Cameron’s Travels

South Italy adores its nativity scenes, called presepi. You see simple ones carved into the walls of urban streets and rustic villages. You see a huge one in the back corner of every church. And you see them for sale in shop windows all over Naples.

I happen to have a very close relative who collects nativity scenes. (And that person is also particularly difficult to shop for at the holidays.) With each trip to Naples, I have to fight the urge to buy her a big, fancy one, because how on earth would I pack it home?

But this trip, I was determined. So I asked my local friend Virgilio for help. Here are some photos from my very early Christmas shopping.

In Naples, Via San Gregorio Armeno — a street that leads away from the historic Spaccanapoli pedestrian drag — is jammed with cheap presepi shops. While these are fine for a basic souvenir, the made-in-China quality wasn’t the special gift I was looking for. So Virgilio  took me to one of the most venerable presepi shops in Naples, owned by Signore d’Auria. They let us peek into their workshop, too.

In the workshop, building these Barbie doll-sized presepi figures is a painstaking process: They begin with an articulated metal skeleton, which is wrapped in string and padded with cotton to give volume to the body, and finally dressed with clothes as finely tailored as the real thing.

 Neapolitans’ affection for their presepi may stem from their deep family ties. “Each figure in a presepe becomes a new member of the family,” Virgilio explained.

These travel-size presepi are more like it. And you get several small figures for the price of one big one. The level of detail is mesmerizing.

Signore d’Auria proudly poses with one of his fine presepi. The fanciest presepi, like the fanciest dinners, come under glass — a fragile dome called a campana (“bell”).

Virgilio offered to ship my presepe for me. He assured me it would be no problem. He was wrong. A few days later he called me with a regretful tone in his voice. “It may take longer than I expected,” he said. “Because presepi are an important part of our cultural heritage, the local cultural authorities must inspect the piece to ensure it is not artifact quality. It cannot be more than 50 years old.” He told me he had scheduled an appointment at the customs office to bring the presepe for authorization.

Apparently, my presepe got its emigration paperwork: Virgilio just emailed me to say that it’s in the mail. I’m in no hurry — as long as it arrives in Seattle in the next seven months, I’ll be fine.

Wild and crazy as Naples is, the city is working hard at urban renewal. They’ve torn up drab squares that for decades have greeted arriving visitors: On Piazza Municipio, facing the cruise port, they’re excavating the ruins of an ancient Greek settlement, which will be viewable inside a futuristic new Metro station. And on Piazza Garibaldi, the football-field-sized expanse in front of Napoli Centrale train station, they’ve excavated a totally different space: a sunken shopping mall, covered by a slick new canopy to shield shoppers from sun and rain.

Both of these are part of an ambitious expansion of the city’s Metro system. Several new “art stations” on the subway have been designed by prominent architects — a point of pride for Neapolitans who are weary of the conventional wisdom that they live in a backwards, broken-down city.

But, to be honest, I’m not buying it. Don’t get me wrong: Cities can get better. Especially in Eastern Europe, I’ve personally observed big, grimy cities — Budapest, Warsaw, Zagreb — reinvent themselves and flourish into thriving 21st-century communities. It can be done. But not in Naples. Because you have to want it. And my sense is that most Neapolitans are content with the chaos they swaddle themselves in. Why “fix” it? It’s the essence of Naples. It’s by design.

At the corners of big intersections, I kept noticing walled-off stairwells to nowhere. Years ago, some ambitious civic leader proposed underpasses to make pedestrians’ lives easier. But I imagine these passages turned out to be magnets for crime and grime, so now they’re all sealed off and forgotten. I wonder if today’s glitzy new subway stations are tomorrow’s deserted underpasses.

Struggling to wrap my brain around this, I asked my Neapolitan friend Virgilio, who thoughtfully psychoanalyzed his hometown.

“You must understand, people in Napoli are the same way they have been for thousands of years,” he explained. “The Bay of Naples has always been a big crossroads for trade, and that means lots of foreign invaders. Spanish, French, Austrian, Sicilian, everyone took their turn ruling Naples. This has given us a clear picture that we are never in control of our own destiny.

“And to top it off,” he said, waving his arm toward Mount Vesuvius on the horizon, “we live in the shadow of an angry volcano. We always remember that it destroyed life here two thousand years ago. Maybe it can happen again.

“That’s why Neapolitans don’t plan. We aren’t organized. We don’t live for tomorrow. We live for today. Because today is the only thing we can be sure of.

“When you have no power and nothing is certain, you have to hold on close to your family, ’cause that’s all you have. This is why in Napoli, family is so important. And maybe that’s why the mafia has been so powerful here. Those ties are stronger here than anywhere.”

He paused to point out a little shrine embedded into a grimy wall by someone’s front door. “This little altar, it’s so important. You see these everywhere. It honors our ancestors — a grandparent or great-grandparent who died. If you go to the ruins of Pompeii, you will see even thousands of years ago, people would have altars to their family members in their homes. We are still doing this today.”

Suddenly, the chaos of Naples began to make sense. Understanding the worldview behind wild traffic, hot tempers, and living life with abandon doesn’t necessarily make Naples easier to take. But it helps.

I made it to Naples, and my guard is up. The American travelers I’m meeting around Italy have a sort of terrified fascination with this city. More than one person has told me, “We planned our trip around not going to Naples.”

I get it. Napoliphobia is understandable. This is the birthplace of organized crime. It’s gritty, it’s gross, it’s in your face. The city is an assault on all of the senses: piles of garbage, pungent odors, and a neverending racket of buzzing motors and hollering natives. The streets are an impenetrable maze. The graffiti manages to be profane in multiple languages. The traffic is mortally terrifying. And the people…well, actually, the people are wonderful. But their unbridled, full-bodied engagement with living can be jarring to a mild-mannered American.

And yet, even with all that’s stacked against it, after several visits Naples has really gotten under my skin. Frightened or not, you owe it to yourself to experience Naples. If you hate it, you hate it. The train station is that way. But if you give it a chance, you may learn to love it.

Naples is a world — and a worldview — unto itself. As you explore, keeping one hand on your wallet and the other on your camera, you’re immersed in Neapolitan life. Everyone is out, it seems, all of the time. People have animated conversations, waving their arms to illustrate a point…while talking on a cell phone. Babies balance on the handlebars of motorbikes. If you can tune out that knee-jerk sense of danger, this city has Europe’s undisputed best people-watching.

Here are few photos of my latest visit to Naples. But vivid as they may seem, nothing can capture the experience of being there.

In Naples, people live, love, eat, chat, and die in impossibly narrow lanes like this.

Colorful cottage industries spill out into grimy streets.

Walking between Naples’ gigantic, soot-covered buildings, occasionally you find an open doorway. Peeking into the courtyard, you get a glimpse at what, at one time, must have been an opulent place to live.

When I’m in Naples, I don’t worry about getting mugged…I worry about getting run over. Cars, trucks, and motor scooters assertively nudge their way between pedestrians. Often, the smallest motor scooters make the biggest noise. I watched an old-timer, comfortably resting on his rickety plastic chair, get beeped out of his seat by an impatient delivery truck who couldn’t quite squeeze by. After four days in the city, I was only clipped in the shoulder once by a side-view mirror. (It was just a brush-back pitch, really.) I consider this a pretty decent track record for four entire days in this city.

Strolling the streets of Naples late at night, modern-day tableaus like this one catch your eye.

Tucked between the glum buildings are stunning churches and grand squares, like this one.

Expressive stone lions welcome visitors to Naples’ Piazza Plebescito. This one has a goofy, welcoming grin.

Meanwhile, this lion seems to be saying, “You talkin’ to me?”