Where Do You Go Too, My Lovely?

The above title references a song from the mid-1960's written by a now forgotten artist, Peter Sarstedt. I was reminded of its references to Naples as we returned to the hotel from a late night dinner.
 At 10pm, most of the tourists are back in their cruise ship bunks and all that remains on the streets are small groups of locals hanging out in the slowly cooling evening air. Perhaps they want company or are just trying to avoid the heat of upper floor apartments that dont have air conditioning. On the main block, Via Foria, several police cars are lined up, most of their drivers engaged in group conversation, while the remainder stand or lean against open car doors as if waiting for some action to occur.
 Several feet away a drunk sits glassy eyed on a small blanket, a 3/4 finished bottle of red wine, open, between his legs.
 Continuing our walk along the Via Carbonnara, kids are playing in the streets while older kids smoke quite openly, cigarettes, some cigars, some joints. Looking down darkened back streets, there is some laundry still hanging and the occasional wanderer, but it doesn't look too inviting.
 As we approach a main intersection, more police cars are visible, some parked with standard police logos, other black and generally bigger SUV's are marked Carbanieri- perhaps they are expecting some action. Again, several feet away another drunk, passed out, ignored, lays half behind a parking barrier while a few feet away a prostitute seems to be negotiating with a client.
 Further on, small food stalls and shops are offering rotisserie chicken and pizza, their owners proudly displaying large dome like pizza ovens glowing red hot, yet they seem oblivious to the heat.
Closer to the hotel, several dozen men, mostly black, are standing silently in front of a betting house window, their attention totally focussed on a large (60inch?) TV which is showing a scoreless soccer game, its speakers cranked high to allow the commentators voice to penetrate through the glass. As we approach the entrance to the hotel, a cheer goes up from the group- I am guessing someone scored.
 Safely inside our building, some time later on, I can hear a group of loud voices shouting boistrously- perhaps someone bet on the right team. Looking down at the street below, a food truck vendor seems to be doing brisk business as people  sit or stand, consuming his offerings. Adjacent to the food truck others seem to be selling trinkets and pens from small plastic tables, with few takers.
 I close the shutters and let the air conditioner drown out what remains of the street sounds for another night.