudolf, Andrea (If I said before that Marion is the better flirt: she can take lessons from this woman, OMG!), Keiko and Taka for a goodbye dinner, but by the time we finally find a good place I’m definitely dead. The pasta is excellent, though, as is the company, the drinks afterwards, and the walk back. Nevertheless I’ll be glad to leave for home tomorrow.
