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| A portrait of a beautiful woman (bijin-ga) at the Japanese restaurant |
Over atsukan and sashimi with a friend, I was surprised to see a respected Italian American historian I know join us. He told me he reads our blog and urged me to keep writing my autobiographical pieces, saying they capture part of our history from a unique perspective. Maybe it was the carafes of hot sake, but I had been sitting on these stories and took it as a sign to publish them.
Bug Hunt
I must have been a handful for my mother. I was always coming home with cuts and bruises from playing ball and roughhousing with the other boys.
One summer, while we were on vacation in rural Pennsylvania, I decided to go off on my own. I painted my face like a warrior and set off into the woods.
Looking for adventure, I followed a small brook through a marsh. Everywhere I looked, there was something new—turtles slipping into the water, frogs jumping through the reeds, and salamanders hiding in the mud. I turned over rocks and found garter snakes curled beneath them. I stuffed my pockets with bugs to study later. I even picked up a sturdy branch to use as a walking stick—and, if necessary, a weapon.
I wandered deeper and deeper, as if following some distant Will-o'-the Wisp, completely lost in the moment. Time didn’t matter. The woods felt endless, and I was an explorer discovering it all for the first time.
Eventually, I made my way back, long past when I should have been home for lunch. I came out of the woods dirty, scratched up, and grinning from ear to ear.
My mother rushed over, hugging me tightly while scolding me at the same time. My father stood nearby, smiling with quiet pride. He told me to wash up and sent me to my room—more for my mother’s peace of mind than punishment.
Later, as I lay on my bed replaying my great adventure, my mother walked in holding my jeans. Without a word, she handed me what I had forgotten.
A pocket full of dead beetles and moths.
Not New York Enough: A Lesson in Thin Skin
Years ago, at a cabaret in Montreal, a pretty burlesque dancer who went by Himalayan Hotty approached me after her show and asked if I was from New York—she said she could hear it in my accent. She told me she was from New York, too. When I asked where, she said Buffalo. I joked, “That’s not New York.” She stiffened, then shot back—with genuine contempt—“Oh, you’re one of those city people,” and stormed off in a huff, which only confirmed my view: Real New Yorkers have thicker skins and tease one another mercilessly. I was honestly baffled that something so trivial set her off—especially given the far lewder and ruder remarks she must hear nightly while shaking her tassels.
Robbed in Rome, Welcomed in Naples
Back in 2007, my first trip to Rome and Naples started badly but ended better than I could have imagined.
My friend and I were robbed at gunpoint outside our hotel in Rome by two men flashing badges and pistols. Police, or at least pretending to be, they said we fit the profile of Russian drug dealers and demanded our wallets. They took about 700 Euros between us and left. I remember feeling relief more than anything—they didn’t hurt us, and they didn’t take our passports or my Nikon camera.
At the hotel, a young Neapolitan named Ciro, who worked there, helped us. He didn’t trust the local police, so he drove us out to a station in Tivoli, just outside the city. The place looked like a film set—grey walls and a large crucifix behind a stern, well-dressed officer with a high-peaked cap. Through Ciro, we explained what happened.
“Stranieri?” the officer asked when I described the men. Yes, they looked Middle Eastern to me.
Then he asked where we were headed.
“Napoli,” I said.
He looked at me and said, “They robbed you in Rome, they’re going to kill you in Naples.”
That stuck with me. I was actually more annoyed at him than the criminals. I expect thieves to be scum. I didn’t expect that from the police. When he suggested we were careless, I snapped back: “What were we supposed to do? They had guns and badges.” Then I added, “What would you do if I refused to give you my ID?” The interview ended quickly after that.
We left with a report and our pockets a little lighter. To be honest, I wasn’t too upset. It was only money, after all. I figured I’d just bring home fewer souvenirs. At least I got a good story out of it.
Heading south, I didn’t know what to expect in Naples, especially after that exchange. But it turned out to be one of the greatest trips of my life.
The city itself was overwhelming—beautiful, chaotic, alive. Walking down the bustling Via Toledo, I thought about all the people who had walked there before me—kings, conquerors, workers, pilgrims, lazzaroni, generations stacked on top of one another.
From the moment I arrived, I felt at home. The Neapolitans were warm, open, and proud. Strangers invited me in for coffee. A young man introduced me to his grandfather just because I was a Neapolitan from America. In a small restaurant, a waiter introduced me to the whole place after asking if I was Italian American, and I told him, “No, I’m Neapolitan American.” It almost felt like a hero’s return.
A cab driver named Maurizio gave us an impromptu tour before taking us to Salerno. He pointed out the city’s sights as if it were his own backyard. Along the Lungomare Caracciolo, he shouted, “Mr., Mr., look—my children are swimming in the sea!”
Again, unsolicited, he asked if we were hungry and stopped in Vietri for lunch at his favorite place. The food was unforgettable—stuffed cuttlefish with potatoes. After a perfect meal, we asked for coffee. The waiter said they didn’t serve it because the bar on the corner did it better—and then he went and got it for us himself on a silver tray.
That was Naples.
My return to Rome later on was much the same—stunned by the churches, ruins, and of course the Vatican. The people were warm there, too.
Except for that one moment, it was a perfect trip. And even that became part of the story.
~ By Giovanni di Napoli, April 14th, Feast of St. Justin, Martyr
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