"The afternoon slipped away amidst rounds of the most affordable Aperol Spritz of the entire trip: in the Neapolitan lands, this ice-cold aperitif, orange-dyed as the Ibuprofen syrup, fetched a mere £3 euros. In the central and northern parts of the country, it often cost double. This disparity, coupled with the scorching thirty-degrees afternoon, were enough to ensnare us at the tiny table on Via Toledo, without a care in the world.

 

It was the weathered brick wall across - equally adorned and dimly lit like the rest - that reminded us we were late. There he was, plastered to the right of the braided girl with menacing gaze and the eyeless, furious Hulk. Above the blindfolded zebra - devoured and trampled like the other insignificant decals around it. "SANTO DIEGO," as its bold red title proclaimed, posed with his robe - also in red - and his arms outstretched towards the heavens. The black halo above his head confirmed what we assumed: he was not a man of flesh and bone. In Naples, Diego Armando Maradona was a deity.

 

He kept showing up all throughout our journey to Quartieri Spagnoli ("Spanish Quarter"), his shrine turned neighborhood: in the form of advertisements - such as "Maradona Spritz" - and on scarves, jerseys, balls, and socks, all of them colored with Argentina's light-blue and white or those of the Neapolitan football team. The phrase "El pibe de oro non si dimentica" ("The golden boy is not forgotten") printed on one of them made it very clear: since 1987, Italy and Argentina are bound by an extra thread.

 

Hence the intention of a neighborhood to glorify not only his figure but also our colors, which tinted its streets from the entrance sign. There were so many phrases and photos displayed in these meters that we couldn't see them all in the dwindling daylight.

 

We reached the peak of concrete with the last rays of the sun. On this dead-end street, the pilgrimage to the Maradonian temple came to an end, much more impressive than anything we had seen before. Because beyond the walls covered with his face, his quotes, his trophies, and his jerseys, the tribute was in the air. It transcended teams, political parties, and provinces; it was universal for all but national for us.

 

A wave of Argentine flags fluttered from fifteen balconies 11,822 kilometers away. They were put up by people who don't speak our language, who probably never set foot in Argentina, let alone know what an alfajor is or had a sip of mate in their lives. Nevertheless, they all recognized our accent, smiled when we introduced ourselves, trusted us and talked to us a little more, making us feel special. Because an Argentine connects with them like no one has in thirty years. His name was Diego Maradona, and he never knew what cooking "al dente" is, never baked sfogliatelli, and certainly never spoke Italian."