On the day of Christmas Eve, I went to the piazza of Vico Equense, searching for a way to get to Pomigliano d’Arco for the celebration of the song “Gloria” by Umberto Tozzi covered by Laura Branigan.
“Let it go…”
The Oldest Storyteller said.
Music was in the streets.
The terraces were packed around the piazza.
Mountain bikers were descending…
Men in Santa suits were on motor bikes as “Oh happy day” was playing.
It was time to get presents.
“Get the panettone with semifreddo and cioccolato…”
The Oldest Storyteller said looking dashing in black cashmere.
“And a cassata, the big one.”
The piazza was a scene. A man and woman in angel wings on stilts were in front of the farmacia, greeting the children. A band in Santa costumes were coming up the street—”when the Saints come marching in” with saxophones. A women in Christmas whites was throwing bubbles, foam like snow, as children were crying…playing…enjoying themselves. The police were there.
Music was playing from Joan cafe and bar—packed—and from Visit Bar—packed. That’s where I was going in my sport coat. The cafe of Bruce Springsteen’s ancestors? Packed. Joy Cafe? Packed. That other cafe? Packed.
It was a medley of music on top of a live band—cool sunglasses were everywhere.
“But you don’t live there anymore….”
The Oldest Storyteller pointed. “Step off the train…”
Wasn’t that true?
Death had seen it before—he was the Oldest Storyteller.
“No one to hear my prayer…give me a Man after midnight…” at noon.
Abba,
Purple tint on cool sunglasses.
“Baby don’t hurt me no more.”
We were moving through songs inter-mixing.
An intersport bag in the hands of a child—that is—the sport between us.
“We sport. And you?”
It was written on the bag.
I got an aqua con limone to “Blue da ba dee.” The feast on the Eve before Christmas Eve had knocked me down…had gotten me up at 4 AM. I had spoken to my Big Sister of America in Los Angeles at about 5 AM—”Christmas is Naples is a sport,” she had texted. The sport must go on. “I’m making a coffee.”
“Drink a few teas,” Franco had said with kiss emojis.
“You will show up on the field this evening. Do not disappoint us.”
I just heard a firework explode along with church bells ringing.
Fried pasta was demolished at Visit Bar. The barman was in sunglasses with glittery, festive glasses on his shirt—ready. “How are you?” He did not hide his sorrow, though he was fine behind ray-bans. And it was just like that—just there. Nothing more to say, putting Campari in a short glass. “In a world of pure imagination….” from the DJ booth. The cops came in. Plates of prosciutto were spinning. Spritz were in plenty.
I got my semifreddo in the fridge.
Christmas sweaters, babies in Santa hats, cool sunglasses—obligatory.
I was alone watching bubbles in the air.
I had to put my face on. Hit the showers. Rise a new man.
Joan was packed.
My Russian mother texted just in time—
“Bon noel notre chere” with hearts, a peace sign, balloons, and dolphins to “Player 2019 Disco Rework” with a Russian Jingle Bells Youtube Video and the truth behind the war in Ukraine. “FYI.”
“Merry Christmas.”
I saw Hades and co. in puffy jackets—Hades, no puffy jacket. Persephone—no. Their 3 boys? Yes. With intersport bag. We were going to see Rosa and Emma at Joan. Did I understand correctly, or do I just not understand? I paid for the Spritz. Alberto said forget the espresso with a fireplace on the TV turning to photos the other owner was taking of the crowd outside—sunglasses, and? So what if it’s overcast. This is not the point. Versace, excuse me. Yeah, bye, an old man said at the other bar—chit-chat with his hands in a hoodie and brown-tined glasses. Gold, baby, gold on the sides entering Visit Bar—block lettering. “Christmas in Naples is a sport.” Another man with a hoodie over his head—thin, rectangular—get me a soda in a tiny bottle.
The DJ was dancing—dance music.
On the corner, Giusepp was in a Christmas sweater and backpack. Hades and co. said “see you later. “How are you getting there? To our destination. It was handled. Giusepp disappeared. A mountain biker was in next to the fountain in the center of the piazza of aquatic creatures spouting water—he was yelling at someone with his phone. Street performers and a band in Santa costumes were overpowering his voice. Are the girls coming? I left VISIT BAR to stand on the next corner. “We’re at the house we’re coming later…”
The Oldest Storyteller and I chilled at Visit Bar—”film that. Get the mountain biker. That guy in black and gold crucifix necklace. That guy in the skulls belt and tight pants—stay on top of it. Observation is not casual.”
