Simple Pleasures: A Thoughtful Gift from a Friend

Royal portraits of King Ferdinando II of the Two Sicilies, King Francesco II of the Two Sicilies, Queen Maria Theresa of Austria, and Queen Maria Isabella of Spain

A friend, aware of my interest in philately and my fondness for Catholic monarchies, recently gave me a small but meaningful collection. It included eleven postcards themed around the Two Sicilies, each featuring Cinderella stamps, along with a stack of envelopes bearing stamps from Italy and France.

He also included reproduction portraits of King Ferdinando II of the Two Sicilies, King Francesco II of the Two Sicilies, Queen Maria Isabella of Spain, and Queen Maria Theresa of Austria.

It was a simple but thoughtful gesture—perfectly suited to my interests and much appreciated.

The "face" or "view" side of the postcards

The address and message side of the postcards

Queen Maria Sofia postmark

Due Sicilie themed postmarks

The Girl in the Sun

Frontispiece from my copy of
Shakespeare on Love

This piece was originally part of Absinthe Dreams: Elegy for a Past Life, but was later cut and reworked into a standalone story.

She loved me for the dangers
     I had passed,
And I loved her that she did
     pity them.
This only is the witchcraft I
     have used.

~ Othello

     Meeting Chiara altered the course of my life.

     I was sitting against a wall on the high school campus, arms folded over my knees, head lowered, trying to get some rest. A gentle tap on my shoulder startled me. I looked up into the sun, its glare turning her into a silhouette. 

     “Hello,” she said softly. 

     I raised a hand to shield my eyes as she repeated it, almost amused. Then I stood.

     She wore a long grey herringbone tweed balmacaan and black Dr. Martens. She smiled and asked my name.

     “What do you want?” I said.

     “I’m Chiara.”

     I waited, expecting more. When nothing came, I said, “I’m Giovanni—my friends call me Nibs.”

     As my eyes cleared, I saw she had long, curly brown hair, dark eyes, and a stack of schoolbooks pressed to her chest. She told me she was having a party and asked if I wanted to come. Without waiting for my answer, she wrote her address on a scrap of paper, handed it to me, and walked toward the entrance, breaking into laughter with a couple of friends who were waiting for her.

     That night I arrived late with a six-pack, unaware it was her birthday party—and that her entire family was there. She took me inside and introduced me to relatives gathered in the living room and around the dining table. Her mother and two older sisters were clearing plates to make room for coffee and cake. Her father watched me closely, a hint of suspicion in his eyes, as I shook his hand; he promptly confiscated the beer.

     Grinning from ear to ear as she took my bomber jacket, she said, “I can’t believe you came.”

     “I never would have if I knew it was a birthday party.”

     “I know,” she laughed. “That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

     After she blew out the candles, we sat around the table and had cake. Her parents asked me a lot of questions. They treated me with polite respect, but they were clearly more troubled by the fact that I was an artist than by my shabby clothes or the beer. It turned out Chiara’s maternal uncle had been an artist—and a deadbeat—and her parents seemed to associate the two.

     After coffee, she took me down to the basement. I was a little surprised her parents didn’t object. In my house, we were raised differently—young couples weren’t allowed to be alone, especially not behind closed doors, and I never would have been allowed to bring a girl into my room. It was one of the reasons I moved out and got my own place.

     Alone, she admitted she’d had a crush on me for some time, and that she only made her move after learning my girlfriend, Gaviota, had moved back to Spain. It was hard for me to be upset—especially about showing up with beer instead of a proper gift—when she leaned in, and what followed went well beyond a simple kiss.

     Despite her parents’ disapproval, they never treated me poorly and always welcomed me into their home. I often had dinner with them, and Chiara brought me to family gatherings. Only later did I learn that, behind closed doors, they urged her to break things off.

