Literary Caprices: Vignettes and Other Indulgences IV

See Part I, Part II, Part III 

Rejected from a Date I Never Asked For

While I appreciate the good intentions of family and friends who try to fix me up on dates, I resent the notion that I can’t meet women on my own. Not to sound cocky, but I meet women all the time. We just rarely connect on any meaningful level.

I’ve agreed to blind dates in the past, trusting the matchmakers' judgment, only to discover that absolutely no thought had gone into finding me a suitable partner. The only thing my dates and I had in common was being single. Disappointed one too many times, I naturally began declining offers to be fixed up.

So, the other night, when I was invited to dinner at a friend’s house and discovered that the only other guest was a woman I had never met, the situation was obvious. Dinner was a ruse to get me to meet their friend.

Feigning ignorance, I genuinely enjoyed the evening. After she said goodnight and hopped into her Uber, I don’t think the car had even pulled away before my friend’s wife began grilling me about what I thought.

Trying to be polite, I said a lot of nice things without committing to anything.

Needless to say, I was genuinely surprised when the dinner guest called me a day later out of the blue. She wasn’t calling to arrange a date, but to “let me down gently.” Apparently, she hadn’t wanted to be fixed up either. 

That part I understood. What I didn’t understand was why she felt the need to call and turn me down for a date I had never asked her on.

Wanton Women and a Naïve Fool

Walking to the subway the other day, my friend glanced at a group of young Asian women we were passing and said, “Look at all these hookers.”

“They’re not hookers,” I replied. “That’s just how young ladies dress nowadays.” In my defense, I see a lot of scantily clad women around the city.

Right on cue, one of them skipped over to me. Looking as though she had stepped straight out of a hentai magazine, she wore a tiny miniskirt, garters, go-go boots, garish makeup, and ribbons in her hair. Without saying a word, she handed me a card advertising a 24-hour “massage” parlor.

I still don’t know what hurt me more: my friend laughing at my naivety or the realization that this girl had taken one look at me and decided I was the sort of guy who might frequent such an establishment.

A Cramp in No Man’s Land

I’ve been having a lot of strange dreams lately, but last night’s may have been the strangest.

I was fighting in a war sometime in the future, though the battlefield looked like something out of the First World War. It was a strange, retrofuturistic world of trenches, mud, smoke, and unfamiliar machinery, where whatever advances mankind had made had somehow brought us back to killing one another in the old ways.

At some point, I climbed out of my trench and crawled across no man’s land toward the enemy line. Like the Arditi of old, I crossed the desolate battlefield with a dagger clenched between my teeth and a trench mace in hand.

Somehow I reached the enemy trench unnoticed. Dropping into it, I began my assault with knife and mace.

At first, the enemy seemed completely oblivious to my presence. Then, as I moved down the trench, they simply froze. One after another, they stood staring at me while I charged forward, swinging the mace and slashing with the knife. There was something strangely mechanical about it all. No one fought back. I simply kept advancing.

Then, suddenly, I stopped. A terrible cramp seized my right calf. In the middle of my charge, surrounded by the enemy, I found myself completely unable to move. The soldiers who moments before had been frozen in terror now stared at me in bewilderment as I stood there helpless, my leg locked in agony. And then I woke up. The trenches, the smoke, and the enemy had all vanished. But the cramp in my right calf was very real.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, September 22nd, Feast of St. Maurice and Companions 

The Ghost in the Song

La Diabolique, pen and ink on paper

This is why events unnerve me / They find it all, a different story.
~ New Order, Ceremony

The other night, a song came on and caught me completely off guard. Almost immediately, it brought back memories of my ex, someone I hadn’t thought about in years. The memory wasn’t of a particularly special night; it wasn’t an anniversary or anything. We were just slow dancing in a dark, smoky dive bar, locked in each other’s arms and staring into each other’s eyes while the rest of the room disappeared around us.

I remember how intensely attracted I was to her in that moment: the heat, the passion, the feeling of being completely consumed by someone. Hearing the song again brought all of it rushing back with startling clarity.

Despite actively trying to live more stoically and remain detached, I find myself becoming more sentimental against my own will.

