Friday Poem #138: The Traffic of Naples
Ciao! Welcome to this week’s Friday Poem. I hope you are all well. As you know, I’ve been away – to the fabulous city of Naples. It was my first time in Italy, and it was an amazing experience – the people, the history, the food – it was all incredible. I definitely want to return to Naples one day, and see more of Italy.
One aspect of my holiday that was a real eye-opener was the traffic. We had to get a taxi from the airport to our accommodation which was quite a scary experience! We raced along the streets in seeming competition with all other vehicles, There were no seat belts in the back of the taxi, and the seats were covered in plastic – presumably to make clearing up the tears, vomit, or blood (or all three) easier.
And even after our one and only taxi ride on our holiday, we still found trying to negotiate our way across roads in Naples a dangerous affair. The volume of vehicles (even though it was quiet when we visited), their speed and apparent hatred of each other meant that they careered through the streets with scant regard for pedestrians. Even though there were designated crossings, these appeared inconsequential to drivers, who sped right through them.
So this is what this week’s Friday poem is about. It’s a fond (!?) remembrance of the exhilaration we felt in and around the traffic of Naples.
I hope you like it.
The Traffic of Naples
Naples, Naples…..Napoli!
Your traffic scared the crap from me.
The driving simply was insane
As vehicles swerved from lane to lane.
The taxi, which from the airport took us
Veered, careered and really shook us
No rear seat-belts made us feel faint
As we – like our driver – had no restraint
We were being thrown from pillar to post
By our Neopolitan taxi host.
We did recover, which was good –
Though felt no safer when on foot.
The traffic – which came from everywhere
Would not be stopped so we did not dare
To suppose the rules that apply at home
Would apply here – so when in Rome
We learnt that even when on a zebra crossing
There’s no guarantee of vehicles stopping
And though the traffic lights are red
Some vehicles ploughed on through instead.
Indicators were not in use;
The horn the chosen weapon of abuse
Sounded so much to be akin to talking
Or shouting out too little a warning.
A hooter to say I’m overtaking,
A horn to shout ‘why are you braking?!’
Beeping replaced a thousand words
I imagine the worst language that could be heard
We had to keep our wits about us
Lest we fall foul of car or bus
Or Vespa which swarmed like killer bees
With shopping or child or dog between knees
And helmets are only warn by some
Those that are, are worn undone
So ineffectual if they crash head on
But maybe that’s the price of fashion
Drivers drive one handed it seems
Too busy gesticulating or looking at screens
Moped users are frequent texters
There must be great signal on a Vespa
No safety gear for riding motor bikes
T-shirt, shorts, flip-flops, Nike’s
One scooter owner’s cap blew off his head;
He sent his passenger back for it instead
Like a bird she darted nimble-toed
As traffic raced past her in the road
But the bravest souls that I did see
Were cyclists who between the traffic weaved
For all the treasures of Pompeii
I would not do that any day.
Although the traffic does a mesmerising dance
I prefer to watch from a safer distance.
W Is For Duck 