Mary wrote this story for a travel writing class after our 1999 trip to Rome. I never published a story about the trip in this zine, but I think this article is as good a document as there ever could be.
The early morning sun, rising with a delicious hazy Mediterranean warmth and tempered by a late October breeze, sparkled off the train's exterior. The prospect of a train ride from Rome to Pompeii was thrilling in such luxurious weather; after a hectic three days' get-it-all-in-we-only-have-one-week sightseeing frenzy, my husband Ken and I were ready for a few hours to do nothing but sit and stare. The few people milling around Termini, Rome's main railway station, stood chattering with each other or reading magazines with a relaxed air. We waited in the idle morning breeze; the train was late, but no one seemed to mind lingering outside in this weather. When the train arrived, Ken and I boarded the nearest car. Besides the man who tried to tempt us into buying notepads and yellow pencils by waving them in our faces as he passed by us, Ken and I had the car to ourselves (1).
We spread out, taking a four-seat embankment for the two of us, and once the train had begun its rocking, whistling journey south, gazed through the late morning sun as the landscape swept by in its sadly irrevocable fashion. Too quick to get more than a brief glance, but not so fast that everything was a blur, the train allowed us to become lost in the voyeur's paradise particular to train riders--first watching a woman hanging laundry on a weathered line stretching from her kitchen window to a rusted red pole in the yard, then spying on a shirtless teenaged boy sitting on the roof of a house and staring right back as if he could see us, too--the orchards and ancient aqueducts (2) of Italy swept by piece by piece. On the gentle humming of the wheels and gears, broken now and then by the melancholy wail of the horn, we were carried through Naples to Pompeii.
As our guidebook stated, "The story told by the ruins will be hard to believe even after you see them. Excavations into this silent city reveal a way of life cut off almost instantly, but preserved in stone since 79 AD, by Vesuvius' first recorded eruption." We had heard talk and seen documentaries about Pompeii and its victims, many of whose bodies had been compressed by the ash and mud to become a terrifying chronicler of the last moments of Pompeii. The people were buried in ash and left corpses with fingers clawed and mouths frozen in silent screams. Ancient Pompeii had been a thriving, commercialized society of about 15,000 inhabitants. Now, Pompeii is a historical and archaeological marvel and tourist attraction, sitting on the top of a hill above the newer city of the same name, serving as a constant reminder of its fate.
To
get to the ruins, we followed a steep road that snakes
uphill from the train station, through the modern-day city
of Pompeii, until reaching the ruins at the top of the
climb. Pompeii is hot--much hotter than Rome--being a city
now of hardened dust and fallen buildings, scowling up at
the hot and glaring sun. On the day we visited, a hot and
dry but silent wind added a surreal wistfulness to the air.
A far more ominous attraction is Vesuvius itself. Everywhere
in Pompeii the basaltic cone glowers in its inescapable and
horrifying size. The volcano, not yet extinct, is much
larger and darker than it appears to be in pictures,
swelling black and purple into a huge smooth arc toward
heaven. Everywhere in the ruins of the sad dead city one can
see Vesuvius, looming much larger and closer than I had
expected it to be.
Whether despite
or because of the stifling heat and brooding mountain, Pompeii has
a power unparalleled by most
travel destinations. Ken convinced me that we should head
straight for the former "Lupanare," or brothel, famous for
its erotic paintings placed on the walls as advertisements
for what customers could purchase; he was horrified,
however, to see that the beds were basically large stone
slabs built right into the floor. I assured him that the
Pompeiians likely covered them with some sort of mattress,
but his mind was made up: "There's nothing romantic
about that." 
More
sobering was the "House of the Tragic Poet," in which even
the volcanic ash could not wipe away the artistry of the
mosaics, including the one on the floor picturing a
chained-up dog and the words "Cave Canem" (Beware of the
Dog). "Perhaps it should have said 'Cave
Vesuvius,'" Ken said. Neither of us laughed.
