Napoli is incredible. A “shit hole” but a place full of vibrancy and life. As our trucks took the winding, roofed roads into the city after a slow 5 day drive, I knew instantly that this place was special.

Yes, the streets are covered in litter (possibly remnants of Napoli having won Seria A two weeks before), and yes, the place stinks of piss and shit, but that’s because we were down in the ghetto, surrounded by fast-talking people and those pesky scooters I wrote about last week.

But everywhere and everything had life, even the walls and buildings adorned with graffiti. Lampposts and electrical boxes also wore the stamps of local artists. I loved it, even if the majority of those with us didn’t.

On our first night in town, a few of us went to a restaurant, eager to try real Italian food and we weren’t disappointed. The food was so good, the waiter bought the chef out for us to thank and congratulate him. Good thing the food wasn’t shit, otherwise they might”ve bought him out for us to lynch him!

The waiter was also very offended when we said he was Italian.

“I am not Italian,” he said, “I am Napolitano!”

Thus the locals have a very real and strong sense of identity. Especially where we were. Everybody had an attitude, and depending how you were with then, they’d treat you like a long lost brother, or they would shout at you while gesturing wildly with their hands.

As I told my French girl, I always gravitate towards those who have life, who have character, and the people of Napoli have it in abundance.

Because of driving laws and regulations, my French girl couldn’t reach the parking we were at, so she booked a Novotel room on the outskirts of the city. The hotel booked me an 80€ taxi to go see her.

As soon as I got in the cab the driver began yammering away in Italian.

“Scusa, senor,” I said, “non parlo italiano.”

“Ah,” he laughed, “me no speak english!”

So, for rhe next 40 minutes he continued to tall to me in Italian and I smiled and nodded and understood nothing. He gathered I was something to do with events at the stadium he picked me up from, so I told him I was touring with Coldplay.

This increased the one-way flow of excited Italian.

We arrived at the hotel, I paid him and tipped him 5€, but before I shut the door he started gesturing wildly, as all italians do. He mimicked playing the guitar, then a piano.

He thought I was in the band.

“I’m the drummer,” I said, beating out a rhythm in the air before closing the door.