One Italian Summer

by Rebecca Serle

We head to Pizzeria Oliva, a place Adam loves in the Sanità neighborhood—a very working-class area. They make all kinds of pizzas—lemon zest with ricotta, basil, and pepper, and a classic Neapolitan. We also order a fried concoction with smoked mozzarella that is divine. “This shouldn’t be legal,” I say to Adam after the first bite. “Good, right?” Adam grins at me as he watches me eat. “Certifiable.” From there we hit up another favorite of Adam’s—a small shop that is no more than a window stand about ten minutes walking from Oliva. Unlike the last place, this one is all traditional. We get a classic Margherita pizza, and then Adam motions for me to follow him down to the sidewalk. He takes a few paper napkins and lays them out, gesturing for me to sit. I do. In the street there is pleasant commotion. A few teenage boys talk in fast Italian, kicking a soccer ball back and forth. Two women in their forties linger in front of an apartment entryway, gesturing with their hands. Bikers pass by. It’s peaceful, a word that, a few short hours ago, I’d never think I’d use to describe Naples.