After several hours, with the sun still hot in the blazing sky, we made our way back through the ruins. We passed walls inscribed with ancient graffiti--political slogans, our guidebook informed us (the writing is almost impossible to read, being not only very faint but also covered over with inch-thick, scratched, dusty Plexiglas)--toward the front gate and the feature we had saved for last: the plaster casts formed from the shapes the bodies had made in the ash. Several of these are placed throughout the ruins in the various homes, grimacing from bedrooms and doorways; many are said to be gathered together in a morbid collection. No one seemed to know where this is, however; we could not find it even after asking three caretakers of the ruins (one located it near the entrance; one, near the back of the ruins; and one claimed no such thing existed). We left without seeing the collection and remain unsure of its existence.
Back at the train station, Ken and I purchased tickets for the trip back to Rome from a very large, very sweaty man with skin so deeply bronzed that his brown plaid shirt, plastered under his armpits and around his neck, looked pale. He spoke no English; when Ken said, "Due biglietti, per favore," and the man replied with "Bene," we communicated just fine; however, when he followed this exchange with a succession of words delivered with velocity and deep, throaty laughter, and we replied with, "Capisco solo un poco Italiano--Parla Inglese?" he answered with another laugh followed by a dismissive wave of his hand. We had wanted to ask when the next train would be leaving, but behind us was a growing line of customers, so we instead consulted a timetable posted on the wall, which promised a train within the hour.
At home, food was a fuel, a necessity, a bit of a nuisance that infringed upon our busy lives. In Rome we had learned to savor our meals.
The daylight was still hanging strong in the sky, promising an evening of clemency and coolness. We had eaten nothing since our breakfast at the hotel--we had been too fascinated by the ruins at Pompeii to stop for lunch, knowing we would linger several hours over the meal, as was now our habit. At home, food was a fuel, a necessity, a bit of a nuisance that infringed upon our busy lives. In Rome we had learned to savor our meals. On our first afternoon in Rome, we had wandered down the street from our hotel and stopped in the first restaurant we saw. The RomAntica, despite its embarrassingly silly name, was our home for the next few hours as we ate what may be the most divine meal we had ever had--spaghetti pomodoro basilico, baskets of crusty pane, salad with tomatoes so ripe they oozed juice even before being cut, all washed down with a carafe of the restaurant's own wine--and learned the Roman art of experiencing food.
We sat on a concrete slab next to the train tracks behind the station to wait. Our train not being expected for almost an hour, we settled in, our legs glad for the rest. There was not much to see behind the station; the concrete slabs on which we and several others were seated lined the outer wall, and we faced the tracks, about ten feet from where we sat. A corresponding set of tracks paralleled these; beyond them was a hill, littered which assorted paper waste, candy wrappers, and beer cans, that led up to a weedy field. All of us waiting sat together and watched a stray dog try to eat a glass bottle along the side of the tracks.
After about ten minutes, a train pulled into the station. It bore no sign; just sped into place with a gentle rocking as it settled into a brief rest to admit and export passengers. Many of the passengers sharing our slab got onto the train; some did not; from the station, an announcement was made that we did not understand, not only because it was in Italian but also because it was emitted in that tinny and echoing manner unique to public address systems that renders every word unintelligible. "Did you hear that?" I asked Ken. "Nope--did you?" I shook my head. The train pulled away and we continued to wait. In the ensuing half hour, several more trains did pass by, but did not stop; they bulleted past with a roar that seemed too close before hurrying on toward their destination.
The appointed hour came; our train did not. First, not within the hour; then, not within two. The afternoon sun began to descend as we continued waiting and began worrying about what the loudspeaker voice might have said. The other Italians who had shared our wait had gone and been replaced by others; however, we had begun noticing another traveler who looked as out of place as we were. Seated down the slab a ways, he faintly glowed in his paleness; his blond hair glinted in the sun; he was tall and gangly and looked more like us than the Italians. He, too, had begun looking furtively at his watch and the direction from which our train would come. Just as I had made up my mind to go over and talk to him, he stood and approached us.