     One of the more memorable occasions came when I was invited upstate to meet her sister Cinzia’s fiancé, Stefano, and his parents—wealthy, affable Northern Italian Freemasons who, at one point, even tried to recruit me. As the son of a bartender and a would-be starving artist myself, this did little to improve my standing with Chiara’s parents.

     During that trip, Chiara and I took a long walk through the woods, the leaves turning around us. It was there that she first admitted that her parents were firmly against her seeing me. I had already sensed as much.

     Back at the house, Stefano’s parents kept an expansive library in their study. While browsing the shelves, I came across a hardcover copy of The Decline of the West, which introduced me to Oswald Spengler and sent me down a rabbit hole I wouldn’t soon leave. I made it a point to find a copy of both volumes for myself.

     Early in our relationship, she wanted me to meet her friends at the Atomic Club, a small, smoke-filled dive with little more than a bar, a DJ booth, and a dance floor. It would become our regular spot. The place was packed, and we pushed our way to the middle, where her friends Annalisa and Giancarlo were dancing. We joined them for a few songs before heading to the bar. There I met the rest of her circle—Luna and Aurora. After the introductions, Chiara and Giancarlo went back to the dance floor, leaving me with her three friends. I bought us a round, and the interrogation began.

     They weren’t too tough, and we quickly hit it off. They were especially amused that I called her “Chester” on account of her chest—she didn't exactly hide them. Once I was welcomed in, we all grew close. We spent most of our time together at each other’s houses, on stoops or in basements, dancing, traveling, going to shows, and museums. We were almost inseparable.

     Chiara was always trying to upgrade my wardrobe, though she liked wearing my old, ratty band T-shirts and polos. She said she could smell me on them. I didn’t always appreciate the fuss, but I humored her now and then, enough that my old friends started calling me a “preppy.” It didn’t help that she had me rent a tux and a limo for our school dance—a first for me.

     Being an ardent drama student, she was often on stage, and I would go to see her perform; she stood out as Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Aside from a few old photo booth pictures, I still keep the inscribed hardback copy of Shakespeare on Love she gave me.

     Despite her parents’ objections, things were going well—or so I thought. It was only after she had a bad dream about me that problems began. She was deeply into oneiromancy and couldn’t shake it. Though I never learned the details of the dream, she eventually broke up with me over it. We remained friends and continued to see each other with the group, sometimes backsliding, when neither of us was involved with anyone else, and we’d been drinking. In time, we drifted apart. She grew serious with someone else and eventually married him.

     With her, I was exposed to a different way of life. I came from a loving home, but one that was poorer, stricter, and more disciplined. With her, I softened. There was an ease to her world, a lightness I hadn’t known. And yet, for all their comfort, her family left me wary of materialism.

     Looking back, I can still trace the line of my life to that moment against the wall and the girl in the sun.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, April 22nd, Feast of Saints Soter and Caius, Popes and Martyrs

Sonic Reduced

Friday night's here, what's to see?
Nothing to do, you know what I mean?
Nothing on the telly,
There is no late-night show,
No shows in town, there is no place to go.
Here we are, nowhere, nowhere left to go.
~ Stiff Little Fingers, “Here We Are Nowhere” (1979)

Recently, I went to a show with some friends to see three unknown bands. It was a small venue. I still go from time to time in a vain attempt to hear some good music and relive something of my youth.

The last of a long line of memorable shows was years ago—back-to-back nights in 2006 at Irving Plaza to see Stiff Little Fingers and Buzzcocks. I still keep the double-sided flyer.

While I can’t slam, pogo, or stage dive anymore, I couldn’t even if I wanted to—the crowds and energy are lifeless now, even when the bands cover punk classics.

That night at the show, the first band ripped into “Sonic Reducer” by the Dead Boys. The second did too. The third followed, as if they’d shared set lists in a group chat.

No risk. No rupture. No originality.

The room never felt alive. Each band arrived with its own small orbit of loyalists who clapped, filmed, and vanished into the night as soon as their guys left the stage. By the end, the place felt like a morgue.

