Napoli: Or new-metropol (na = new poli metro...) as the Greek founders christianed the city in 600 BC. The English language name "Naples" sounds so bland.

April 19, 2015

The only remarkable thing about Friday was being on forty kilometres or thereabouts of well engineered road; steadily downhill all the way, across a series of viaducts, road raised high on concrete stilts strung between hills, each hill when met, swallowing the road in a tunnel, short, nothing more than two-hundred and fifty metres, before emerging back out in the open to descend across the next viaduct; to the next tunnel through the next hill. The road has a good shoulder and traffic is light due to a parallel autostrada. Saturday is uneventful; further downhill to the coast and into Naples.

There is no riding today or for a few days while I take in the sights of Naples. And with the wifi at the hostel not working, I wanted to do journaling, I've to amuse myself by wandering into town, which is quite a way. First I'm walking on narrow pavement hemmed in by tightly parked cars and scooters on the inside of six lanes of traffic along the seafront. This is frustrating for my long legs that wish to walk fast, trawling the feet behind couples and groups of chattering women at a snails pace and whatever space there remains for me to get by, they've blocked with appendages of shopping bags. And dog walkers that walk on one side of the pavement while dog strung on a lead walks on the other side, so no one can pass either way.

I have to remain on the inside for far too long before I come to a crossing, where I can safely crossover to the seaside promenade, which is wide, full of people strolling, runners, cyclists: and four people cycle-carts pass on the cycle lane. There is only a few hundred metres more to the heart of Naples with Mount Vesuvius looming large in outskirts across the bay.

As I approach the main piazza, there is some kind of running event on. The street is closed off by ribbon, there's an inflatable arrival-finish line arch and incessant blare of a presenter from loudspeakers.

Forgive me for chopping up the people and concentrate on the buildings.

The main thing to see to today, is find some where else to stay. The hostel I'm at now doesn't have a kitchen, which could add quite a bit to daily expenditure, eating out all the time. Furthermore the hostel is old school, a big sixties block with long corridors like an institution: the staff impersonal. I want some place more homely. I have checked in another night, but meanwhile I'll check out the Art hostel again, which was full when I arrived yesterday, see if they've a bed during the week.

I sat down for a coffee and now I've finished writing in my notebook, I think I'd like to climb up the hill to the castle where there's suppose to be a great view along the Bay of Naples south to Vesuvius

I have a different idea when I'm up and walking again. I return to the tourist office where I had been just before sitting down at the café. They'd given me a list of hostels, but however no map. On the list "Hostel Of The Sun" stands out, mainly because it is centrally located in a street near the ferry terminal. But where? That is why I need a map.

I also saw the same hostel yesterday on the Hostelworld site, where I found "Art Hostel" before the net went down.

The girl behind the counter doesn't know exactly where the street is on the address. It is a small street, one of many small streets left un-named and blank on the map she hands me, but marks approximately where it is. It is just round the corner and when I get there I find it easily. On the seventh floor of an office block, I enter a reception decorated in warm colours and laid back with friendly helpful staff. I check in for five nights.

I return to the other hostel for the afternoon. The internet is now working so I can start journaling once I've moved my stuff into an eight bed dorm, having stayed in a single room-the only bed there was last night, but the dorm may as well be a single room as I'm the only one in there. The bus-loads that were staying last-night have all checked out and gone home. The hostel deserted and forlorn.

I work away until late. Then laying down on the bed to read before sleeping, find there's no reading lamp; nevertheless, enough light to see the page fillers in from the ceiling light. The top bunk is low above my bottom bunk and soon the lack of headroom proves too cramped to sit comfortably up in bed longer than it takes to read a page.

Next morning the hostel feels like an empty shell. There is no one about, until I go down to the breakfast room where there are two American girls, a middle age English couple and a man staring, laughing into his computer screen.

A closer look at Vesuvius. (I should have cleaned the lens).

Well now I've got my feet under the table in The Hostel Of The Sun. I cooked dinner and have eaten and sitting across the table is Sam from England talking about his brother who's into antics big time. Travelling around England buying and selling. Sam cycled halfway across America, then had to give up due to saddle sores. He wants to return in June to the spot where he stopped and finish the ride to the Pacific. Sat next me is Bryan from Dallas, Texas. A big solidly built man who grins and nods without saying much. And next Sam is motor-mouth Australian Elish; a musician from Brisbane, plays guitar, piano and sings. Her main income is preforming at weddings. I say motor-mouth respectfully, as she is quite an accomplish person at only eighteen years of age.

