Lauren Meets a Volcano

    I woke the next morning refreshed; I was finally rested after two sleepless nights. As we walked to the train station on our way to Pompeii, my refreshed faculties began to notice Italian subtleties I had previously overlooked.  For instance, there was the overwhelming amount of facial hair. Aashika and I tried to scope out attractive guys who didn't sport copious amounts of facial hair; in fifteen minutes of scouting in a crowded street, we spotted one worthy specimen.  One. Even the mannequins had small, creepy, feathery-looking mustaches printed on their upper lips: the epitome of Italian teenagers. However, the Italian breed of men has proved immensely helpful in one aspect--my ego.  I was called beautiful more times in my first 24 hours in Italy than I had in the entirety of my existence.  Italian women are another breed as well; even the old ones are fashionable! The most ridiculous thing I was the footwear. Of course, the obligatory six-inch heels were abundant, but even more intriguing was the heels for the elderly. Yes, you read that right. I saw more old ladies than I care to admit wearing typical white, velcroed, old-lady sneakers--plus a five-inch heel. It was quite ridiculous.

Imagine this, with a five-inch heel tacked on.

    The overabundance of Napoli beggars necessitated an original scheme: we also invented our own secret warning code to keep wary of potential pickpockets. We figured if we used common Italian (or American touristy) words, nobody would be suspect that we were on to them.  Inspired by our wonderful logic, we decided "chocolate" meant we saw a creepy guy with a 90% chance of Mafia membership, and "pasta" warned for pickpockets.  We unaccountably switched to Hindi, with "DMA" meaning cute guy (it stands for dekhne me acha, Hindi for an attractive man).  Our first encounter with chocolate occurred the previous night, although then we referred to him as the naked Roman guy.  We walked into our room, and a lumpy figure rolled off the top bunk across the room. Normally, not that weird, but this guy was naked. Well, almost. He was arrayed in the tightest of tightie whities, which unfortunately left little to the imagination.  We soon discovered that this was his outfit for 90% of the day, and he also liked to change his clothes in public.  Later in our stay, he also chose to give us nicknames: Aashika was "Fashion" because all she did was primp, and I was "Eat and Sleep" (that should be self-explanatory). I'm not quite sure which nickname is more insulting.

A typical Napoli street.

   
     But enough about creepy Italian men. Let me tell you about our day in Pompeii and Vesuvius.

     The journey to Pompeii was an adventure in itself.  Every single train stop was covered in graffiti, so seeing where you actually were was impossible. I relied on kindhearted Italian souls who (after hearing "Pompeii") gestured violently at every stop for me to not get off.  In spite of the ridicule it receives, this hand gestures thing really works for the Italians.

     As soon as we departed the train, tourist companies bombarded us with a furor matched only by Justin Bieber fans. We considered ourselves savvy travelers, and adeptly navigated through the crowds of guides and stupid American tourists, knowing that we were independent and superior--we didn't get suckered into any expensive tours. In hindsight, a tour might have been a good idea, but our ego boost more than compensated for the loss.

     Walking around Pompeii was one of the coolest experiences I've had; while I knew intellectually that the city was preserved for thousands of years, it is quite another thing entirely to walk through streets that existed before Christ. Every building, mosaic, every stone was original. Maybe I'm just nerdy, but I was entranced.  We even saw two-thousand-year-old graffiti preserved on the walls--it turns out that kids have had a destructive streak from the beginning of time!  Even future Caesars were not immune.

Graffiti from the eons ago. Suspect: Claudius Caesar.

L-R: Remains of a temple; intricately carved table legs. I never imagined this intricate of marblework thousands of years ago.

 L-R: A very cool bathouse ceiling; time for the theater in ancient Pompeii.

      The city also exhibited a surprising amount of cool technical tricks; for instance, in the hot baths, the floors were raised on stone pillars and hot air pumped into the space to warm the tiles for the bathers. I believe I could have been quite happy in such a sophisticated ancient city (provided, of course, that I was a white male of significant means).  My morbid side demanded a trip to the plaster body casts, and Aashika generously obliged; after much gaping, Aashika persuaded a reluctant me to see other parts of Pompeii, too.  However shocking my ghoulish interests appear, though, at least I'm lawful--Aashika's first response upon entering a Coliseum-type structure was to ignore all posted signs and climb her way up onto the seatings. After several heart-pounding minutes of pretending not know her, I decided to join her.  I felt very dangerous and exciting, flaunting The Law right out in the open. It was quite a new experience for me.  After these moments of rebellion, we scurried back to the entrance, intent on catching the last bus to the top of Mount Vesuvius.  We walked by picture-books showing the original (mostly erotic) art and sculptures found in Pompeii which had since been relocated to museums; let's just say that boys have always been boys.

Plaster casts of some of Vesuvius's victims. Their bodies were covered in volcanic ash and degraded over time, but the cavities where the bodies once lay were filled with plaster, creating these figures.

Vesuvius, menacing in the background.

Bath-house heating system: hot air flowed under the floor, which was supported by the columns seen in this picture; this warmed the floor and the rooms.

More death. My fascination is probably unhealthy.