Lately, even while trying to focus on my soul and my salvation, these deeply personal memories still find their way back to the surface.

Maybe becoming older doesn’t harden you. Maybe it just leaves you with more ghosts.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, June 10th, Feast of Santa Margherita di Scozia

Literary Caprices: Vignettes and Other Indulgences III

See Part I, Part II 

These small pieces are fragments, moments tied to place, memory, and chance encounters, often anchored by a meal, a drink, or a passing ritual. Some are drawn from childhood, others from later years, but all linger for the same reason: they capture something that resists explanation, yet remains unmistakably real.

Chinatown, Then and Now

Exploring Chinatown the other day, on what would have been my late father’s birthday, brought back a flood of memories.

For as long as I can remember, he took us there for the Lunar New Year. We would have lunch in one of the many small, unassuming eateries, and he would discreetly pay the waiter for a window seat. From there, we had a perfect view of the dragon dance, with colorful figures, pounding drums, and firecrackers echoing through the streets.

As we grew older, we ventured further, wandering through markets and narrow shops, especially the spice and apothecary stores he liked best. I was always drawn to the Tibetan and Nepalese antique shops, where I could lose myself among the trinkets and statuary. I still have some of the small keepsakes my parents bought me over the years.

One day in particular stays with me. After a heavy meal, we decided to walk it off by crossing the Brooklyn Bridge and back again, the only time I ever did that with him. I still regret that I can’t find the photos.

After he passed, I inherited a cast-iron teapot I had bought him in Chinatown. Every time I drink oolong, it brings back a small, funny moment: I had picked up some loose tea from a market, but the directions were in Chinese, and we didn’t know how to prepare it. So he ordered Chinese food, and when the delivery driver arrived, we invited him in and asked him to show us how to make it. He did, and we shared a proper cup of tea together before he returned to work.

Chinatown, like much of New York City, has changed. But not entirely. Some of the small shops and old trading companies remain, reminders of what once was.

Summers at Coney Island

Growing up in Brooklyn, summer meant family trips to Coney Island. We would walk the boardwalk, enjoying the ocean breeze beneath the iconic Parachute Jump, play games, and ride the attractions, especially the world-famous Cyclone, built in 1927. Some days we went to the aquarium or the sideshow, but we always stopped at Nathan’s for hot dogs.

Every time it was our turn to order, my uncle would ask the guy at the counter if he had frog legs. When the answer was yes, he’d say, “Then hop over there and get me some hot dogs.” It made me laugh every time. Even now, I can’t walk past Nathan’s without thinking of my uncle and those family trips.

My First Beer at McSorley’s

When I turned twenty-one, my father took me to McSorley’s Old Ale House, the oldest Irish saloon in New York City, for my first legal beer.

We drove in from Brooklyn and found a spot right out front in under fifteen minutes, something unthinkable today with the traffic. There was no line, no crowd, nothing like the tourists I see today stretched down the block.

Inside, with sawdust on the floor, I took a seat at a communal table while my father ordered. He came back with four mugs of ale, two for each of us, the way they serve it, and a pair of liverwurst and onion sandwiches on rye with mustard.

We drank, ate, and talked. He told me stories about how women were once barred from entering, along with other bits of the place’s lore. After a while, we finished up and left.

We were home almost as quickly as we had arrived. I never went back, but I don’t need to. I was there once, with my dad.

Technique

I met Colette at Bleecker Bob’s while thumbing through the flip bins on the center island. Already holding a few albums, she asked, in a soft French accent, who I was looking for. I said, “The new New Order.” She smiled and glanced at the records in her hand. “This?” she asked, holding up Technique. We started talking, and I asked if she wanted to grab a coffee around the corner at Caffè Reggio.

Seated at a small table near the antique espresso machine, we talked about music, movies, her impressions of America, and the usual things that pass for plans at that age. She was from Toulouse, studying film. After a while, she asked if I wanted to go back to her dorm to listen to the record, and I walked her to her residence hall.

Her room was tidy, aside from the bed. The walls were covered with movie posters: A Clockwork Orange, Suburbia, and L'Homme qui aimait les femmes. We listened to the record twice before her roommate came home. “Love Less” became ours. We kissed goodnight.