There enters a very much under the weather girl with centre-parted straight shoulder length hair framing a haggard porcelain white face. Sam has already met her and asks how it when at the hospital. "It was really horrible. Nobody spoke English, and I don't speak a word of Italian. I wanted to leave the whole time I was there, but they wouldn't let me."

Amy from Boston, the one in the US, got Gallstones just as she was about to go travelling, but because she'd saved and looked forward to setting off to Europe, didn't want to put off going and as it hadn't seemed so serious at the time, she went ahead with her plans hoping to manage the sickness.

The conversation takes a tour round Europe to the economic woes facing Greece. Sam says "They should never have joined the euro. All they've got is tourism." Amy was born in Greece and visits her granny there often. "There are people who are desperate, that don't have money to buy food. And there is a lot of crime" She then relates the story about an old woman that was attracted in the street in daylight, and how the muggers drew out her gold filling.

Due to my stopover in Naples dear reader, you've seen a lot of new pages in this journal. And while I am not going to say writing is hard work, which would be ridiculous, as people envy a life of riding a bike for a week then stopping in a great city somewhere and writing a journal about the week. Generally it is easy to sit down and write, but time consuming; sitting outside the social circle in whatever hostel I find myself in, tapping away on the keypad, I feel antisocial. What is up with him?; is the expression many fellow hostellers' faces tell me; sitting there on the computer all evening. In all honesty I would rather put the computer away and be joining in the conversation, but that would result in a journal not done.

While I like writing, I could write a lot more but there are only twenty-four hours in the day, I often wonder if anybody other than a few read or appreciates my effort.

I wanted to be back on the road Monday, but Monday dawns a filthy wet day out. When it rains here, it rains. Big drops from leaden sky. So I catch up on reading. The book, still The Old Patagonian Express: the slow going due to tiredness in the evenings, when I read a paragraph before dropping off to sleep; and also, I re-read interesting and entertaining bits. Even a short few lines such as when the author is on a train in Bolivia going nowhere while the train waits to cross the border into Argentina. It is a wet evening and he's been told it is doubtful they'll be moving until tomorrow. He writes: So I did what any sensible person would do stopped on the Bolivia-Argentina border on a rainy evening. I returned to my compartment, washed my face, changed into my pajamas and went to bed.

Tuesday morning it is hard to say what the weather will do. The sky a dramatic cityscape watercolour with a few openings of blue sky when I look out from the hostel breakfast room window. A group of American girls at the next table, one gazing at her phone for the weather exclaims "Tuesday's wet. There's sparks of lightening. Guest we should leave horse riding to Vesuvius until tomorrow".

I spend the morning in Theroux's shoes on the train from Tucuman to Buenos Aires. His descriptions are so vivid as to be like photographs. Occasionally I look toward the open french window, hearing the hiss of rain outside. Around eleven there's a great crack and roll of thunder. Then not long after noon there is a break of sunshine. I brush my teeth and check my hair in the mirror. I take my camera and go out.

I learned today that Naples is the home of pizza and also it is considered food of the people, so is the cheapest thing you can order when eating out. At the hostel the receptionist marks on the map the best pizza restaurants in town, both on the same drag in the old town. The first, Sorbilles has a swarm of people outside waiting to get in; such is it's popularity. The second, Dal Presidente hasn't, nonetheless all the tables are taken when I enter except one in the corner. I order Margarita garnish with anchovies and a half litre of wine.

Later when I rise to leave, I see over the shoulder of a man at the next table, the time 13.32 on the phone in the palm of his hand. Also a big yellow sun for Wednesday's weather.

I have an hour to slowly wander to the meet up place for the two-thirty free city walking tour. The sun remains shining through breaks in the leaden sky. But once the walk begins, the sky opens and it pours down.

A mural from when the Spanish Bourbon dynasty ruled Southern Italy, depicting Madrid.

This and the previous picture is of a grand hall, an enclosure of streets with a glass roof on top, built about 1890 to celebrate Italian unification.

Neapolitans like people everywhere are downbeat and gloomy when it rains.

Underneath Naples are ruins of the old city dating back two-thousand years.

The vault of San Lorenzo church over the ruins.

This was a street and the alcoves to the side shops.

This is the deluxe, meaning more comfortable than the standard model. Makes you think.

Today's ride: 261 km (162 miles)
Total: 3,204 km (1,990 miles)

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