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.