In Naples

 That first view of Naples thrills me. I've been so excited about Naples, I occasionally have to jump up and down by myself to get the excitement out.  I am almost as excited about Naples as I am about discovering Marseilles.  Soon, I think to myself. Soon. But I am worried about Marseilles:  what if I love it so much I don't want to leave? What if it tries to keep me the way New Orleans did, with her dead and her magic and her playing on my heartstrings and conditioning of trying to over-correct for other people?  If there is just so much so close to the surface?  What if, what if, what if.  

But it's more than that, Marseilles, I know is my gateway to Algeria, to Oran, and beyond. Why Oran?  I can't say, but it is a desire I have harboured since I first read THE PLAGUE at the Post library in Illesheim, struggling because I didn't understand what was going on, later struggling because we had gone to Dachau for my 8th birthday (not, I must say, my idea) and there were documentary films of Mengele's experiments being shown. A few years later, we took a ferry across from Gibraltar to North Africa and I could feel the hum. Then of course, there were the hours I gave over to Christopher Todd's biography of Camus my senior year of high school, when I was meant to be soldiering. I can remember the protective covering over the book jacket, the sound of the HVAC in the library, the feel of the carpet under my bare legs when I would wear a skirt, hiding behind my shelving trolley. 

But this is about Naples. That first day, we're only between the train station and the port.  I have luggage, having packed two suitcase, one inside the other and found such largess in Rome.  A taxi driver makes a beeline for us, walks up, taking my larger suitcase. 'Where to, Bella?' A is behind me, slightly panicked. I move quickly, holding my hand behind me. A is petite, shorter than my 98th percentile daughter. We hop in the cab and he takes off. 'To the station!' Traffic is a veritable mess. 'Where are you from, lovely ladies?'

'London,' I say. It isn't a lie. My name is on the council tax. One day, I'll get back. There are hedges to trim and fruit trees to plant, after all. 

We eat lunch at the crummy but thrilling cafe. The waiter reminds me of a disheveled Steve Buscemi, winsomely charming, louche.  We eat and move on to board the ferry and I wonder quietly to myself if 18 hours will be enough when we get back. 

And of course, it isn't. Of course, I'll want to go back. It's full of life, gritty and delicious in a way that Rome was lacking. It's like the difference between K Street and U Street, I say to A. We giggle. Life is so peculiar and we are so lucky to have so much to connect us. Our friendship grew out of work intersect but it blossomed from a love of typography and a low tolerance for BS. Not for manners, those we love. But definitely for BS. 

Back in Colchester, the week moves slowly then picks up speed. By Friday, I am with my somatic therapist, a quaking wreck, my hormones a riot. It doesn't matter what I do, I am still ripe with chaotic promise. There is no baby.  My youngest is six. My breasts are my own, aside from this insanity. And the sleepwalking. And sleep paralysis...it's a mess of confusion. Throw in strained communication and inconsistent boundaries with the co-parent, well...what can a girl do?

There isn't any place like Naples, so yes. More time would be good. In the interim, thank heavens for Ron Carter, you know?