At the empty bar, as we discussed what we had just witnessed, a friend showed me a clip of Billy Corgan lamenting the decline of rock and roll and suggesting that the CIA may be behind it. At this point, I wouldn’t put anything past our government.

The change in the music scene didn’t feel organic. It felt like a switch flipped. A culture of rebelliousness, masculinity, and individuality was replaced by conformity—something safer, less dangerous, effete.

We once built our weekends around shows. One night it was punk, the next something else entirely. Now the young people I know have little interest in music at all.

With no one to fight over the jukebox, we chose what we wanted to listen to.

The bar was empty.

The songs weren’t.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, April 21st, Feast of Sant’Anselmo d’Aosta

A Small Object, A Lasting Impression

Amid the vastness of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where monumental works compete for attention, it is often the smaller, quieter objects that linger most in the mind. This hand mirror by François-Rupert Carabin, created in 1906–7, is one such piece.

At first glance, it might seem merely decorative—a finely worked object of bronze and glass. But a closer look reveals a world contained within it. On its reverse, figures of bathers emerge in gentle relief, their forms caught in a moment both intimate and timeless. The surface shimmers with a subdued life, as though the scene exists just beneath the threshold of reflection.

There is something quietly arresting in this transformation of the ordinary. A mirror, meant for fleeting glances, becomes an object of contemplation instead. Carabin elevates the utilitarian into the poetic, reminding us that beauty need not announce itself loudly to be felt deeply.

In a museum filled with grandeur, it is this modest, almost easily overlooked piece that endures—less as spectacle than as impression, carried with you long after you have moved on.

Photo of the Week: An Imperial Presence, Quietly Enduring

Amid the abundance of masterpieces at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, this portrait of Empress Eugénie offers a quieter, more intimate kind of splendor. Painted by Marie-Pauline Laurent in 1855, after the style of Franz Xaver Winterhalter, it captures not merely the likeness but the atmosphere of the Second Empire at its height.

Eugénie herself—wife of Napoleon III, who seized power in 1851—is rendered with a softness that borders on the ethereal. The delicate textures, the luminous fabric, and the composed elegance all work together to elevate her beyond mere court portraiture. There is a serenity here, but also a subtle distance, as though she belongs as much to an ideal as to history.

Among so many grand and imposing works, this painting invites a slower gaze. It does not overwhelm; it draws you in. One admires it not only for its refinement, but for the quiet pleasure it offers—an image that lingers, less as spectacle than as presence.

Natale di Roma

The Palatine Hill (Photo by New York Scugnizzo)

April 21st is the anniversary of the legendary founding of the Eternal City on the Palatine Hill by Romulus in 753 B.C. Auguri Roma!

1° Reggimento Re at the Royal Site of Carditello in Caserta

Photos courtesy of 1° Reggimento Re

On Sunday afternoon, the 1° Reggimento Re (1° Reggimento Re. Associazione culturale e di rievocazione storica) took the field at the Cavalier and Cavalieri event held at the Reggia di Carditello in Caserta. Under clear skies and with excellent conditions, the unit turned out in force, executing a disciplined and visually striking presence. The parade ground was alive with ceremony—crisp formations, immaculate period uniforms, and the thunder of magnificent horses on display. With strong attendance and high esprit de corps throughout, the engagement was a resounding success, marked by both martial precision and regal pageantry.

A King in Profile: Encountering Ferdinand II of Aragon

A friend recently acquired a striking Renaissance-style portrait of Ferdinand II of Aragon, and seeing it in person was a genuine thrill. The king appears in classical profile, crowned and armored, draped in a rich red mantle that speaks to both sovereignty and command. The Latin inscription below situates him firmly in history, recalling his reign, his marriage to Isabella, and his role in shaping a unified Spain. He was also King of Naples and Sicily.

