The football stadium capacity is 55,000 people and it seems that most of them are standing with us here in the dark. The two policemen in front of the locked train station are also in the dark as to why it’s shut, but what they can be sure about is that we all need to find alternative ways to get home. The relatively small amount of taxis are snapped up at the speed of flat screen televisions on a Black Friday Sale, and the crowd assembling around the bus stops looks as though Taylor Swift is about to sing there. My Better Half and I decide to walk along to the previous stop to see if we can get on a bus before it reaches the masses.
I love Napoli. A city built on Greek myth, infinite humour, and three highly explosive volcanoes. Big city streets are intertwined with narrow stone-paved lanes, strung with washing lines and the noise of Vespas weaving in and out below. A walk along the expansive promenade affords you all the shades of blue the Bay of Naples has to offer, with the Castel dell’Ovo and Vesuvius in the background, while a dude selling socks from a sports bag cheerfully stops for a chat.
The streets are as busy here at midnight as they are at midday, and couples my parents’ age go for a stroll, eating ice-cream from parlours that stay open until 1am. Every few steps there’s a cafe serving the local elixir in warmed espresso cups, and you can choose to buy a ‘caffe sospeso’, a free coffee to be claimed by a less fortunate stranger, which is a community tradition that started here in the 1800s.
This is the birthplace of Enrico Caruso, Bud Spencer, pizza, and my Better Half. He grew up on the slopes of Vesuvius, within a family of exceptional people, whose first question whenever we visit is always “have you eaten?”. Regardless of your answer, within minutes the table is covered with cheeses, meats and bread, and someone will have disappeared to get cakes.
The football stadium is on the other side of the city from where we are staying. We stand at the previous stop and watch the bus speed straight passed, already packed with people squashed up against the windows. The Taylor Swifters are now largely hanging out in the road. We watch from a distance as the bus has no option but to stop, and it’s promptly engulfed like a meat-wagon in a zombie apocalypse.
“And it’s too far to walk?” I ask for the fourth time.
“Yes,” Better Half replies calmly.
“Not much chance of getting a taxi eh?”
He smiles.
“Any camping shops open do you think? Could get a nice tent and a couple of sleeping bags?”
We start walking back to the zombie apocalypse.
The city began it’s life as ‘Parthenope’ in the 8th century BC. It was named for the suicidal siren who, according to legend, washed up on the rocks of Megaride after failing to seduce Odysseus on his epic journey. Refounded and renamed ‘Neapolis’ (New City) by Greek settlers 200 years later, today’s citizens still refer to themselves as the Partenopei.
Napoli’s strategic position in the Mediterranean meant many fought to occupy it. Over the centuries, Byzantine, Roman, French, Spanish, and Austrian rulers have all claimed their place here, each leaving an extensive wealth of architectural and cultural heritage. There are seven castles, four royal residences, more churches than you can shake a jewelled sceptre at, ornate villas decorated with mosaic and bronze (above and below the sea), Pompeii and Herculaneum, and the world’s longest actively running Opera House.
The least welcome of invaders were the German forces who came to destroy the city and deport its men to concentration camps during World War II. On September 28th, 1943, the shooting of a local 12-year-old boy, Filippo Illuminato, sparked a spontaneous civilian uprising. Men, women, and children fought German soldiers in the street, built barricades with furniture, and attacked the barracks. It took four days for them to send the Nazis packing, and when the Allied Forces arrived on October 1st they found the city had already been liberated by its own people.
Back at the apocalypse, there’s still a lot of zombies, but no-one seems too stressed or ready to eat one another. Napoli played Paris Saint-Germain tonight in the Champions League, which if you’re not familiar with European football, is quite a big deal. The game ended 1-1, and throughout the day there’s been an energetic camaraderie on the streets between the locals, visiting Parisians, and regular tourists. Many are wandering about now, stood around chatting, Googling “how do we get out of here?”, and waving at anything with wheels.
It is of course beneficial to be with a native in these types of situations. Although he’s lived abroad much of his adult life, my Better Half has the region’s magma in his blood and a magnetic connection to his hometown’s volcanic soil. He instinctively knows where on the pavement we should stand to encourage good fortune.
Superstition and religion are firmly stitched into the fabric of Napoli. In a ceremony dating from the 14th century, the dried blood of their Patron Saint, kept in an ornate vial, is twice-yearly brought out to a cheering public. San Gennaro was a bishop, executed during the Christian persecution, and if his reliquary blood melts during the ritual, it is a sign of upcoming prosperity, while remaining in its dry state is a bad omen. It is said that bringing out the relic during a 1631 eruption stopped the lava flow in its tracks. The years the blood hasn’t liquefied coincide with an earthquake, a cholera outbreak, the start of WWII, COVID, and the Nazi invasion.
In recent years, Napoli has enjoyed a touristic renaissance, thanks in large part to the long-awaited win of the National Football League in 2023. In a crescendo of celebrations over the course of many weeks, the city and its inhabitants were painted blue and adorned in flags and banners with such exuberance that it caught the attention of international media and travel magazines. Tourism boomed, and areas that were previously run-down have been transformed by new business, with visitors realising that the city is more than just the gateway to Capri, Sorrento, and the Amalfi Coast.
A car pulls up next to our lucky spot. Driver Ciro and his pal were on their way home, but thought to stop and charitably offer up available space in the car to strangers. Peering into the tangle of arms, legs, and faces, the available space seems to be dangling from the rear view mirror. Our fellow opportunists all breathe in, and we squash up, with me sitting on my Better Half’s lap trying not to grab anyone’s body parts while searching for a seat belt. There’s people in the luggage compartment at the back. They think it’s hilarious. They’ve come from Argentina, on a pilgrimage to watch a match in the spiritual home of their national hero.
The entire city is an open-air shrine to Diego Maradona. The arrival of the Argentine football player in 1984 was met with shock and euphoria, as Napoli had never won a league or major title at that point, while Maradona was already a renowned world-class talent. Diego grew up in poverty. He was an outspoken critic of social and political injustice, a defender and hero of the working classes. For both the man and the city, it was love at first sight, and with him, Napoli won the league twice.
Now seeing as we’re over capacity, Ciro lets us know that if we see the police we should all put our heads down. This could be interesting as mine is wedged up against the front passenger’s headrest with little room for manoeuvre. We weave in and out of the busy roads, and all go silent, therefore rendering us invisible as we sail passed the police. There’s now a party atmosphere in the car, and I imagine this is what contortionists do for fun on their birthdays.
We drop people off at different locations, and when the door opens they spring to freedom as though exiting a circus clown car. There’s space on the back seat now, but the Argentinians are having a great time in the luggage compartment. We get out for a group hug when we find their hotel, and wish them smooth return travels. Ciro drops us off last and is happy to finally be going home, so we thank him profusely and insist on paying him for his trouble.
So how do you get home after watching a football match in Napoli?
Well nowadays there’s Uber, and you can pre-book a taxi of course, that would be sensible.
However, for a more authentic ‘full immersion’ experience I would suggest:
-Make friends with the locals, you may end up in a cool back-street cafe, or on the sofa at their place with Mama making you spaghetti alle vongole.
-Follow a groovy-looking group of folks and discover Napoli’s eclectic music scene.
-Smear yourself in olive oil in order to reduce friction while squeezing onto the bus.
-Start singing Enrico Caruso’s “O Sole Mio” and wait to be adopted.
-Carry a tent with you, pitch it near a bakery ready for breakfast time, and camp out until the trains start running again the next day.
