Transgender diary: very “out” and about in Naples, Italy

Naples is the city which reminds me more of the Italy I have always known than any other.  It reminds me of a childhood in Italy, of my college years.  It is a city that feels poor, but also has tremendous wealth.  It is one of the few Italian cities which still has dog shit on the sidewalks, just as Rome did when I was young.

Don’t think I didn’t love it.  I did.  There were so few chains, you know the big international fast food or clothing brands that have stuck their poison fingers into the heart of every town and city across the world, sucking out their diverse life blood.  So much independent commerce.  And so much commerce on the streets.

Naples is a city of the black market, where the economics of cash and the undeclared must vastly outsize the official economy.  And the streets are jammed.  Even on a mid-week late morning day, thronged with people doing their thing.  A happy jumble of chaos and life.

I loved it.

This is also the first city I was wondering about what it would be like to be a trans woman in.  Would I be safe?  I asked my Italian friends.  They suggested I be careful and noted the large Muslim population.  I am not making a judgement myself, am only repeating what was said to me.  They noted that these were not Muslims from the Mediterranean but from places like Afghanistan.  The point being was that they were religious conservatives and that they might not take to trans people.

As it happened, I didn’t see too many of them.  The natural complexion of the Naples resident is a rainbow, reflecting the centuries of connection to North Africa.

My companion arrived several hours after me, so I took the time to foray out of the hotel and to get my sense of place.  And I wanted to see how I felt.  Whether it was okay to go out as me, or whether I would need to tamp myself down.  I wore a tight fitting knit dress, beige, with beige cashmere tights, beige calfskin high-heeled boots, and a gorgeous white cape that comes to my ankles, but which I threw over my shoulders.  Oh, and movie star sunglasses.

I won’t hide it.  Everyone stared at me.  And I mean really, really stared.  Much more than I have experienced in other parts of Italy up to this point.  I had one person, a man peddling good luck charms, tell me that I was elegant and statuesque.  “Thank you,” I said before politely declining what he wanted to sell me.

I have to admit that I felt tired in a way that I have never felt before after being out in public.  Nothing bad happened, but I felt my energy drained.  When my companion arrived we went out to lunch and I felt I had a fig leaf of a gorgeous woman to protect me.  We had a lovely meal, and I felt better.

That night we both got dolled up, went out for cocktails, and then ended up at the most divine speakeasy I have ever been to.  One of these days I will get around to publishing a mini-guide to Naples, as I will most certainly go back.  We had a fabulous time.

The next day we threw ourselves into the throng.  I wore high waisted, wide leg black trousers, very high wedge heel boots, a crispy white shirt, but I was wearing a corset, cinching my waist in tight, so I had changed my shape and my gait.  I wore a long black overcoat and a fur shawl.  Oh, and movie star sunglasses.  Black ones this time.

The first thing that I began to realise is that Naples is the first place where I was almost always gendered female.  This was not the same as it is in New York City, my favourite trans place on earth, where people gender you correctly or ask your pronouns because they are polite and sensitive.  No.  Here it was a function of the macho culture.  “She” is presenting as female, so we will process her as such.  I still don’t wear makeup, but I was definitely somewhere in the liminal space, and I was very grateful for being so consistently referred to as a her.

But the stares continued.  It was almost always women.  Older women.  And they not only made no effort to hide it, but would take me in from head to toe, but also snarl.  My companion said something sweet over hot chocolate.  “You’re prettier than 95% of the women here, you look more like a woman than over half.  They are just jealous.”  It was sweet of her to say that.

As I headed out in the morning the housekeeper stopped me and said, “I wanted to say Merry Christmas to you, as I will not be cleaning your room tomorrow, so will not see you again.”

“Oh,” I said, “that is so kind.  Thank you.  Merry Christmas to you.”

“You are an extraordinary woman,” she said and gave me a huge smile.  I put my hand on my heart and curtsied to her and smiled wistfully at her.  

My companion and I just lost ourselves in the streets of Naples and saw so many beautiful cultural things, insides of churches, crypts, art galleries, museums, and this lively, never-ending cacophony of life that is the chaos of Naples.

That night, we went to the Opera.  The Teatro San Carlo is the oldest opera house in the world.  To say that sitting there is anything short of incredible would be an untruth.  It was spectacular.  To be surrounded by the who’s who of Neapolitan society, of every generation, and to see such an extraordinary performance was a real privilege.

As we walked in I handed the tickets to the usher, both of us standing in very revealing outfits, he said, “I love your tattoo.”  Before I could say a word he added, “I have the same, and showed me his hand.  Similar.

“How far does yours go?” I asked.

“To here,” he said indicating a spot just above his elbow.

“Mine goes from here,” I said indicating the tip of my little finger, “all the way to here,” I said pushing my right foot out until it touched his shoe.  And he looked down my dress which had fallen open as it is slit to the waist on the side, and you could see the top of my garter, and he looked, and his eyes ran down my leg like syrup.  “Wow,” he said, “bella.”  And then he showed us to the bar.

