It was 2.30 in the morning and we were absolutely hurtling down the highway from the airport to our hotel in Naples when a motorbike roared up alongside our minibus. There were two people on the motorbike: the one in front–the driver, in most circumstances–had passed out with his head resting on the handlebars, and the one behind him was using his unconscious shoulders to steer the bike. There was clearly beef between that literal backseat driver and our own, because they instantly launched into a highly animated conversation, which, somewhat alarmingly for the rest of us, involved a lot of taking hands off the wheel. We were all belting along at about a million miles an hour. It was completely mad. Naples is completely mad.
here’s a temptation to overlook Naples in the rush to get to the Amalfi Coast–many travellers just fly in and out of the city en route to prettier places–but I think that’s a pity. There’s something about port cities that makes them more interesting than others: they’re gritty and grimy, with an underbelly as wide and corrupt as their porous coastlines, and Naples is right
