IN ROME on that first morning together, the three of us were still friends—from another time and place—together again. We’d met a long time ago in Zanzibar, when we were different people, but we’d stayed in touch and missed each other enough to find a way to meet again in Italy, in the middle of a July heatwave.
Italian officials had warned against going outside during the day, urging people to stay indoors during the worst of the heat. But what choice did we have but to saunter over to the corner cafe for macchiatos and pastries, feeling sorry for the panting dogs on leashes tied up to street signs, waiting desperately for their sun-stroked owners to return.
It was there at a patio table in the shade where we planned our trip to Naples, the beloved city where A had grown up. I was coming from Chicago, where I’d been taking care of my dad, and P had come from Copenhagen, where she was unraveling plans for a Ph.D. and reconsidering next steps. We’d decided to stay in Rome just a few days and then head out by train to the city by the sea.
A wanted us to love Naples the way she did, and I wanted that too.
Our days there were fraught—the heat was one thing, the disconnect between the three of us another. Meanwhile, A's young daughter watched it all unfold, trying to make sense of three cranky ladies from three different countries struggling to agree on how to spend a day together in a city so strained by the circumstances.
The mornings were always hopeful—to explore this ancient city bursting with cultural history and culinary delights—but by midday, I could barely take a step without the world spinning. The place where we stayed had a few ceiling fans but that was about it, and so I found a bit of peace in the darkened room, where half-empty water bottles piled up on the bedside table.
We tried each day to regroup and organize around the heat, but our plans were often thwarted by one thing or another—a lack of will or possibility—and we all suffered from inertia. In my exhausted state, I began to dread facing another day of Naples—the shouting and honking seemed louder, the bustle more demanding, the city's energy harder for me to meet.
One afternoon, I set out for a walking adventure on my own. I got so lost, zig-zagging up and down cobblestone staircases and narrow paths, that I could barely find my way back. I remember stopping to marvel at the little altars everywhere. At one point, I surrendered and lay down on a ledge, crossing my legs and covering my face with a scarf, unwilling to believe I would ever find my way back. I stared up at the laundry flapping in the wind and felt grateful for the breeze that made it possible.
I envied the people tucked away in darkened living rooms with their televisions blaring and wished I was home, too.
Italian officials had warned against going outside during the day, urging people to stay indoors during the worst of the heat. But what choice did we have but to saunter over to the corner cafe for macchiatos and pastries, feeling sorry for the panting dogs on leashes tied up to street signs, waiting desperately for their sun-stroked owners to return.
It was there at a patio table in the shade where we planned our trip to Naples, the beloved city where A had grown up. I was coming from Chicago, where I’d been taking care of my dad, and P had come from Copenhagen, where she was unraveling plans for a Ph.D. and reconsidering next steps. We’d decided to stay in Rome just a few days and then head out by train to the city by the sea.
A wanted us to love Naples the way she did, and I wanted that too.
Our days there were fraught—the heat was one thing, the disconnect between the three of us another. Meanwhile, A's young daughter watched it all unfold, trying to make sense of three cranky ladies from three different countries struggling to agree on how to spend a day together in a city so strained by the circumstances.
The mornings were always hopeful—to explore this ancient city bursting with cultural history and culinary delights—but by midday, I could barely take a step without the world spinning. The place where we stayed had a few ceiling fans but that was about it, and so I found a bit of peace in the darkened room, where half-empty water bottles piled up on the bedside table.
We tried each day to regroup and organize around the heat, but our plans were often thwarted by one thing or another—a lack of will or possibility—and we all suffered from inertia. In my exhausted state, I began to dread facing another day of Naples—the shouting and honking seemed louder, the bustle more demanding, the city's energy harder for me to meet.