"Excuse me," he said, in halting, broken English, "but do you wait to go to Naples?" Obviously relieved to hear an English-speaking voice, Ken stood as he replied, "Yes--are you waiting for the 4 o'clock train too?" The traveler furrowed his brow. "Ah so, but it is quite late, no?" (A bit thrown by the "Ah so," I hesitated a moment before I answered. We would learn that this was his way of saying "yeah"--for yes, he said simply "ja.") "Yes," I replied. "Did you hear the announcement they made before?" He nodded. "But I did not understand. Should we go into the station and ask?" Ken and I looked at each other. "How well do you speak Italian?" He smiled. "A little, I learned for this trip. I am German--Jürgen, by the way--ah so, you are American? Do you know Italian?" A bit, we replied. "I guess we have to try," Ken said, sounding unsure. We re-entered the station and went back to talk to the ticket agent, who was now involved in animated conversation. Mobbed by a crowd of irate Italians, each yelling as if his lungs were on fire, he did not hear us approach, but snapped around when Jürgen yelled, "Pardone!"
When we asked if the agent knew when our train would arrive, he shrugged, and laughed again as he belted out more Italian language into the air, which was received with uproarious approval by his friends.
Among the three of us tourists and our limited Italian, and the seven or eight Italians and their limited English, and some pantomiming when all else failed, we eventually determined what had happened. The loudspeaker had, indeed, been discussing our train. The train we had seen, which had been bound for Naples, was one scheduled for the morning that was several hours late from its scheduled run. The next one--ours--would be as well. The message had advised all travelers to Naples or Rome to take that train, as the next one--ours--would also be several hours late. When we asked if the agent knew when our train would arrive, he shrugged, and laughed again as he belted out more Italian language into the air, which was received with uproarious approval by his friends. With a few muttered "Grazies," we trudged back outside to resume our wait.
As another hour dragged by, we all began to lose our sense of humor. The glass-eating dog had long gone and now the view consisted only of the two sets of train tracks and hill of litter. Jürgen, who was staying in Naples on this leg of his month-long trip in Italy, had met a girl there with whom he had made a date for dinner on this evening. The thought of her waiting, alone, for him to show up had put him in a sour mood. Our mounting hunger was doing the same to us, but going back up the hill to Pompeii was out of the question--we did not want to miss the train again. Ken growled, "We would have been better off if we had joined a damn tour group." At this point, I almost agreed. Jürgen, however, was even angrier than we were. "I almost rented a car!" he shouted. "In Naples they are so cheap to rent. But I took the train instead!"
Several hours after we had arrived at the station, the train did arrive. The sky had begun to darken; the afternoon was gone. Once we had boarded the train, despite our growling stomachs, we all relaxed and the conversation became lighthearted. Jürgen began making fun of Americans--"Ah so, why are you all so fat and bossy? Spoiled, ja?"--and we, of Germans--"So what's with all the drag shows in Berlin, anyway?" On the way to Naples, he tried with little success to explain the difference between different varieties of burgs and schlosses in his country (apparently there is more than one type of castle--something we had never realized). After the interminable wait, the trip to Naples seemed almost too short. When Jürgen disembarked in Naples, too late for his scheduled date but early enough to round up a new one, we exchanged reluctant goodbyes.
Ken and I settled in to a different train for the short transfer back to Rome. Our hunger had become almost feral. I sagged against Ken and he put his arm around me as we boarded, tired and dirty and glad our excursion was almost over. Unfortunately, though, just boarding the train is not enough. To arrive at a destination, the train has to move at some point. For which we waited. And waited. The Italians on the crowded train were growing as impatient as we were--as the wait dragged on, they began snapping open their cell phones. The cell phone culture in Italy is truly a thing of wonder--the travel guide provided by our hotel had informed us that the number of cell phones purchased had outpaced that of installed phones in Italy. One after the other, the Italians began shouting into their phones, which always seemed to ring as soon as put away under a jacket.