The bar was a joy, with a pianist playing, table seating and table service, and no crowd.  We enjoyed a drink, or two, and then headed up to the performance.  Both my companion and I are tall and were both wearing (not planned) identical heels.  She was dressed like a dominatrix, with a very sexy leather top and short leather skirt, all embellished with spikes and chains.  My dress only had straps to cover my breasts and went from shoulders to ankles but cut in such ways that my entire tattooed body was on display.

There is no way that we were not noticed.  My companion noted, “I’ve never had so many people look at me in my life.  Only they are all looking at you.”

I felt bad.  It had been going on all day.  In the bar, a waitress had come and complimented me on my tattoo and said she would love to have work like that done, but that the artists in Naples were just not capable of that kind of work.  She then pointed to my companion how has the most beautiful tattoos, and said, “this is all you can get around here.”

“But those are beautiful,” I protested.  She walked away.  I felt for my companion.

Thanks to one of the readers of this blog, yes, thank you my dear, I had a comment which said that a woman should always be told how beautiful she is, that it is welcome.  And I had been with my companion all day and had this feeling of being noticed more than her, and at the same time thinking not only how physically attractive she was, but also how beautiful she was showing herself to be as a person.  So with your words in my head my dear friend, I said, “I can’t tell you how deeply I am struck by your beauty.”

“Thank you,” she said, lighting up with a smile.

“I don’t just mean what you look like.  You are a beautiful person, and it radiates from you.  I am so glad to be here with you, and to be able to get to know you.”

“Aww, that’s so sweet.  Thank you.”

At intermission, there was a striking woman walking down the front by the orchestra pit, taking pictures.  She was wearing an extraordinarily high waisted skirt that was cut up high in the front, but was stiff, and to her ankles in the back.  She wore combat boots.  Her midriff was bare, and she was incredibly fit, with not a wrinkle in site, but must have been close to 50.  As she walked by us, she winked at me and smiled.  We stood up, and the extended family behind us, filled with 6 of the older generation scowled at both of us, while the granddaughter, who looked about 25, was helping her grandfather stand up, looked from the scowls to us, and then lit up with the most enormous smile before wiping it off and going back to attending her duties.

After the evening’s performance, we tottered on our heels to a nearby café for a nightcap and as we walked in perhaps ten waiters just stared at me, open mouthed, slack-jawed.  I almost had to snap my fingers to bring them out of what seemed like a trance.  When she and I were led to our table and both removed our coats, and they could see her magnificence and my body, clad but almost naked, every head in that place looked at us.

And then we drank, had a snack, and by the time we left, we had become the adopted mascots of the café.  The next day, when we went back, things were more normal.

Indeed, the whole third day was mostly being stared at, my companion being ignored, everyone asking me if I was a movie star, or a fashion designer, people were betting on where we were from, and by this time, we never answered, only enigmatically.

What else?  You know how people laugh at you but you aren’t quite sure?  Or that people mutter or say something and you feel the tone but you didn’t catch the words, and anyway you’re not sure if they were talking to you or about you?  I am not naturally insecure, but my radar kept picking up that I was being slurred.  And I was so glad to be wearing so many amulets of protection.  And we did meet some extraordinary people, friendly people, magical people.

What am I saying?  Naples was beautiful.  I loved being there.  It was a real Italy that I haven’t felt since I was in college.  Or since I was a child.  

But it was also exhausting.  So exhausting that it made me think I couldn’t live there, that maybe I might not be able to live in Italy.  I love it here so much, but I don’t want the relentless barrage.  My companion and I talked about how awful it would be to be famous.  How draining.  She was tired by proxy.  I think it must have also been an assault on her confidence, and I was very sorry for that.  We both want to go back, and hopefully we do.  Together.

But being there made me realise that I need to think more about where I can and cannot go.  I had a phone call from a dear friend who was in a country that I might be executed just for being trans.  And I was thinking that I can no longer go to most of Africa, most of the Middle East, and even much of Asia.  I would not be safe.  I won’t be safe even after my papers have changed.  No matter how striking I might be, no matter the unique and special beauty of the ballerina giraffe, there are people who would kill me just for being me.  And while I never ever felt unsafe in Naples, the constant stares and the laughs, the occasional nasty comment, made me really feel this generally.  That perhaps half of the world is now a no-go zone for me and will be so for as long as I live.

Being reminded of that was what it felt like to be in Naples.  So as much as I loved it, it wiped me out and I was so glad to get home and to curl in my bed.  So glad and so in need of crawling into me that I was asleep and in diapers for the first time in so, so long.  And I slept a long and deep sleep, one that I needed very badly.

And when I woke up, I realised that I am going to end up living someplace chosen for no other reason than for it being a good place for trans people to live.  A place where I feel safe.  A place where I am not stared at.