Pizza Napolitano

On the jam-packed street in Naples, a zingara (gypsy woman) advances on us boldly, grubby baby on her breast, her begging palm outstretched.

He faces her directly, and says, Io sono povere ("I'm poor"). He then suggests that maybe she should give us some money instead. The zingara backs away.

We then duck into a tiny pizzeria, eager to try the local specialty. As we're squishing into our chairs at the minuscule table, we crack our heads together. Hard. The audible thump causes every single patron and the entire wait staff to shoot a look in our direction. 

We each want to blame the other for the throbbing pain and the embarrassment, but it's obviously no one's fault. So, rubbing our heads, we avoid eye contact and instead study our menus.

A raggedy singer, with just four strings on his guitar, meanders from table to table. Opposite from what you'd expect, we notice that others are giving him money, not so that he'll play, but so that he'll stop his jarring serenade and move on. 

Soon he's at our table, strumming his four strings and belting out a tune about amore, badly off key. I too hand him a couple of coins, and he leaves. 

We laugh, heads aching, and anticipate how just how tasty our pizza Napolitano is going to be.

Pensione

Our room at the boarding house, a charming pensione, is spacious. The focal point, a magnificent claw foot tub, holds court and insists that a proper bath is in order.

In the dusky evening view from our window, we see the thin but unquestionable outline of Mount Vesuvius, along with the twinkling lights of Sorrento and Capri. We are right on the harbor too, with multicolored fishing boats bobbing on the turquoise water.

He wraps me in his warm arms, and says, "This could be our honeymoon."

As I marvel at our delightful room, and that we get all of this for only ten mila lira a night, I also feel that faraway lonely feeling, the one that is perhaps reserved exclusively for expatriates.