Greek was the language of Naples for seven centuries

From her terrace, we glimpsed eerie,sunken ruins sloshed by the sea and the two-humped outline of Capriacross the water. We felt the great age of our surroundings when Hazzard led us ona walk through the city centre. Spaccanapoli (its modern name isVia Benedetto Croce) is a long, straight street that cut throughancient Neapolis. Here a Greek agora and Roman basilicas lie underRenaissance churches; a tomb decorated by Donatello in sitsmodestly in San Michele Arcangelo; the 14th-century church of SantaChiara shows scars from its World War II bombing - it washalf-reconstructed when Hazzard first saw it - and yet themajolica-tiled cloisters are as bright as new; narrow lanes ofstalls sell traditional nativity figures and erotic souvenirs. We finished at another landmark: Caffe Scaturchio, once listedin an Australian guidebook as serving the best coffee in the world.When Hazzard told the owner he objected: "Too much. Best coffee inNaples." We travelled south another day to Pompeii and Herculaneum,which was the more impressive thanks to being smaller, betterpreserved and less overrun with tourists. Unwittingly we joined oneof the first crowds to enter the restored lupanaro, Pompeii'stown's brothel decorated with fresco-porn. Back in Naples, once we'd worked out opening times, we found thevibrant mosaics taken from those towns in the Museo ArcheologicoNazionale. In a hilltop park behind the city, the Museo diCapodimonte housed an exhausting collection of works by Titian,Botticelli, Raphael and Caravaggio. We revived in the streets nearour hotel, popping into shops selling exquisite cakes or handbags.Apart from the seeming lack of traffic rules, we never feltthreatened. (We left our camera in the hotel safe and hence have nophotographs of Naples.) Dinner with Hazzard was at her local restaurant, Rosetta Stone V3 Rosiello, on avine-covered terrace overlooking the sea. No tourists; just a fewlocals, house wine, shellfish and a piece of succulent, costly seabass. She spoke of the ancient, knowing look on the Neapolitan faces;of friends whose lives were defined by wartime trauma and stoicism;of how Italy had saved her from the misery of her UN job. Hermemories and knowledge wound through our journey like grapevines,linking this day with all the days before it. From the Mergellina wharf we caught an aliscafo, or hydrofoil,to Capri. The 35-minute trip ended at the busy port with news thata 24-hour train strike had stopped the funicular that wouldnormally carry us up the island's steep cliffs to the main town ofCapri. After sitting out the hubbub over sandwiches and Garibaldis(Campari and orange juice) at a dockside cafe, we rode up thebougainvillea-draped, white-walled slopes in an open taxi. With a story for every occasion, Hazzard told us of a time sheand Steegmuller had walked behind a father and his small son, whocommented on the lovely bougainvillea flowers. The man explainedthat the red petals were actually leaves and their tiny yellowcentre the flower. "Father," said the boy in Italian, "it is enoughthat they are beautiful." As well as showing simple wisdom, he madeperfect use of the difficult Italian subjunctive. The taxi dropped us near the central Piazza Umberto I, beyondwhich the narrow streets are for pedestrians only. Thecrisscrossing crowd of daytrippers here was oppressive. If Hazzardwas old Capri, new Capri was embodied in our sighting among thefashion boutiques of the Australian rugby league player AnthonyMinichiello and his shoe-designer girlfriend, Terry Biviano, in ahead-turning microdress.

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