Whether an original or a later workshop piece, the painting carries the quiet authority of its subject.

Photo of the Week: Laocoön and His Sons Antiphantes and Thymbraeus, Vatican Museum

Photo by New York Scugnizzo

A Reconstruction of the Baptistery of the Cathedral of Cumae

By Regnum_Neapolitanum

x.com/1309Regnum

The baptismal font of the Cathedral of San Massimo, the remains of which are still visible among the ruins of this basilica, is perhaps one of the most famous symbols of Paleochristian Cumae.

Commonly dated to a period between the 5th and 6th centuries, this baptismal font was located in a room of the Cumae cathedral specifically designated as a baptistery, located behind the presbytery, towards the western end of the building.

This baptistery consisted of a circular basin, with an external diameter of approximately 3 meters, made of small stone blocks, and whose bottom was reached by two concentric steps (three, if we count the parapet as a "step").

The entire basin was originally completely covered, both inside and out, with small marble slabs of various colors (mostly white, with some fragments of green and red marble), while the bottom consisted of a single circular slab of white marble.

One element of this baptistery that has now disappeared, but some remains of which were discovered by archaeologist Amedeo Maiuri during excavations in the late 1920s, was the so-called "tegurium," a sort of ciborium or canopy supported by columns that sometimes covered baptismal fonts in the early Christian era.

In the specific case of the Cumaean baptistery, the ciborium was supported by six columns, at least one of which must have been twisted.

Although some fragments of the small columns that supported the "tegurium" were discovered, unfortunately, no trace remains of the top of this structure.

In this reconstruction, I have placed a hexagonal architrave, made of wood, similar in structure to the one that once covered the contemporary (or perhaps slightly more recent) baptismal font in Nocera Superiore.

Celebrating National Coin Week (2026)

In celebration of the 103rd Annual National Coin Week, I’m pleased to share a photo of gold coins from my visit to the Asian Art Galleries at the Metropolitan Museum of Art last month.

Minted by the great Kushan rulers in the second and early third centuries, these coins follow a Roman weight standard. Their imagery presents the rulers in relation to a range of Near Eastern and South Asian deities—such as Shiva, who appears on the reverse of Vasudeva’s coin.

Left to right: Coin of Huvishka, Coin of Vasudeva, Coin of Kanishka, and Coin of Huvishka.

Il Mezzogiorno dopo l'Unità negli scritti dell'epoca

The Berlin Underground

Straßenkampf, 1918, Eduard Baudrexel

This piece was originally part of Absinthe Dreams: Elegy for a Past Life, but was later cut and reworked into a standalone essay.

Back in the early ’80s, when we were finally old enough—and brave enough—to wander beyond the empty lots and abandoned buildings of our working-class neighborhood, New York City felt truly cosmopolitan—restless, unpredictable, and far more interesting than it does now. Before long, those wanderings gave way to nights out. When we weren’t in nightclubs or dance halls, we drifted between bars, cafés, pool halls, and even the occasional illegal tattoo parlor.

One of our regular haunts was a seedy underground lounge in Ridgewood, called The Berlin, or maybe the Berlin Club; the name blurs now. It drew a strange, compelling crowd and played a hypnotic mix of 1920s cabaret, orchestral pieces, and contemporary German punk bands like Böhse Onkelz and OHL. Part of the appeal, it must be said, was the barmaids: striking girls in dirndls who looked as though they’d stepped straight off a St. Pauli Girl label.

Unable to find the final version,
here is an unfinished sketch of our
team's crest, with a faint pencil
rendering of a pickelhaube
ghosted over the original

The place was decorated in a style that felt half museum, half fever dream, with macabre paintings of WWI trench warfare, hints of the Munich Secession, heavy bier steins, and pickelhauben. Those spiked helmets later inspired the vulture logo I designed for our sporting club, the Brooklyn Buzzards. From time to time, the lounge doubled as a quiet meeting place for Soviet émigrés and German monarchisten, adding another layer of intrigue to the atmosphere.