After that, we saw each other regularly, going to shows, movies, museums. For nearly two years, we were rarely apart. On Halloween, she humored me, dressing as Red Sonja one year and Vampirella the next. She wore both well.

When she graduated, she moved back home, and I never saw her again. She left me the album. I don’t have it anymore, but I still think of her whenever I hear it.

One Drop of Wine

A few years ago, I had dinner with some colleagues at a Lebanese restaurant, with good food, wine, and belly dancing. We ordered a couple of bottles to go with the meal. A Turkish friend of a friend who joined us made a show of dipping his finger into his glass, flicking a drop aside, and saying, “That’s the one drop of wine I cannot have.”

It caught me off guard. In Islam, wine is considered strictly haram, or unlawful, so the gesture seemed contradictory.

Later, I learned that the custom is sometimes associated with the Bektashi, a Sufi order known for its unorthodox practices. It is said to come from a story in which the leader of the sect, in the presence of the Ottoman Sultan, cited the injunction against consuming “one drop” of alcohol, then flicked a drop from his goblet before drinking.

Whether apocryphal or not, the gesture stayed with me: half ritual, half defiance, and entirely memorable.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, May 3rd, Feast of the Finding of the Holy Cross by St. Helena

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, with me 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

Literary Caprices: Vignettes and Other Indulgences I

Bronze Sheela-na-Gig pendant

See Part II, Part III

Since we marked the blog’s anniversary a bit early this year, I’m sharing something a little different.

I started taking creative writing classes to sharpen my craft and, as an exercise, wrote a series of vignettes and short stories. Several examples have appeared here over the past year.

More risqué than my usual posts, the following pieces aren’t ones I typically publish, but there’s no reason to let them gather dust. More personal in nature, they have little to do with faith or the Italian American community.

I believe I’ve mentioned before that I don’t come from a literary or journalistic background, nor am I an academic or historian. This project was born from a desire to create something more relatable and interesting, at least to me. Tired of the same old Italian American narratives being peddled by smug academics and ideologues, I set out, in my own modest way, to contribute to a cultural renewal.

While I continue that effort, what I truly want now is to write poetry, which I hold to be the highest form of expression. Unfortunately, though I may have the heart for it, the soul of a true poet remains elusive, as evidenced by the few examples I’ve shared here in the past. Still, I’ll keep forging ahead in search of my Muse.

Accused by more than a few critics of being overly pedantic, I’ve made a conscious effort lately to temper that tendency. With these posts, I’m also trying to broaden my range and explore different genres. Since taking the classes, I have especially enjoyed revisiting old family stories and memories. Thankfully, I’ve been blessed with a full and interesting life, so, God willing, there will be more to come.

I’ve enjoyed writing these pieces. I hope you enjoy reading them.

Shane MacGowan (1957-2023)

Sheela at the Gig

It was the late 90s, and the summer air over Randall’s Island smelled of beer and fried food. The Guinness Fleadh Festival was in full roar, with fiddles, citterns, and bodhráns thumping as thousands gathered beneath a hazy New York sky to celebrate Irish music and culture.

When The Pogues took the stage beneath the big tent, the crowd surged forward as if pulled by gravity itself. And there was Shane MacGowan, leaning into the microphone, ragged, magnificent, impossibly alive.

Midway through the show, the crowd suddenly split open. People laughed and stumbled aside as a massive man lurched through the clearing, drenched in beer and sweat, wearing nothing but tighty whities and a grin.

“Kelly!” he bellowed again and again before disappearing back into the amused, swallowing sea of bodies.

Not long after, as if summoned by symmetry, a young woman staggered past in her bra and panties, copper hair wild, shouting, “Patrick!” Her search was no more successful. The crowd folded behind her, too, reclaiming both stories without resolution.

Between sets, near the vendors’ tents, my girlfriend was trying on rings. A silver brooch caught the light, a sheela-na-gig. [1] It was beautiful. I turned it over in my hand, its ancient, stark symbolism unmistakable.

Devotion felt more important at the time, so, unable to afford both, I bought her a claddagh ring. [2] Certain symbols, love and loyalty, meant permanence if you believed hard enough.

In hindsight, of course, the sheela-na-gig understood things better than I did.

