Section Eight

On no account should you allow your mental picture of Naples to be overly influenced by initial impressions of the Piazza Garibaldi. This festering gargantuan terminal, where traffic clogs up every artery and rats die in the street unobserved and hawkers and charlatans of every hue soil the already-soiled streets, whilst almost inevitably the arrival point for every visitor, is simply the outlandish mouth of the Sibylline grotto. Don't let it distort your anticipation of the delights that lie within. Don't let it get you down too much. -Oh, Brother, that is so easy to say! She clutched the folder to her chest. It was all wearing her down; the heat and the noise, the dirt and the dereliction, and the complete and utter mundaneness yet sheer foreignness of the place, like finding Rochdale on the banks of the Ganges. It was wilting her optimism. It needed watering. She drooped a few steps then collapsed onto a chair at a pavement cafe. A young waiter melted into place. "Prego, signorina, desidera?"
"Una spremuta - di pompelmo."
"Una spremuta di pompelmo va bene."
"E dov'è la stazione?"
A wide sweep of the arm in the right direction. A sweet smile. "Là. Là."
"Grazie."
"Prego."
She sighed her relief audibly, and settled back to enjoy the sideshow.
"Zigaretti! Zigaretti!" An urchin of no more than eight years old sidled up to her, proffering contraband cigarettes.
-You've got no chance, kid - I'm immune: three months in Calcutta teach you better than that.
She waved him away airily, just as the waiter arrived, bearing her drink on a metal tray. His hitherto come-hither eyes narrowed with anger as he placed the assemblage - juice, sugar, water - on the table and left the bill. The urchin slunk off.
She flicked through the guidebook and read some more.

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