We even sat in on the monthly talks. They ranged from anti-communism to more esoteric subjects—Agartha, the supposed otherworldly origins of the Aryans, Wotanism, and the philosophical teachings of Rudolf Steiner and Arthur Schopenhauer. Around then, I went through a serious Hermann Hesse phase to impress Tonja, a blonde dancer and poet who, as it turned out, wasn’t German at all, but Ukrainian.

The Berlin reminded me of the back rooms of many Italian cafés and social clubs scattered across the city, where menfolk played cards, drank espresso, and argued politics. Almost inconceivable today, the walls bore old Arditi posters and political montages depicting Gabriele D’Annunzio, Italo Balbo, Benito Mussolini, and the House of Savoy. That same atmosphere carried into other corners of the city.

It was in a used bookstore that I first heard of neo-Bourbonism. One night, during a heated debate, an older Sicilian man dismantled the more nationalistically minded with ease. I didn't realize it at the time, but that exchange set me on a course whose significance I did not fully grasp.

Long out of that world, the last place of its kind I remember visiting was in the early 2000s, when a Russian friend took me to a freezing basement in Sheepshead Bay, made to resemble a medieval hall. There was a long communal table of heavy wood, lined with benches, porcelain bowls of caviar, pelmeni, and endless vodka toasts to the Tsar. The strangest part wasn’t the temperature, but the scantily clad belly dancers, breath hanging in the air, performing as if unaware of the cold or in defiance of it.

Across the city, in other circles, the arguments took different forms—touching on the Greek Megali Idea (Great Idea), Irish republicanism, Spanish Falangismo, and even Tibetan Rangzen. It felt as though there was a soapbox on every corner. The city was alive.

Today, the discontent feels different. The disgruntled masses come off less like dissidents and more like petulant, unmoored malcontents—quick to complain and slow to understand. I’ve never seen a more uninformed group. Grievances circle back on themselves, shaped by the very ideas they claim to oppose. They repeat slogans, speak in abstractions, and rarely seem aware of their own contradictions. The most striking difference is that, in those days, the recusants operated underground, wary of state violence, whereas today’s so-called revolutionaries protest openly, often with little fear—and at times with the tacit sanction of the state.

Like everything else in the city today, it feels like a caricature of what it once was.

~ By Giovannni di Napoli, April 17th, Feast of St. Anicetus

Visions in Relief: Beethoven and Wagner at the Met

Set side by side at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, these two portraits do not merely depict great composers—they conjure them.

Franz von Stuck’s haunting image of Ludwig van Beethoven emerges from a blood-red ground with an almost supernatural force. Modeled after the composer’s death mask, the face presses forward as if breaking through the boundary between worlds. It is neither fully sculpture nor painting, but something in between—a vision, or perhaps an apparition. Stuck, ever drawn to myth and symbolism, renders Beethoven not as a man remembered, but as a presence still felt, the embodiment of creative power pushing against its limits.

Beside it, Jeanne Itasse’s glazed stoneware portrait of Richard Wagner offers a different kind of unease. Its unnatural coloration—suggestive of gaslit Paris—casts Wagner in a spectral light, at once vivid and unsettling. Produced with the collaboration of Émile Muller, the work reflects both the innovations of industrial ceramics and the charged cultural atmosphere in which Wagner’s legacy stirred admiration and contempt in equal measure.

Together, the two works form a quiet but striking dialogue. Beethoven appears as a force breaking through the veil; Wagner, as a figure suspended within it. One burns, the other glows. And between them, the viewer is left to consider not just the men themselves, but the strange afterlives of genius—how it is remembered, reshaped, and made to haunt the present.

Feast of Sant’Aniceto

Sant'Aniceto, ora pro nobis

April 17th is the Feast of St. Anicetus, a 2nd-century Pope and Martyr, who guided the Church through a time of doctrinal uncertainty and external pressure. Born in Syria, he is remembered for his steady leadership and defense of apostolic tradition.

