Rory The Irish Glue Man — Napoli, Italy

It was nearly September in Italy. I had just left the beauty of Puglia, one of my favorite places in the world. I needed to be in France by the first week of September for my residency and decided to embark on a solo 10-day odyssey through northern Italy by train.

For some reason, I thought it was a good idea to go to Napoli first—known as the New York City of Italy for its filth, pizza, rude population, modern art, and crime. Despite all that, I had come to love Napoli for the grains of reality found in its historic buildings covered in vandalism. The food was still spectacular, and in many places, the people still embodied the familiar Italian generosity and warmth.

But that’s beside the point. I had arrived in Napoli and was staying in a homeshare with one other man in his 50s. I set my things down in the living area, including a copy of Kitchen Confidential, which I had just finished reading on the train. It was nearly 1:00 a.m., and I was reaching for a glass of water when the man—who I would come to know as Rory—said, “I know that guy. That’s a good book of his.”

“Yeah! I just finished it,” I replied, puzzled by his comment.

“That’s great. Tony was a good friend. It really is a shame what happened.”

First-name basis had my full attention. “He was a friend of yours, huh?”

“Of course. He was friends with my best friend Seamus, who’s a chef too. They made appearances in each other’s shows.”

He went on to tell me about his friend Seamus—who I’d learn is best known for banana ketchup and The Ivory Tower. I came to know more about Seamus than I think he’d like me to, but more than that, I got to know more about the late Bourdain—someone I idolized. Somehow, by sheer luck, I had found myself getting to know the people who knew him as Tony.

We stayed two nights in the hostel. One night, we went out for pizza, and on our way home there were groups of young people in two cars blocking each end of the alley we were walking through—blasting music and dancing. Rory walked in front of me, jumped into the group, and started dancing too as they cheered him on. To this day, I regret not doing the same, but I’m glad I witnessed that small, sweet moment.

Rory and I ended up spending a lot of time together. In fact, the next morning, as we both emerged from our spaces, he asked me to join him for breakfast. This charming Irish man had started to grow on me. He puzzled me. I knew almost nothing about him, except that he enjoyed analog photography and had cool friends.

I obliged, of course. We walked to a nearby café, where we shared two espressos, two sfogliatelle frolle (the best pastry of my life), and an orange juice. It was then I realized I had truly found a friend in him. We talked about a chapter of his life when he lived in Africa and some of his other pastimes. He asked me what my plan was—how long I’d be in Napoli.

“I don’t really have a plan, honestly. I thought maybe a couple of days... maybe leave tomorrow and just keep going north until I reach France,” I replied.

“Well, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d love to join you going to Rome. I have a friend there—I’m sure he’d be happy to host you too. Very charming Italian man, his wife, and their three kids.”

Who was I to say no? Luck had fallen into my lap, and I wasn’t about to question how or why.

“I’d love to,” I said. “Why not?”

With only pulp left at the bottom of his cup, espresso foam sticking to the walls of my glass, and pastry dust on my clothes, we realized we hadn’t planned anything past breakfast.

“I was thinking of taking the ferry to Ischia today, if you’d like to tag along,” he said as he gathered the napkins and stuffed them into his plastic orange juice cup.

“I haven’t said no to anything yet,” I said. “I’d be happy to.”

We went back to the hostel to pack up our things for checkout the next day and stuffed everything we’d need for a full island day into our backpacks. When we got to the ferry station, we had an hour to kill, so we shared a pizza. I took that moment as my opportunity for questioning.

We sat down. He looked down at his pizza. We enjoyed the silence in the summer heat for a moment. Then I began my interrogation—asking what he did for a living, what his life was like, or anything that might explain or justify the stories he’d told me so far.

I was mildly disappointed to learn he simply sells glue for a living, is from Norway, and lives in Cork half the year while traveling the rest. He then, once again, turned the conversation to his friends.

A part of me felt almost sorry for him. He was one of the most interesting people I’d met, but it was his friends that made him so. He would talk about their lives for hours, telling their stories as if he had lived them himself. He told me more about Tony and how he became part of their circle. He talked a lot about Seamus—more than I needed to know, honestly. He had so many characters in his life, so many borrowed stories, I couldn’t keep track of them all.

Rory the glue man ended up becoming a kind of comrade—known for his escapades with others and his kindness toward me. I became a sponge for his stories.

We spent the day in Ischia, shared meals, took photos. I was known as the girl who wouldn’t go anywhere or eat anything without her little journal. We then followed each other to Rome, where I was supposed to spend three days and ended up staying over a week with Francesco and his family. I flew to France not long after that—soon to see Rory again in Cork, Ireland.

But that’s a story for another day.