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"Bar Cimino, that's right. They make the coffee with a delicious white froth." 

"Creme caffe. Good, actually. Also near my house at the Vomero, there is a bar that, modestly, makes coffee just as good." 

"Really? But what is their secret?"

"They say that in addition to quality, it's a matter of roasting, water. In my opinion it's mainly a matter of hand. You need to have the right hand." 

At that moment a second customs officer peeped out of the compartment door: "Cleared customs?" he asked sternly.

"Are you from Naples too, by any chance?" I smiled at him. 

"No. Di Salerno," he replied, a little less severe. 

"Ah, quite another thing. We were just talking about the good coffee they make in Naples."

"Even in Salerno they make good coffee." the second customs officer pointed out. "If customs has already been cleared, accelerate a little: we're just halfway through the train." he said. The first customs officer nodded with a sigh.

After mutual wishes for a good trip, the compartment plunged back into silence. Then my mother's indignant voice: "Is it possible that you are so ignorant?!" All those years of school and then I would jump out and talk about "extensive coffee plantations;" but didn't I yet know that coffee only grew in Africa and Brazil?

Of course I knew, I grumbled offended. But I also knew that I had been asked a specific question: "Cigarettes, coffee?" I had preferred to give less weight to the word cigarettes, before getting off the ship I had packed two cartons of Americans in my suitcase! So I concentrated on the second word - coffee - and besides, I made the customs officer very happy, as she could see.

I was lucky to meet a customs officer ignorant of geography, my mother said. But I had taken a good risk.