His papacy is most notable for his meeting with St. Polycarp, Bishop of Smyrna, over the date of Easter (the Quartodeciman controversy). Though they disagreed—each following different traditions—they remained united in charity, offering an early example of peace without compromising conscience.

He also opposed early heresies associated with Marcion, defending the continuity of Christian teaching. Honored in both the Eastern and Western Churches, tradition holds that he died a martyr, remembered for preserving unity and faith in a fragile age. He is invoked as a model of unity and fidelity to apostolic tradition.

Evviva Sant'Aniceto!

In celebration of his feast, we offer this prayer:

Prayer to St. Anicetus

O Eternal Shepherd, look favorably upon Thy flock, and deign to guard and keep it forever through blessed Anicetus, Thy Martyr and Supreme Pontiff, whom Thou didst appoint shepherd of Thy whole Church. Through our Lord.

Remembering Amedeo Miceli di Serradileo and his Calabria

Baron Amedeo Miceli di Serradileo

Afficionados of history and all those who love Calabria mourn the loss of the doyen of Southern Italian history and culture, Baron Amedeo Miceli di Serradileo, who died on 11 April 2026 at the age of 77.

Baron Miceli was a refined scholar and connoisseur of all aspects of Southern Italy, particularly his native San Fili (prov. of Cosenza) and Calabria. He carried out extensive research in archives and in situ and presented his findings at numerous conferences and published widely as an independent researcher. He brought to life the complex events of the Kingdom of Naples and medieval and Renaissance Calabria, including foreign relations between the 13th and 16th centuries. He also assisted in curating and building museums.

Having taken a degree in political science at the LUISS in Rome, Baron Miceli worked in Geneva, Amsterdam, and Paris, conducting business for multinationals. He brought an amazing scope and vision to his vocation as a historian and carried out his work with continuity and systematic rigor.

Baron Miceli’s lifetime of research takes us deep into our past, exploring the Kingdom and the Calabria of Frederick II, as well as visits to numerous towns and cities, and their traditional economies, including the silk trade, and even with modesty, the palaces of his own family and the figures of ancestral bishops in the family. He also explored nuanced areas such as the concession of offices by Marie de Blois, the widow of King Louis of Anjou, Venetians in Calabria between the 12th and 14th centuries, inventories of Cosenza’s palaces in the Renaissance and Baroque eras, and the Spanish Viceroyalty as seen through diplomatic dispatches.

Baron Miceli most memorably contributed to the drafting of the well-known classic Settecento Calabrese with Franz von Lobstein. Among many places, his work appeared over the decades in the Rivista Araldica, Archivio Storico per la Calabria e la Lucania, Archivio Storico per le Province Napoletane, and is cited in numerous fascinating books, such as Collezionismo nella Calabria Vicereale, Borbonica e Postunitaria (Gangemi, 2012)

A generous patron and promoter of culture and the humanities, Baron Miceli sponsored the “Vincenzo Miceli” scholarship fund for the Scuola Secondaria Statale di San Fili, in memory of the constitutional lawyer and positivist philosopher Vincenzo Miceli (1858-1932). As a true patriot and Southern nobleman, he also generously donated documents of historic interest to the State Archives of Cosenza so as to pass the torch on to the next generation.

After his funeral in Rome, Baron Miceli was laid to rest in his family tomb in San Fili.

~ By Cav. Charles Sant’Elia

Second Sunday After Easter at Our Lady of Sorrows Church in Jersey City, New Jersey

The Riddle of the Sphinx on Elizabeth Street

Now that the pleasant weather has returned, I find myself once again drawn back to a favorite haunt—Elizabeth Street Garden. There is something about the place in springtime—the soft chorus of birds, the tentative blooming of flowers, the slow reawakening of the world. It invites not merely rest, but reflection.