      Our bus driver to Vesuvius must have been possessed, because I have never seen anyone drive so fast or with so little apparent regard to traffic laws. Buses took us most of the way to the top--our twenty-minute walk to the pinnacle was paltry in comparison, but nonetheless we whined the whole walk.  The view from the top was phenomenal; I'll never see anything like it.  A wee bit of flirting with the guard got us farther down the trail than was technically allowed, and man, was it worth it.

The crater!

The view from the top; nothing will ever come close to this.

Who knew Vesuvius is populated with wildflowers? I'm not entirely sure I believe those vicious Pompeii tales of explosion and death.

Naples, as seen from Vesuvius.

The obligatory selfie

We hurried back to catch the last bus; when our bus driver caught sight of us, he pretended to drive off without us, but when we finally did make it on, he earned our forgiveness by calling us pretty.  A long commute finally brought us to the hostel and a grocery store on the way. At this point, Aashika and I recognized some irreconcilable differences.  While we like much of the same food, we positively despise each other's favorite vegetables.  According to Aashika, "even smelling broccoli [my personal favorite] makes me want to throw up," while the mere thought of Aashika's eggplant makes me queasy.  Clearly, dinner would have to be a motley affair.

   Aashika cooked her mushrooms and peppers while I steamed my rejected broccoli.  All was well until, in the middle of the meal, I discovered a large, disgusting, dead caterpillar masquerading as vegetative matter.  I lost it. I emitted the loudest, most wretched scream of my existence and leapt away from my plate; the hostel workers ran into the kitchen, ready to battle flames or a deal with knife wound. Needless to say, I didn't hear the last of that incident for the rest of my stay. I was reminded to check for caterpillars if I was ever seen eating--even walking past the front desk was good enough excuse for another caterpillar jibe.

       For our final day in Italy, we planned to visit the Amalfi coast. However, the notoriously confusing and mislabeled Italian train signs cost us two hours; we ended up splitting off the line in the wrong direction and didn't realize it until the last stop. We wandered around a nice town called Poggoiomarino until the next train came. Of course, I wanted real Italian gelato, so we stopped in the first store we came to. This might be an overstatement. Aashika may have glided into the store gracefully, but I tripped and fell flat on my face.  The Italian girls at the counter never got over my small accident, and couldn't even give me lemon gelato without giggling and whispering in Italian.

    We finally arrived in Positano, tired and frustrated with the long journey, which had been disappointingly safe.  All the ads and internet reviews had talked about the Amalfi buses as crazy and nausea-inducing,but our trip to Positano was sadly secure.  A tiny overpriced lunch at Positano fueled us for the long trip down the stairs to the beach, where we were surprised by the large, uncomfortable pebbles evidently standing in for sand.  It was wretchedly uncomfortable to walk on, but the only alternative was immersing in the freezing water.  In spite of these drawbacks, the view was beautiful.

The neverending staircase to the bottom of the hill.

The Amalfi coast. Sigh.

Positano, plus a pose-y sorority girl. While this hill may not look like much from the pictures, it is a Herculean climb.

    After our time lazing around on the beach, we definitely did not feel like walking up those stairs.  So, in true American fashion, we decided to take a bus. This was a mistake.  The walk would have been maybe 10 minute of agony; instead, we waited over an hour for a bus to transport us half a mile. The only positives in the situation were the new friends we made at the bus stop.  We met two South Korean dance students in the midst of their own European adventure; their command of English was lacking, but we got by with hand gestures, many repetitions, and a helpful little English phrase book they carried around at all times ("What do you think of the Italian furniture, Mr. Smith?" "I'd like two pizzas and one olive, please.")  I was especially grateful for their friendship on the ride home, when the previously tame bus became a vomit-fueled roller coaster--the Koreans had seasickness medication that made my stomach settle at least partway into its usual resting place.  After the terrible bus ride, we had almost forty minutes to wait for the train, so we badgered the Koreans into demonstrating some of their dance moves for us.  The hip-hop dancer did a very impressive gymnastics run with far too many flips to keep track; the ballet dancer began a very graceful leap that ended in flames when his pants ripped.  In return, we taught the young men how to waltz in the middle of the train platform. We got a few stares, but we figured those people were just consumed with jealousy of our dance knowledge and confidence.

     Finally, we arrived back in Napoli, two minutes before the last subway to our hostel. We bid farewell to our lovely Korean friends and headed back to the hostel.  There we met some British guys, including one self-important guy who claimed he owned two businesses, had published two books, and knew the Indian prime minister personally.  When I probed further, he finally and reluctantly admitted that one business was personal training and the other was motivational speaking, and that his books were "From Flab to Fab" and something entitled "One Secret Rich People Never Tell You".  Essentially, the secret is to write a book since it impresses everyone (gee, I wonder what his authorial motivations are). He "proved" this to me by asking me what authors I knew off the top of my head. Before I had a chance to respond, he had answered for me: Oprah, Obama, and Ellen Degeneres, of course! All these authors were famous and wealthy, so obviously authorship comes with those benefits. The logical fallacies in this argument are so glaringly obvious that I disdain even to mention them.  Out of pure curiosity I googled the books, and found that the weight-loss book did indeed exist, and had exactly 19 reviews to its name on Amazon; I couldn't find the rich-people secret book.  So much for the successful British man in Napoli.