Pompeii: an open grave

4/25/14, 12:40pm

[written in the margins of "El Peregrino de Compostela (Diario de un mago)" by Paulo Coelho]

Normally I do not deface books, but my mind is bubbling with so many descriptions and my heart is bursting with hopeless roman.tics (tics of inspiration based on the Roman Empire) and my iPod battery is dead (to be resurrected later, ojalá) that I had to open this book and write. Thank God I have a pen.

Where to start? Oy vey.

So, when I tell Italians that I'm from New York, their response is often similar to that of the little aliens in "Toy Story" who worship "the Claw."

Really though, Times Square is just a bunch of electricity (that could probably power half of Africa) and the Empire State Building is a fetus compared to what's lying around in Italy.

"You have 2,000 years of history right in your backyard!" I want to yell at Italians who tell me it is their dream to visit New York or that they already have, and it was amazing.

"Okay, I'm glad you liked it," is my usual reply.

So, one piece of advice I have for anyone who visits Pompeii is to CHARGE. YOUR. CAMERA. Because I was stupid and forgot to charge my iPod (my digital camera is in "lens coma incognito" mode).

So of course halfway through my explorations my iPod says, "You've gotten enough addiction out of me for today. Now you've got to remember images like Ibn Batoota did. No cameras back then, eh?" (I somehow imagine my iPod to have a mild Canadian accent.)

Also, I didn't sleep much last night thanks to some kids (though they're probably my age) who rolled into the dorm at 3am, noisily and a little drunk, and of course they were Spaniards (I heard "Vale vale!") who stay up all night anyway.

On the other hand, lack of sleep tends to make me extra loopy and more romantic than usual, so if it weren't for their annoying entrance, I might not be as inspired to write now.

OK. Finally on to Pompeii. (Thank you for your patience with my ramblings.)

First I am going to write down the images I didn't get to capture with my iPod, then I'll see where the pen takes me.

The deepest impression I got was looking at an actual mummified person who died in the eruption in 79 C.E. (if I recall the date correctly). At first I thought it was a ceramic reproduction of what one of the victims must have looked like when the lava and ash suffocated the inhabitants, but then I saw two women looking at the sculpture's foot, and part of it was chipped away to reveal actual bone. I realized that I was looking at a person, and in a sense he lies in an open grave. He has never truly been laid to rest.

What's striking about Pompeii is knowing that actual people lived here. Wandering through an ancient house and observing the frescoes on the walls, faded though with yellow ochre, deep earth red, and hushed twilight blue still remaining, I imagined what it would be like to live here. I could have been looking at the tiny suggestion of a flying crane (or perhaps it was another type of bird) on the wall, a white whisper of an image flying away into the blue background - when the earth would begin to tremble and everything I knew would literally come crashing down. What a horrible way to die.

I stood on a wide, oval-shaped stone  in the middle of a road, raised above the lower surface in a row of several other stones the same shape and size, and imagined lava flowing down the street, quickly consuming every safe refuge. [I later found out these higher stones served as a place for pedestrians to cross the street, which often had open sewage flowing through it.]

On a more peaceful note, when I first entered the grounds of the ruins, I noticed how quiet, sunny, lush, and shaded the land was, sort of like Northern California. Amidst the handful of other tourists and old walls that enclosed a circular, "gladiator" type theater as well as vineyards, tall, red-barked trees graced the area. The ground was dark brown and soft underfoot, like moss. Tree roots, rubbed smooth by so many feet, snaked and threaded their way through the earth, reminding me that in the end, nature always overtakes man-made things, cracking up a sidewalk or a tile floor with the relentless push of growth, the onward unfolding of evolution.

One really cool aspect of Pompeii is that whatever agency cares for these grounds (probably a branch of the Italian government) has replanted the vineyards according to the ancient agricultural customs, and the vineyards still produce wine.

Gazing at the volcano in the distance  (hopefully now dormant for good!), looming humid wet green above the ruins and scarved by a ribbon of wispy cloud, I can imagine this must have been a beautiful place to live...indeed, it is lovely here, with so much greenery and well-tended plants. I had expected the ruins to be more dry, more gravelly.

Now I am lying on a large rectangle of grass, an army of roofless columns ahead. This complex is huge. I must decide whether to exit and hunt down a cappuccino, but first I think I shall rest a bit. My hand will probably complain later.

[LATER]

P.S. One of Pompeii's current inhabitants is a tiny speckled lizard that does a very good job of blending in with the mossy, black-and-white spotted rocks. I had the good fortune to stumble upon one up close.

P.P.S. I was lying on a patch of grass with this book over my face, thoroughly satiated after having eaten a panino and drunk a beer, when I heard a group go by. The guide said, "And this is what we call a tourist. It's very colorful." (He was referring to my rainbow hippie pants.) LOL.

P.P.P.S. The sculpture body/mummy that touched me most was a small figure, perhaps a child (though most of the mummies seem smaller than people of today), its knees drawn up to its chin, and its hands clasped beneath its chin as if in prayer, or perhaps the choked tension of fear.

P.P.P.P.S. I stand in the middle of a quiet space, once a room, and cross my arms over my chest, standing, imagining the screams raining down as the roof caves in, the blackness filling up my mouth.

P.P.P.P.P.S. Was this the marketplace where you came every Sunday? 

Was this your bedroom, where only the walls saw your most intimate moments?

P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Was this the view that you greeted in the morning, the wide promise of the sea, proud to be part of an empire whose ends you could not fathom?

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. The mountains don't speak, but they saw what happened. They heard your cries and the gods didn't come.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. No rescue. R.I.P.

[Addendum: I managed to recharge my iPod at a cafe and sneak back in to snap some more shots. Unfortunately, I thought I had to get back to the train station to be on time for the train back to Salerno, and was unable to locate the mummies or the white crane fresco... I guess I'll have to make do with my human memory as hard drive... Oy vey am I addicted to capturing photos, which I rarely look at afterwards anyway... I wonder if people of older generations experienced life more "acutely" because they didn't have as easy access to cameras and were used to simply living, instead if straddling the divide between digital archiving and being in the moment...]