I go there often with a coffee in hand, and almost without thinking, I make my way toward the two stone watchers near the entrance. Twin sphinxes—silent, brooding, yet never without presence. I have taken to greeting them as one might old acquaintances. For reasons I cannot fully explain, I like to speak to them quietly, turning over questions of life, fate, and purpose while they listen without reply.

Their silence, however, is not empty. It speaks in its own way. The sphinx has always been a creature of paradox: guardian and destroyer, keeper of sacred knowledge, poser of riddles whose answers are not given lightly. It symbolizes the dangerous unknown, intellect as a kind of threat, and the capriciousness of fate. It represents knowledge hidden from the many and revealed only to those prepared to receive it.

Sitting there, I am reminded of its ancient question: 

What creature walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, and three in the evening?

The answer, of course, is man—crawling as an infant, walking upright in his prime, and leaning on a cane in old age. Yet the longer one sits with it, the less simple it becomes. It is not merely a clever riddle, but a quiet summation of life itself: dependence, strength, and decline, all bound within a single arc.

And perhaps that is why I return.

There, between the flowers and the stone, with the city just beyond, I find myself in the presence of something older than memory itself—something that reminds me that life is not a straight path, but a passage through stages, each with its own dignity. The sphinx does not answer questions. It asks them. And in doing so, it reveals that whatever knowledge is worth having is not given freely, but earned—slowly, and often in silence.

So I sit, and I speak, and I listen.

And the sphinx, as ever, keeps its counsel.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, April 15th, Feast of San Cesare de Bus

New Book — The Benevento Explorer: Ancient Arches, Witch Legends, and the Soul of Southern Italy

A new title that may be of interest to our readers. Available at Amazon.com

• The Benevento Explorer: Ancient Arches, Witch Legends, and the Soul of Southern Italy by Riley F. Arden

Publisher: Independently published
Pub. Date: March 9, 2026
Paperback: $14.00
Kindle: $3.50
Language: English
Pages: 77

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Cavalli & Cavalieri

In Caserta (CE)

Literary Caprices: Vignettes and Other Indulgences II

A portrait of a beautiful woman
(bijin-ga) at the Japanese restaurant

See Part I, Part III 

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

Good Shepherd Sunday at St. Michael's Church in Staten Island, New York

Apollonia

The Muses Leaving Their Father
Apollo to Go Out and Light the
World, (1868), Gustave Moreau

Shaken from slumber, I penned this simple ode to Apollonia, who still haunts my mind.

Apollonia

Apollonia was dark and sibylline.
We shared a love of books.
After school, we’d read bawdy verse
Between the stacks and nooks.

We dreamed of Barsoom’s distant sands
And tilted at windmills in sunny Spain.
She was Cleopatra to my Antony;
I was Tarzan to her Jane.

“Apollonia,” I’d whisper—
The mere sound of her name,
An invocation to Apollo himself,
A bright, burning flame.

Her family moved across town—
It felt a world away.
They say young love fades with time,
But I taste her kiss to this day.

A Sneak Peek at the Totò and His Naples Exhibit at the Italian American Museum in Little Italy, New York

Multiplatinum Neapolitan recording artist Patrizio Buanne
performs a heartrending rendition of Malafemmena,
written in 1951 by Antonio De Curtis (Totò)

We extend our sincere thanks to Marie Palladino and our friends at the Italian American Museum in Little Italy for their warm hospitality.

It was a pleasure to visit alongside Patrizio Buanne and enjoy a thoughtful tour, along with a special preview of the forthcoming exhibition Totò and His Naples, on view from April 16th through August 29th.

Known formally as Totò, he remains one of Italy’s most beloved cultural figures—a master of comedy, theater, and film, as well as a gifted poet, whose work captured the spirit, humor, and soul of Naples.

We are grateful for the opportunity and look forward to seeing this landmark exhibition shared with the public.