The theater, where a two-year renovation has been completed, was the wonder of Europe when it opened about four decades before Milan's La Scala. The 2,500-seat, horseshoe-shaped auditorium rises in six tiers of boxes to a ceiling fresco where gods and poets occupy stalls on banks of pink-tinged clouds. At the height of the Baroque period, the 75-foot-deep stage accommodated 300 to 400 extras and the occasional horse, on which castrati stars liked to make their entrances.
On my first visit to Naples 10 years ago, I arrived 30 minutes late for a dance concert at the San Carlo, thinking I'd be turned away in the lobby. Instead, an usher dressed in drum majorette garb led me by the arm to the royal box, draped in red velvet and surmounted by a golden crown, where I sat in solitary splendor like the pop-up ballerina in a music box.
This time I heard music from the Romantic era, though I'd have preferred an opera by Rossini or Donizetti, both of whom served as artistic directors at the San Carlo. And I sat in a cheap box near the top of the auditorium, where I had a good view of the part in the oboe soloist's hair.
City by the bay
When the next day dawned sparkling and clear, I remembered that there aren't many sights I'd rather wake up to than the Bay of Naples.
Leaving the Galleria, I passed between the hulking Castel Nuovo and cantaloupe-colored Palazzo Reale to the waterfront. Cruise ships that had docked here were emitting shore excursionists who doubtless had been warned to watch their pockets and purses.
At the port I could see the whole glorious crescent of bay from the Amalfi Coast to Mt. Vesuvius. Brooding quietly now, the volcano, perhaps best known for its eruption in 79 A.D., erupted eight times in the 1770s when a teenaged Mozart gave a concert in Naples. By that time, the same King Carlos who built the San Carlo had authorized excavation at Pompeii, helping to make Naples a required stop for Grand Tour travelers from Northern Europe. Perhaps they cast their eyes upon and were shocked by signs on back streets that said, "Boys fixed here."
On one of those back streets, Via di San Bartolomeo, I found the small Church of Santa Maria della Graziella, now shuttered and forlorn. It marks the site of the San Bartolomeo theater, which predated the San Carlo and staged some of the first operas to reach the city in the early 1600s.
Around the corner on Via Medina, I stopped at a doorway big enough to admit the Trojan horse. Together with the elaborate, braided staircases of Sanfelice, massive portals are a signature of Neapolitan Baroque architecture. These mark the entrance to the Pietà dei Turchini, connected to a neighboring church where a striking painting depicts a guardian angel saving a boy from a demon.
The image sets the tone for the complex, which was first an orphanage for indigent boys, then home to the Royal Conservatory of the Pietà dei Turchini, one of four music schools in Naples that graduated thousands of castrati in the heyday of the Baroque.
The boys' paths generally led from desperately poor villages in southern Italy, where their musical ability was identified early. Castrated — often by barbers, without anesthetics — between the ages of 7 and 12, the children then applied for admission to a conservatory. Under the tutelage of such singing masters as Nicola Porpora and Domenico Gizzi, some of them became human nightingales, but many more failed to develop, so many lived as itinerant musicians or priests.
Parts of the castrato repertoire are still performed by the Pietà dei Turchini Center for Ancient Music. One stormy night several months before my most recent visit, I attended one of the group's concerts at the Church of Santa Caterina da Siena, tucked along a hilly street in the Spanish Quarter. It featured Cuban soprano Yetzabel Arias Fernandez, accompanied by harpsichord, lute and viola, set against the polished marble and gold-gilded panoply of a Baroque apse.
Jewel-box churches like Santa Caterina built in the 17th and 18th centuries are so abundant in Naples that most don't even rate mention in guidebooks. But one that is seldom overlooked is the chapel of St. Gennaro in the Duomo, which I reached by bus. It treasures a vial of the saint's blood that is said to often re-liquefy, a mystical manifestation of God's love for the city enshrined in a suitably miraculous Neapolitan Baroque showcase.
Starting around 1620, no expense was spared to decorate the chapel, coating its altars, fonts, balustrades and niches in precious stones and metals. Art stars from Rome — Domenichino and Guido Reni — were commissioned to fresco its ceilings and walls, which local talent resented. Neapolitan painter Ribera is said to have made Reni an offer he couldn't refuse to get him to go home, leaving space above the right transept altar free for Ribera's showstopping oil painting of St. Gennaro escaping from a fiery furnace.
On the town