Searching for our Roots in the Heart of Napoli š
Reflections from a city that is full of grit and grace; and is unapologetically ALIVE!
They say that in Naples, you cry twice: once when you arrive and once when you leave. ā Benvenuti al Sud
Wow, from the moment you arrive, Naples hits you with a full-on assault of the senses! It sweeps you up and overwhelms you; loud, fiery, gritty, and gloriously, unapologetically ALIVE. š And then, between the chaos and the beauty, this crazy, beautiful city seeps into your soul.
Joey and I just returned from 10 unforgettable days in the city. Weād both been before, years ago, but only briefly so this felt like our first real chance to know the city. My immediate impression? Naples doesnāt just live, it radiates. Life isnāt tucked away behind closed doors; it spills into the streets, bold and unfiltered, with a messy, vibrant pulse thatās absolutely impossible not to fall in love with.
(Note the small child on the front of the scooter. š³)
We were on a mission to uncover some family history, specifically about our paternal grandmother, Maria Egotalmo Becci, who grew up in the Quartieri Spagnoli (the Spanish Quarter). So we booked an AirBnb on the edge of the neighborhood, not quite knowing what that meant or what we were in store for. We could not have planned it any better - we were blissfully removed from the more touristy streets and plunked right into the heart of real, everyday Napoli: a world entirely its own. The streets around our apartment were filled with vegetable stands, meat markets (including Macelleria Tony with 40,000 Instagram followers), an always-crowded online betting shop, small markets and locals; lots of fascinating locals. It was absolutely perfect.
What we didnāt realize was that our apartment was mere steps away from the church where our grandmother was baptized. Many years earlier, while digging into our family tree, Joey had received a letter from the Archdiocese di Napoli providing us with our grandmotherās birth and baptism details. When we finally googled the church, S. Anna di Palazzo, we were stunned to see it right there in the piazza, a literal 1-minute walk from our front door. It was as if our grandmother had orchestrated the whole thing from above, muttering, āItās about time you two made it hereā¦ā š
Whenever we stopped at the church, it was closed. After calling the number posted on the gate for a few days in a row, I developed a great relationship with the custodian, but barely understood what he was telling me in his thick Neapolitan dialect. Finally, a very kind Padre answered, and yes, the church was indeed open that afternoon. We quickly headed over to the piazza and stepped inside at last, taking a few quiet minutes to look around and soak it all in.
We found the parish offices and after inquiring, were ushered immediately into Padre Antonioās office. One woman quietly followed. We showed him our letter and the woman nodded. Within a few minutes, she returned, carrying an old, heavy ledger that looked like it had a century or two of secrets. Without fuss, she quickly flipped to the page - and there it wasā¦.our grandmotherās baptism record. š
It confirmed that her beautiful full name was Maria Sofia Amalia Francesca Egotalmo. ā¤ļø (I have always loved the name Sofia, and now I love it even more.) We knew very little about our grandmotherās back story. We did know that she was born in 1895. Family stories claimed she was of Spanish or perhaps French descent, though, to be fair, our genetic testing hasnāt backed that up. Still, the fact that she grew up in the Spanish Quarter felt like a clue. Manifests from Ellis Island show that she sailed to America by herself in January 1921 from the port of Napoli at the age of 22 and was to join her sister, Concetta, living in Brooklyn.
She met and married our grandfather literally within a day of meeting each other in the US. Our grandfather, Giuseppe, had come to the US in the early 1900s with his first wife. Their first born was a son they named Nelson. Tragedy struck when both our grandfatherās wife and her brother died during the flu epidemic of 1918. (She died 3 days after her brother in October of 1918.)
According to family stories, our grandfather, in need of a mother for his firstborn child learned of a single woman from Napoli (and very much in need of a husband) living in New York. A meeting was arranged, and they agreed that if there was a connection, they would marry the very next day. Our grandmother supposedly asked our grandfather if he lived by the water - we can only assume that, as a child, she played along the shoreline of the Bay of Napoli. He assured her that he did.
But when she arrived in Phillipsburg, New Jersey, she discovered āthe waterā was nowhere in sight, nor was the sweeping blue bay of her childhood dreams, but rather the modest, narrow Delaware River, a 10-minute drive from his home.
And although she traded the bay of Napoli for the banks of the Delaware, she stayed - and together, they built a life, raising Nelson and adding three more children: Maria, Joseph (our father), and Anna.
The Spanish Quarter is a complete hoot! Scooters whiz by at impossible speeds, their riders weaving through the chaos. Everywhere you turn you hear singing-the butcher, the woman sweeping her stoop, the vegetable stand guy. And there is a lot of yelling - not angry voices-but loud passionate voices. And lots and lots of hand gestures. Everyone seems genuinely happy to be here, as though they are all in on an awesome secret that we were only beginning to understand. The woman below on the right summed up Naples for me: gloriously unapologetic and unwilling to let a few hair foils and a plastic cape get between her and her cigarette! š
We happened to catch a visit to the neighborhood by the local produce seller who rolled down the street with his truck filled to the brim. ā¦happy fellaā¦
ā¦and when he showed up, baskets started flying over balconies for their haul of produceā¦.
ā¦.and we were lucky to catch this adorable woman hauling up her basket to her third floor ā¦..ššš
As dusk melted into night, our neighborhood began to settle. Windows glowed from within, each one offering a little vignette of life in the city. There was a balcony across the way that night after night watched TV outside projected onto a massive screen. Below me, a woman sat alone every night at her kitchen window sill, quietly eating the meal she had just prepared. There was the old man, who always dragged his chair out to the balcony at dusk and sat for hours, watching the street below as if seeing it for the first time.
And much later, after dinner, the sound of scooters announced the arrival of the neighborhood kids. Theyād zip into the piazza below our windows and gather there, playing some sort of game at a table in the piazza. Most nights they hooted and hollered well into the early morning hours, forcing Joey and I to scramble to close windows when they got too loud - their voices echoing through the streets until just before the sun lit up the slopes of Vesuvius-when, almost magically, the city fell quiet again and the flight of the swallows lit up the morning sky.
Our little apartment turned out to be the perfect perch to watch Neapolitan life unfold before us.
We arrived in Napoli not quite knowing what to expect and left in awe of this amazing city - a city that refuses to whisper. It shouts, it sings, it laughs, and if youāre lucky, it lets you in on its secret:
ā¦ā¦that life is meant to be felt fully, right down to your bones. ššš
p.s. ā¦..and let the recipes begin! Stay tuned ā¦ā¦
Well Michele, you certainly take us with you as you paint the story with your words, photographs and videos. I was in Naples briefly many years ago and it is a cacophony and a feast for all the senses. Your descriptions were just transportive! Well done!
Sherry
Thank you for this family history which you have told so beautifully.