“A fare amore…you start it…”
The people were loitering, jumping through foam, and another pair of cool sunglasses was getting up from his large table—he heard the song.
More Spritz were exiting, more mountain bikers…on their path to Christmas Eve.
Get me another Spritz.
The Oldest Storyteller saw nothing but potential here.
What a day.
“The sport is here.”
We did a little dance in Visit Bar.
I got the semifreddo.
Feeling alone this Christmas? Nothing new.
Holidays….so many feelings….
It’s time to juxtapose.
I texted Giampiero across the bay…..send me videos of GLORIA by Umberto Tozzi covered by Laura Branigan in the streets of Pomigliano d’Arco.
The Oldest Storyteller knew—you will not be able to go. “The trains.”
Let it go.
What a feeling—”it’s chill,” the Oldest Storyteller said.
“You’re in the future.”
“What a great idea….”
We were watching—observing, and it was not casual.
Girls in short skirts, boots, and fur—tights? Was it necessary?
Sunglasses were.
“We would work on that, “ the Oldest Storyteller said.
We saw Joy bar. We saw the bar of Bruce Springsteen’s ancestors. Visit Bar was the spot.
Police lights were flashing, mountain bikers were signaling.
So, I sorted some things out on today, my stomach settling.
Death knew all about the end of the year…an end. It was a party, and I was alone. But I wasn’t.
“Text,” he said. “Twitter.”
Bubble and foam in the air.
I got the semifreddo panettone in the fridge.
“Merry Christmas.”
I sat there for a moment, watching the festivities.
The Oldest Storyteller looked good.
Fireworks are being set off in the streets.
It’s 4 PM and I’ve been awake for 12 hours.
The Oldest Storyteller believed we had seen enough—catwalk around the bank.
Flames—fried tiny foods.
I got the semifreddo panettone.
Maybe I would take a break—next year. But for now—we sport.
Towards my military castello—pink—we did a little step, step in the streets.
We got the champagne.
“Ave Maria” by Bublé was playing on the screen.
I got the pizza with arugula.
Did I hear funk?
Into my pink military castello, the grand doors opening, The Oldest Storyteller was sitting ahead of me….He knew which key unlocked my door…to my guardian tower.
I saw Vesuvius…a little hazy….another party.
“Also French,” he said. “Naples, also French.”
“Player 2019” on the stereo.
I was alone and I toasted to myself…to all my dreams. I danced on the terrace overlooking the sea…toward the great volcano. “I am alone and I am free…” Family exploded. I celebrated all of it.
The outsider inside, I celebrated my place, and what I was letting go of…what I was embracing…the present moment….the future. “Goodbye, Sandra Dee.”
Family.
So many things I could not solve.
“Take off the sunglasses,” The Oldest Storyteller said. “You do not need them.”
“Be proud of who you are.”
So, I celebrated…getting ready for a festival of fish.
We saw it: fiats adorned with Christmas lights…”Gloria” in the streets…a baby Jesus was hitting every manger this evening in every hand-carved nativity scene across Campania.
The sport—will go on.
A man has a vision—and he makes it real.
Me? I have conclusive evidence that Christmas in Naples is a sport.
And a sportsman knows—cool. Keep it cool….
Soar? Or Sore? Which one will you choose?
“We all have to start somewhere.”
Diego Maradona.
We will chant his name this evening.
We will watch whatever sport is on the TV on the Feast of Santo Stefano—two days from now….the Day of Leftovers…will I make it? Through prosciutto stuffed into meat with two types of lasagna before this? What’s your issue? Rice with meat and cheese—on the plate, next. Roasted meats are coming. Aspirin? In a casino? Who in the casino is asking for aspirin? It begins this night. What about a new meal on top of leftovers? Last year? Basketball. We were champions. We have the trophy. Feliz navidad. You—we see it on the court—you did it. We see a Man congratulate a Man. This is a team effort. Commercial break? Is it time for The Godfather Part II?
What’s on your big screen TV?
I must descend in five minutes to go to the festival of fish….
Semifreddo in the fridge…