9/09/11 Touching 165

I had my first solid night of sleep in that hotel room in Aquila.  I didn’t have to deal with ancient mattresses, creaking bed frames, vicious mosquitoes, whirring fans, ticking clocks, highway noise, tractor sounds; or loud neighbours.  It was six hours of pure air-conditioned bliss.

We left Aquila at 8:00 AM with a long drive ahead of us to the south; Locri, Reggio Calabria to be precise.  With stops, we figured it would be nine hours.  Pedal to the floor, I tried to maintain 135 km/h just to keep it interesting.   Mom wanted to take a route that hugged the coast, but dad and I settled on a different route; one that avoided the hated city of Napoli (Naples) and was more efficient.  To be clear and honest, Napoli is the armpit of Italy.  Anyone who tries to tell you otherwise has either never been there or is blind.  Case in point: my mom.  She loves Napoli and insists that it is a beautiful city.  Fact #1: my mom is not blind.  Fact #2: my mom has never been to Napoli.  Mom’s love of Napoli comes from the scenes depicted in movies and described in music from the fifties that spoke of a kinder gentler city, a centre of art and culture.

Unfortunately, the Napoli of today is a crime ridden cesspool; a mafia controlled ghetto, certain parts of which can terrify you when the sun goes down.  We’re talking about a city that is so mismanaged that the residents routinely burn garbage in the streets because nobody comes to pick it up.  Years ago when for six months I lived on an Island off the coast of Napoli, we spent the day with my ex’s cousin who was studying on the mainland.  As we prepared to take the ferry back to the island, he asked us if we would walk him back to his apartment.  Although Raffaele was a tough guy who was built like a tank…correction…built like a fuckin’ tank, even he had his reservations about his safety there.  In the ten years that has passed since then, it could have only gotten worse.

Even though we managed to avoid Napoli, the change in the atmosphere as you headed any point south of there was palpable.  Garbage littered the streets; graffiti coloured the overpasses.  Spray paint seems to be the only way that youth from these parts know how to express their love.  Love immortalized on a highway overpass… a far cry from the poetry mom seems to think every young man here writes for the object of his affection.  Some areas we passed though could best be summed up in a word: neglected.

The South is also where the aggressive street side vendors begin to appear.   There must have been a lockdown on these guys because I remember them being worse.  Socks, ties, tissues, counterfeit CDs and DVDs, key chains.  If it’s easy to carry, they sell it.

"Distrust abusive retailers..."
The sign says it all.

At our last rest stop on the busy highway the building’s wall was covered with graffiti.  “Cosenza merda” (Cosenza is shit); the regional rivalries are strong; emblazoned on the side of a highway rest stop for all to see.

COSENZA MERDA

The drive was wearing on me; the drone of the engine was pure monotony.  It was time to spice things up.  On an impossibly long and straight stretch of road (for here anyway), two Alfa Romeos passed me at a pretty good clip.  I gave chase.  The needle climbed, all 1600 CCs of Ford Motors engineering were summoned to duty.  As we passed 160 km/h mom became visibly nervous: “Carlo…control your son!”  I let off as we hit 165 km/h, and as I glanced to my right I could see a little bit of a smile on dad.  He probably would have liked to have seen 170.