Page 10 of Marcello

But others seemed like a jumble of Italian and something else.

I knew Naples had its own dialect, distinct from the rest of Italy, but some of the stuff on the posters was nearly indecipherable. I got the gist, but that was about it.

Not only had I come to a new city…

But it felt like a new country with a language I didn’t understand.

Great.

Just great.

I was starving, so along the way, I stopped in a shop and got a couple of slices of Margherita pizza – just crushed tomatoes, buffalo mozzarella, and basil.

And DAMN it was good.

Neapolitan pizza had lighter and aerier crust than what I was used to in Florence, and the cheese and tomatoes were incredibly fresh.

For the first time ever, I thought, If I can eat like this every day, maybe Naples won’t be so bad.

I finally reached the hotel. It was down a grimy alleyway in one of the worst parts of historic Naples.

As advertised, it was only 50 euros a night.

You get what you pay for.

The ‘lobby’ was ten by twelve feet with scuffed, dirty linoleum on the floor.

The walls were dingy white with a picture of – what else – Maradona in his light blue Napoli jersey.

The check-in counter was basically just a closet with a desk in the doorway.

The unshaven old man behind the counter was watching a football game on his cell phone. I could hear the announcer and the roar of the crowd.

“I’d like a room, please,” I said.

“How long?” he asked without looking up.

“I don’t know. I just moved here and I’ve got to find a job.”

He absolutely did not care. “Credit card.”

“I don’t have one.”

It was true; they’re not that common for college students in Italy.

“Hundred euro deposit along with 50 for the night. You’ll get the hundred back when you check out – if you don’t mess up the room.”

If the room was in the same shape as the rest of the place, I wondered what the hell you had to do to mess it up.

I turned away from him to count off 150 euros from the wad Fausto had given me. I didn’t want anybody in a sketchy place like this knowing I had several grand.

After the old guy took the money, he checked my student ID from Florence, wrote my name in a coffee-stained notebook, and gave me a big brass skeleton key.

“401,” he said, then went back to watching football on his cell phone.

“Where’s the elevator?” I asked.

“No elevator,” he said without looking up. “Just the stairs.”