Came back home makes me uncomfortable.
Being here means live with the worry that it’s only a matter of time before come back to the Turin’s routine. Being here means to enjoy every moment, every little, insignificant thing that I can live or see only here.

Naples make you feel like home, from whatever part of the world you’re coming. And altough I never cease to see her infinite flaws, I can’t stop falling in love with Naples every time I come home.
Who don’t live her, who limits himself to be only a tourist, doesn’t know what’s speaking about when he comes back to his home. A superficial peek will never see how much beauty there is in these places and, in the end, it will has only a conventional reminder of something that, instead, is wonderful.
You have to dig in the filth, above all that of prejudices and unjustified fear that anyone wants to generate in you.
When you’re dealing with someone who doesn’t want to see, the only way to tolerate is to make him “fess e cuntent” (silly and happy) and help him to wear blinkers.
Who’s afraid of Naples will never know how much she’s afraid too.
She’s afraid of drown in her ill fame; she’s afraid of being forever only a volcano in a gazing ball.
Who’s afraid of her population doesn’t know how much that population needs to be loved. Because, although I feel they are inexcusable, they are, we are human. And if you want to look at us as freak shows, at least have the decency to pay us while we offer to you new cues for the fictional tales for your friends.
Who’s afraid of Naples will never love her.
He will neither fall in love with the breeze in the historic center’s alleys nor with the chatters between shopkeepers.
He will neither enjoy to drive along “via Kagoshima” nor laugh of the way in which the boys try to make a compliment to you. 
He will never love the fish seller screaming and the smell of the sea at Mergellina.
He will never appreciate the courteousness, the passion and the hospitality of Neapolitans and he will tag them as bums, dodger and stealers.
He will never know that we make all this noise only for don’t feel the burden of those gazes. Those arrogant gazes.
So indifferent that they could be called “terroni” (“from Southern Italy”, dispregiative, of course).
So superficial and loveless gazes.
Naples and the South of Italy don’t need gazes. We need a hand.

(be patient, I'm improving my English :) )