One afternoon, I set out for a walking adventure on my own. I got so lost, zig-zagging up and down cobblestone staircases and narrow paths, that I could barely find my way back. I remember stopping to marvel at the little altars everywhere. At one point, I surrendered and lay down on a ledge, crossing my legs and covering my face with a scarf, unwilling to believe I would ever find my way back. I stared up at the laundry flapping in the wind and felt grateful for the breeze that made it possible.
I envied the people tucked away in darkened living rooms with their televisions blaring and wished I was home, too.
We were experienced travelers, the three of us, with the disposition to be pleased, even in difficult dynamics that required flexibility and trust. But on this trip, for reasons we could not quite name, we never managed to sync up our desires, and so we tugged and pulled against each other to find our footing.
The city thronged with tourists as desperate as we were to cool down and find a bit of shade, and so the cavernous, cool churches filled with the quiet footsteps of anyone seeking refuge from the relentless stalking of the sun.
It was there in one of the churches, the Cathedral of Saint Gennaro, where I had the honor of meeting the holy patron saint of Naples. Once I knew his story and what he looked like, I saw him everywhere, on rings and pendants, posters and postcards, murals and memorials.
Gennaro lived in the fourth century as a Christian eventually beheaded for showing compassion toward those imprisoned for their beliefs. Legend has it that a devout woman saved some of his blood in a glass vial now kept in the Naples Cathedral, and each year, people gather to see if the dried blood liquefies, showering the city with blessings.
A told me how Neapolitans pray to him for protection from disasters—fires, earthquakes, plagues, volcanic eruptions—heatwaves. In every emergency Saint Gennaro comes through as a “powerful champion and universal helper.” And oh, how we needed his protection and intervention.
We passed by many windows displaying jewels with the saint’s face on it. Eventually, A popped into one shop and bought herself a beautiful Saint Gennaro ring.
A difficult trip can test even the best and strongest friendships. This one nearly broke us—the bickering, the backlash, the bitterness, the brittleness—it all became much too much for any of us to handle, each for our unique and various reasons too nuanced and detailed to enumerate here in this small recollection of events.
The trip radically rearranged our friendship, and this makes me sad, but I also understand how these things go, and went, and continue going.
When I close my eyes and think about Naples, I think of the holy presence of their saints to sense the way through and forward. I wish I could have spent a bit of time in that city without the oppressive heat to define our fate. Maybe one day the saints will call me back for a visit and a prayer.
The city thronged with tourists as desperate as we were to cool down and find a bit of shade, and so the cavernous, cool churches filled with the quiet footsteps of anyone seeking refuge from the relentless stalking of the sun.
It was there in one of the churches, the Cathedral of Saint Gennaro, where I had the honor of meeting the holy patron saint of Naples. Once I knew his story and what he looked like, I saw him everywhere, on rings and pendants, posters and postcards, murals and memorials.
Gennaro lived in the fourth century as a Christian eventually beheaded for showing compassion toward those imprisoned for their beliefs. Legend has it that a devout woman saved some of his blood in a glass vial now kept in the Naples Cathedral, and each year, people gather to see if the dried blood liquefies, showering the city with blessings.
A told me how Neapolitans pray to him for protection from disasters—fires, earthquakes, plagues, volcanic eruptions—heatwaves. In every emergency Saint Gennaro comes through as a “powerful champion and universal helper.” And oh, how we needed his protection and intervention.
We passed by many windows displaying jewels with the saint’s face on it. Eventually, A popped into one shop and bought herself a beautiful Saint Gennaro ring.
A difficult trip can test even the best and strongest friendships. This one nearly broke us—the bickering, the backlash, the bitterness, the brittleness—it all became much too much for any of us to handle, each for our unique and various reasons too nuanced and detailed to enumerate here in this small recollection of events.
The trip radically rearranged our friendship, and this makes me sad, but I also understand how these things go, and went, and continue going.
When I close my eyes and think about Naples, I think of the holy presence of their saints to sense the way through and forward. I wish I could have spent a bit of time in that city without the oppressive heat to define our fate. Maybe one day the saints will call me back for a visit and a prayer.