Bioluminescent Walk of Shame

At a house party on Long Island Sound, my girlfriend and I slipped away to go skinny-dipping. The water was calm, the night clear, and the moon was bright and full. Frolicking at first, we drifted into each other’s arms beneath its light until, mid-moment, the water around us flared to life in an eerie fluorescent green.

A swarm of jellyfish had bloomed all at once, lighting up the shallows in an aquatic glow. Panicked, we thrashed our way back to shore, making quite a scene and drawing the attention of the entire party. As we streaked across the beach toward our clothes and the house, the revelers rewarded our ignoble exit with a generous round of applause. We weren’t stung, but we were red with embarrassment.

Lady Godiva, J.J. Lefebvre (1890)

A Stolen Glance and Unwelcome Encore

Stepping outside the noisy bar to take a call from a friend, I happened to glance up and saw a beautiful young woman in the second-floor apartment opposite, fresh from the shower, calmly toweling her hair in all her naked glory. Oblivious to my presence, she stood there with an ease that was almost statuesque. I turned away out of respect and told my friend what I’d just witnessed. Laughing, he said I was a better man than he. He wouldn’t have looked away.

Tempted, I stole a second glance. To my dismay, the window now framed a naked man instead, presenting me with the full and decidedly unwelcome monty. I let out an involuntary groan and relayed the turn of events. My friend cackled and said, “That’s what you get for being a peeping Tom.” [3]

Velvet Nights: Before the Curtain Fell

There was a time, before I found my way back to the Church, when the nights belonged to chasing skirt, cocktails, and loud music. Not long ago, I had the chance to step back into that world for a bachelor party. I passed, and it made me think of those nights again.

My friends and I would sometimes start the night pregaming at cabarets or burlesque clubs where women in heels knew how to pivot on a dime and make you feel "special" for the length of a song. The air carried perfume, gin, and the faint electrical buzz of anticipation.

Yes, it was decadent. Lewd at times, but hardly the last days of Caligula, no matter how people like to dramatize it. It had rhythm. It had choreography. It had a wink: feather boas, pasties, and fans. Long gloves peeled away finger by finger. Stockings rolled down with ceremonial patience.

The women weren’t rushing toward nudity; they were conducting it. It felt closer to performance art. Back then, the tease was the point. Suggestion carried more voltage than exposure. 

(L) Beverly Powers in Breakfast at Tiffany's (1961). (R) Commissioned
artwork for From Dusk Till Dawn (1996) by Frank Frazetta

It lived somewhere between Beverly Powers’ playful striptease in Breakfast at Tiffany’s and the feverish heat of Salma Hayek’s dance at the Titty Twister in From Dusk Till Dawn. Glamour and danger, laughter and sweat. A joke told with a hip, a threat delivered with a smile.

We didn’t go for politics. We didn’t pretend it was empowerment. We went because we were young men who wanted to see beautiful, naked women. There’s no halo to hang on that. No clever excuse. It was appetite.

After the show, we’d buy drinks and talk to the girls, discussing art, music, and onstage mishaps. Some were sharp, funny, and more disciplined than the men watching them. Others, not so much. The fantasy stayed on stage. Offstage, it was just people. Looking back now, I can see how easily a young man mistakes spectacle for meaning.

I don’t romanticize it. But neither do I pretend it was the end of civilization. It was a chapter: perfumed, reckless, artful in its own way. A theater of flesh and spotlight.

And like any theater, the curtain fell.

~ Giovanni di Napoli, March 21st, The Feasts of Bl. Maria Candida of the Eucharist and San Benedetto da Nursia

Notes
[1] The sheela-na-gig is often interpreted as a medieval warning against lust, its stark imagery reminding the faithful of sin’s moral and spiritual consequences. Others believe such figures served a more ancient apotropaic purpose, warding off evil, much like a gargoyle.
[2] The claddagh ring symbolizes love, loyalty, and friendship, expressing a commitment rooted in faithfulness and enduring devotion. 

[3] “Peeping Tom” originates from the medieval legend of Lady Godiva, in which a tailor named Tom secretly watched her ride naked through Coventry and was struck blind as punishment for his voyeurism.