Day 1: Arriving in Naples

The alarm was set for 3am - not quite late-night, and barely early-morning, but a timeless zone in between the two when reality seems out of joint. I blearily rolled out of bed, fussed around the hotel room, waterboarded myself into feeling awake, and stuffed my toothbrush in my backpack. Max and I padded down the silent corridors, made our way into the (surprisingly busy) reception, and the shuttle bus arrived on cue. Ten minutes and eight pounds later, we were spewed out into the Stansted arrivals hall, corralled into the check-in queue, and bombarded with demands for papers - COVID test, dPLF, boarding pass, passport - until, finally, we were through. 

The waiting area was quiet: it was filled with a fair number of yawning travelers, but with the Starbucks, McDonald's, and other food chains closed, it was devoid of the usual hiss of frothing coffees and frying chicken. With a WHSmiths meal deal to keep us company, we spent the next hour reading, staring blankly at the departures board - the dozens of flights leaving between 6:30-40 suggested that we weren't the only ones fleeing the UK - and contemplating what the next few hours of travel would look like. How strict would border control be? Would we be asked exact details, from our Airbnb location to our movements in the country? Would the reams of paperwork we had folded in our bags be found to have mistakes, inconsistencies, or incorrect information? 

Arriving at Stansted

Soon we realised that there was little to worry about. Once we reached our gate, there was no desire for the staff to scrutinise our papers, just so long as the question: "Have you filled out the passenger locator form?" was answered with a dutiful "yes". Having answered to their satisfaction, we made our way onto the plane, found our separate seats, and promptly fell asleep.

I awoke in time to take in the views beneath us. We were flying over a cloud-studded sky with a clear view of the ground below. We cruised past craggy mountain peaks, arid farmland, and eventually dense patches of forest. When Vesuvius came into view, the tannoy announced that we were about to descend. 

Views from the Plane

Once we had landed, we luckily found ourselves at the front of the queue for the passport checks. Confusingly, we were ushered through the EU check-in desk despite our British passports, and surprisingly, our COVID tests and locator forms were not requested once. Our backpacks were amongst the first on the luggage carousel, so in no time at all, we walked out of the doors and into the bustling Neopolitan carpark. 

To reach our accommodation, we had three options: we could take a bus into naples and then tram to the suburbs, we could hail a (very pricey) taxi, or we could brace the one-and-a-half hour walk down busy roads in 33-degree heat. We adopted both the gusto and the idiocy of true British backpackers and chose the latter option. 

Within the first five minutes of the walk, I realised that many British rules of the road are absent from Italy. Firstly, horn-honking is not viewed as an embarrassing last-resort, as it is in Bath. Instead, it is the favourite communication tool of Italian drivers, often paired with a healthy dose of swearing. Secondly, whereas leaving dog poo on an English pavement will result in the glares of passer-bys, in Italy it is left to fester in the heat. Thirdly, a one-way sign, whilst sacred in the UK, is seen by the Neopolitans as little more than roadside decor. As for the idea of giving way? There doesn't seem to be a direct translation.

Luckily, we were not fighting the torrential traffic of Naples' roads in our own car. Unluckily, we were a little too close for comfort to those who were. The pavement, in some places, was little more than a sliver, and we learnt that the best way to cross a roundabout is to run blindly. Feeling the whoosh of wingmirrors passing centimetres from our shoulders was not the most pleasant of feelings. However, it wasn't long until the busy roads faded into dozy streets, and after passing endless rows of charmingly disheveled buildings, we turned down a street towards our accommodation. All at once, the traffic noise evaporated, and the slope that we walked down presented a perfect view of Vesuvius. 

The apartment itself is beautiful. The kitchen is stocked with all sorts of goodies from pasta to cornetti (Italian croissants), the rooms are sheltered from the heat, and the garden is adorned with dining tables and trees drooping under the weight of ripe lemons, such as the ones our hosts kindly left for us inside the home.

Here ends our day of travel, and here begins a 5-day period of self-isolation. However, for all of the inconvenience of the isolation period, it gives us a chance to make the most of this gorgeous Airbnb and prepare for our Italian summer. 

The Outdoor Dining

The Kitchen

The Lemon Trees