Downward Glances
Upon my arrival in Italy I learned that experiencing the country does not occur by falling prey to the cathedrals, whose fastidious architecture stuns tourists and God fearing Catholics into submission, nor by glutting through every authentic Eye-talian dish on a trattoria’s menu. Granted, Brunelleschi’s awesome Duomo unquestionably dominates the skyline of Florence, and the pizza in Naples induces one’s saliva glands into a watery frenzy. Even Palermo contends with both a serene view of the Mediterranean and a fresh cuisine comprised almost entirely from its fruits. But these details only give Italy color. The life and breath of the country isn’t found in the pure aqua of the sea, nor in the burnt terra cotta of the land—both of which could be found in a Crayola box of crayons. No, the way to get to know a place, to learn if it has a personality or if it is as flat as Columbus anticipated, is quite literally by watching where you step.
There is shit everywhere in Florence. I wish I were joking. The stone labyrinths that constitute its streets contain very few patches of greenery, which leaves the impeccably dressed canines with no place to poop but the already narrow sidewalks. No block remains unmarred by the refuse of domesticated pets. It bakes against the sidewalk in the sunshine and in oozes underfoot in the rain. Walking becomes a dance of avoidance. A successful day concludes when one’s shoes return home unsoiled.
Florentines never pick up after their animals. It’s part of their superiority complex, an innate knowledge that they are genuinely Italian and therefore better dressed and better looking than anyone outside of their acquaintanceship. Ironically some mystic rule grants them the looks of dark-haired Venus’ and Apollos complete with marble-smooth skin and symmetrical noses. They glide together above the cobblestones in leather footwear, never tripping in their pin-thin heels or stumbling through their pet’s shit. They dress like the gods they think they are, assuming the designer labels as a name tags.
Once when I needed to retrieve my laundry from the overnight cleaners I wiggled into a sweatshirt to keep warm during the walk. It was unassuming and clean, a heather grey with the name of my university stitched across the front. I received looks of appalled disgust and quickly learned: if the name is not Armani, Gucci, Fendi, or Ferragamo then it is worthless. The look of divinity is priceless and nothing is too expensive. Discarded receipts linger on the streets of Firenze proud as their former owners to boast a valuable name and number.
There is no dress code in Naples. Neapolitans have better things to worry about than whatever clothes a visitor has on. From the moment I stepped onto Piazza Garibaldi I realized that the city was not trying to impress or welcome anyone. In just the short walk to the hostel, whose vague location I attempted to memorize from the spiderweb of streets featured on the map in my guidebook, I chanced death.
To navigate the piazza in front of Napoli Centrale is to barely survive a round in the boxing ring in which one defends against a barrage of pushes, punches, and body-checks. Cars angrily surge forward from every direction, threatening collision and obliteration, while passersby, who would steal a man’s mistress as soon as they would nudge him in front of a bus, disregard sidewalk consideration altogether. The walkways are crowded with slow-hobbling nonni who speak quickly with large sweeps and shakes of their knarled hands, aloof street vendors offering umbrellas and (undoubtably) pick-pocketed electronics, and mopeds whose riders attempted to improve their odds of an on-time arrival by driving around pedestrians instead of cars. All this rests on a stinking and hazardous film of garbage: beer cans, wine bottles, the greasy pizza boxes, used diapers, the skeletons of broken chairs, orphaned shoes, mangled umbrellas, tattered plastic bags, even the ashes a newspaper fire built by vagrants. It is the detritus of a city that doesn’t sleep, that doesn’t drink nonalcoholic beverages, and obviously doesn’t clean up after itself. The signature gesture of Naples, could it sign, would be the Italian equivalent of the middle finger.
Yet Naples itself radiates an irritated, energetic pride throughout the back alleyways that twist into obscurity and the garbage that coats them from walls to sewer drains. The Italian spoken there is not the melodiously soft dialect of the Florentines. Neapolitan Italian is as angry and forceful as the city itself, imposing upon the listener with a guttural flippancy that is both marvelous and terrifying. One Sunday morning after the miracle of a garbage truck cleared away the stinking sludge, I found the sidewalks occupied by clothing vendors, knick-knack artisans, fishermen, and vendors all barking an unforgiving “Pregopregoprego” at wandering tourists like myself to come buy their goods. This, I discovered, was the origin of the trash and the pulse of the city, the place of commerce and production. At the end of the day after the market has packed up and the maze of claustrophobia-inducing streets is deserted by all souls, the vegetable rinds, mussel shells, and empty shoeboxes will remain.
Unlike the Neapolitans, Sicilians contain their garbage. It bulges within the plastic bags that line the streets of Palermo as if it were going to jump on the next bus headed to a cove-side town. The city is reminiscent of old world luxury found somewhere in some bygone era closer to the end of WWII than today. Faded and decayed, it trickles from the high mountains into the sea where sidewalks crumble to rock then sandy dirt, dead-ending in the Mediterranean. Chunks of asphalt are as broken as the city whose buildings seem to crumble in the sunlight—as if it weighs too heavily on the brittle stone. It is an Atlantis in its last moments before it slips beneath the cyan waves.
The cracked pavement was once whole and new like the civilization that perched at the toe of the boot. So much time has passed that the concept itself carries no meaning. Schedules do not exist. Things happen in Palermo when they are meant to, usually in an unhurried and carefree manner. I ate dinner at midnight in a restaurant that might have stayed open for an eternity of nights had I been able to keep eating that long. The waiter’s distinctly Sicilian Italian was a gentler, playful derivative of rough Neapolitan. It lulls the listener into a happy trance, welcoming one into a daydream.
Palermo is not all plushness and palm trees. Its welcomes the rainfall of wintertime to wash away traces of blood on the sidewalks. The bodies of the old and young rot in the subterranean chill of the catacombs. They are victims of far more sinister acts than accepting a passive death. Family forces keep the keys to this kingdom. Looking too closely at the holes in the walls and asking the wrong questions is dangerous. Visitors are advised to keep their eyes trained on the horizon of the Mediterranean and soak in the Sicilian sunshine.
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