A bumper edition of the Gazette from Grace this morning!
We left Orvieto today, so the last couple of days have just been trying the clear the fridge of leftovers. For breakfast yesterday, toast with chili-infused honey & the last of the fruit juice. It was spicy and sweet; I wish I’d discovered the jar sooner and made it a bigger part of my morning routine.
It rained all day yesterday, a thick fog covering the hillside. All I did was write my thesis, with the door to the terrace open so we could hear the occasional clap of thunder and distant birdsong in between storms.
We had the leftover truffle pasta and a bruschetta with tomato and anchovies, mainly to use up the last of the bread. I snuck a few anchovies straight from the packet while Gio assembled the delicate islands of bread and tomato.
A local artist called Michele had invited us to meet him at his studio, and after the rain had cleared we wandered into to an unexpected feast of aperitivi. He’d prepared meats and cheeses and fruits, and had a bottle of craft beer from Sicily for us to share. We spoke about Brexit, about the pandemic, and of course, the death of the Queen, surrounded by his terra cotta sculptures.
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The next morning was another quick bite – but maybe the best of the trip. A leftovers sauce of anchovies (again), onion, garlic, chili and rosemary. Just watching it sizzle in the pan was almost enough. We stirred through the remains of some pasta that we hadn’t used two nights ago, when making the truffle pasta. The noodles are like linguine, but round: chewy and dense and so delicious. Neither of us knew what type of pasta it was, and we’d thrown the packet away before thinking to check. We ate stood up, cleaning the kitchen as we chewed. It was so good every bite made me exclaim – wow!
After this, we got on the road to Naples. Snacked on tarallucci in the car, and some small boiled and chewy sweets that have been a delight. Some are honey flavoured, some blood orange, but they all taste so natural. Sucking them until the hard candy shell dissolves to a gooey centre, gazing out of the window at the rows of trees, listening to Fiona Apple and then Bruce Springsteen.
We stopped at a beach town called Terracina and ate a porchetta sandwich in the sand. I read my book – Independent People, an epic Icelandic novel by Haldor Laxness that I picked up after reading this New Yorker article – and then we had a golden-hour swim.
We jumped back in the car, onward to Naples. Half an hour later, the sun had set. We rounded a bend, and the full moon was framed perfectly between a dip in the cliff face, reflecting off the lapping waves. Another moment of exclamation. Wow.
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We arrived in Naples late last night, and ended up on a wild night out after chatting to a couple. Together we realised that the difference between Italians, Americans and British people is this: Italians love life, Americans love death, and Brits love a living death – a life of suffering.
A good shorthand we’ve been using today is that Naples is the city of hanging out. Everyone here is truly just vibing, and we’ve been doing much the same while we saunter through piazzas and galleries and through small little alleyways absolutely packed with life.
This morning we have a funny breakfast in the B&B of an old Napoli lady who winks at me every time she speaks in Italian to Gio. I feel like she’s mad at us for being hungover and late to breakfast – but in a warm way, like your grandmother would be.
After breakfast, we head to the Donnaregina Contemporary Art Museum. I found the gallery difficult to begin with. Too text-based, too much information contextualising each work. I’d been wanting to come to the gallery to let the art wash over me. Sometimes when I go to galleries it’s because I don’t want to think, and hungover this morning I was looking forward to meandering around the space just looking at whatever was on the walls. I should have known that this wouldn’t be the case here. The gallery was on a hectic street: no fanfare, no announcement, just mopeds and chaos and people all on top of each other, and then all of a sudden: the contemporary art gallery.
The space wasn’t air conditioned, and I walked around the first couple of pieces feeling too hot and dehydrated. I couldn’t make myself be present to what was being shown, so I left to buy a two-litre bottle of water from a tabacchi a few doors down. After this, I came back and stopped assiduously reading every artist statement. I let a film wash over me, settled into the space, and finally felt myself relax into it. I do think that if galleries want you to watch a film they should provide seating, but that’s a minor gripe for another time.
The film, by Theo Eshetu, was about the return of the Axum Stele, an Ethiopian monument stolen by the fascist regime in Italy, returned to Ethiopia in 2002. The Stele is 25 metres high, weighs 160 tonnes and dates back to the third century. In Italy, it was held first outside of the Ministry of the Colonies. The text said this was deliberate: a form of revenge after Ethiopia defeated Italian forces near the town of Adwa during a colonial war in 1896. After the second world war, the Colonial Ministry became the headquarters of the Food and Agricultural Organization, and the Stele remained outside “as if to symbolise a post-colonial relationship between Ethiopia as the main recipient of food aid and the West.” A final humiliation came with the return of the Axum Stele. Italy only gave it back after it was struck by lightning in 2002 and was too expensive for the Italian government to repair themselves. Instead, they opted to dismantle it and send it back.
I’m shocked by this information. The horrors of colonialism truly never cease to amaze. “Okay,” it’s like they were saying. “We’ll have your symbols, but only cos we can. As soon as they’re a burden on us, you can have them back.”
We leave the gallery hours later, with much to discuss and too little time considering my flight is at noon tomorrow. We get a mixed grill from a seafood restaurant overlooking yet another ancient fort. It’s, once again, amazing. Smoky and clear and simple and delicious. Not an ingredient too many, and not a second too long on the grill. We split half a litre of the house’s white wine and a couple of Peronis, and it feels like the perfect last extravagant lunch to end the trip.
You can tell Naples is a coastal city – the whole place feels like the sea. It’s salty and wet and teeming with life. Every street corner we got to, I had to stop to look at. There’s not a square inch of this place that human life doesn’t exist in, and beyond that, it’s lawless. Every piazza has teenagers on vespas overtaking one another. There were men peeling onions in the road. A woman used a home-made pulley to drop a bucket down to the street below her balcony, so that the store owner at sea level could put some toilet roll in it for her. All afternoon we meandered about in ecstasy. It is so similar to how Ferrante describes the life in the Neapolitan Quartet: anarchic, communal, alive.
This evening, after another couple of drinks in Piazza Bellini – a square surrounded by bookshops, and packed with people – we stop back off at our B&B. Our host makes Giovanni play the piano and recommends a spot with classic Napolitana music just around the corner. I don’t know what we’ll have for dinner tonight, but I trust that whatever it will be, it will be good. I’ve been enjoying making conscious decisions this week. I feel in touch with myself, with my pleasure, my joy. Maybe this is how everyone feels after a month in Italy, or a week on Fortified, but this kind of habitus is something I want to keep up when I get both feet back on the ground in Glasgow.
Hey, I’m Grace (she/her)(@gr_cebrown). I’m researching my PhD in Glasgow, thinking about eco-socialism, the climate crisis and queer futurity. I’m in Italy this summer, writing my thesis and eating well every day.