Naples is dirty, noisy, haphazard, and full of kamikaze scooter drivers. It is also sensual, liberating, and jolly. Everyone looks a little sticky, ruffled; no one cares about a sweat patch breaking out — shock horror.
There are many parallels between the city back then and Naples now: the elegant decay and human vitality. The title of the book refers to an infamous practice the local prostitutes employed. But today, Singapore has cleaned itself up. It is held aloft as a shining example of how an efficient city should be. The vice-like grip has gone macro. Get it right first time or else: a fine, social censure, cancellation, or worse.
Not so Naples. In its San Ferdinando district, a maze of tight cobbled alleys thread between tiny apartments piled on top of each other. The apartments at street level have their windows and doors thrown open. There is also a strong sense of the matriarchy of old, the one that kept things ticking along; not the new one that avoids all risk and is determined to set the world to rights according to its rules.
At the corner of the street I was on, every evening about six grandmothers in billowy summer dresses gathered on fold-out chairs to chew the fat. I put aside any concern about crime. Instead, set in walls were endless Marian shrines looking out over the community. Young mothers balanced a baby on a hip as they chatted to acquaintances and went about their days, as opposed to carrying placards protesting the latest grand cause. The clammy proximity acts as a great leveller.
Elsewhere in the world of air con, automation, and roller suitcases, everyone looks so manicured. I got to like how on a muggy Naples night my body responded to the heat, to know that it was working; that I was alive and kinetic; not just a machine that eats and types on a keyboard.
