I’m caught behind a funeral procession in the narrow streets of Spaccanapoli, Naples’ historic district. The men and women, old and young, come out from the shops, bars and from their balcony windows, one after the other, to pay their respects.

They take off their hats and move their hands to sign the cross. I look up and see photos on pieces of fabric, leisurely dangling from balconies or stuck on windows. They show a young, good-looking boy, maybe no more than  20 years old, and I presume it’s his funeral.