We,
having no cell phones, had been reduced by hunger and
boredom to reminiscing about our meal the night before. Our
Italian friend Marco had escorted us to his favorite
restaurant, where there are no menus. We sat at a table,
were brought baskets of bread and carafes of vino rosso di
casa, and soon the pasta started coming. The cook makes
pastas and sauces based on his mood and what his wife found
at the market that day; diners are brought plate after plate
of pasta, a different variety each time, until holding up a
hand and telling the waiter "Basta!" We had discussed
driving in Rome, and Ken and I mentioned that it seemed like
it required some sort of special talent. No, no, Marco
explained, the driving is really quite simple. Over the
fourth plate of pasta, a concoction of artichokes drizzled
into a cream sauce and ladled over a pile of steaming
linguine, he revealed the secret of driving in Rome: "You
find a space. Then you fill it." As if it were the simplest
thing in the world (3)
After an hour of sitting in the stalled train it began to move, and we and the Italians began to cheer. The train finally left the station, pulling us toward Rome, now looming like a food- and bed-filled beacon in the distance. Our glee was premature, though; after several minutes, the train stopped again, in the middle of nowhere--fields and the blackened sky stretched right up to the end of the world. The train jerked and restarted; traveled a brief ways; and stopped again. For a long time this time, as if the train thought it had reached its final resting place. The cell phones came out again. Ken and I tried to make out what the Italians were saying, hoping they knew what was going on, but they were using words we had never seen in our pocket Italian dictionary (which we had begun reading in our boredom). Their anger and frustration, however, transcended the language barrier.
I tried to take a nap, to take my mind off my stomach, but was too hungry; besides that, the growling of Ken's stomach was almost as loud as the yelling Italians. Eventually, the cell phones were exhausted, and the Italians, almost as a body, put them away; they and we leaned out the windows of the train, yelling for help into the night. We were in the middle of nowhere, so I did not know who we thought would hear. The conductors--or any other railway employees, for that matter--were nowhere in sight. The Italians and we stared back and forth, at the tracks before and behind us; the Italians occasionally shouted obscenities at the sky--maybe at God. I lay back and wondered if we should begin hiking back to Naples. It was starting to seem like the only solution. If one Italian starts back, I thought to myself, we're going with him.
I did not think the train would ever move again, but of course it did, finally. This time, no one cheered. "Don't get excited," I said to Ken, who had broken into a smile when the wheels began to turn. "This, too, could pass." Most of the passengers whipped out the cell phones again, presumably to update those who were waiting for them on the status of the journey. After their calls had been completed, everyone was silent. We all just settled back into our seats and let the train carry us along. I gazed out the window at the moon, hanging pregnant with promise in the sky, and niticed how much it resembled a creamy ball of mozzarella. I mentioned this to Ken, who replied that he was so far beyond hunger that the thought of food was no longer pleasurable. I knew what he meant.
By the time we reached Rome night had turned over into the next day by several hours. We were so happy to finally be leaving the coffin of the train that we practically ran out of the station and did not look back. We walked through the early morning hours from the station to our hotel, having given up the hope of finding any dining establishment open (even the bars had closed by this time). The dark was complete, primitive; the kind that hides under the bed with long and shining fangs. The lack of lights combined with the utter black and quiet of the early morning sky enveloped us in a black hole of a blanket from which it seemed neither sound nor light could escape. When at one point we walked by a glazed-eyed young man who furtively tried to conceal his open switchblade as he passed us on the sidewalk, we were careful to show no signs of fear; we just kept walking at the same speed, without flinching, as if we were armed as well, and with more than a knife.
When
we reached the street of our hotel, we noticed that a light
remained on at the pizza place next door. We had enjoyed its
food several times; pizza in Rome is sold not by the slice,
but by weight, so buying a variety of kinds, ranging from
potato to margherita4, is possible. We staggered in and
ordered "800 grams of whatever you have left." Within
minutes, we were seated at a bar lining the back wall,
eating what may have been the best pizza ever made, a
concoction of whole tomatoes, artichokes, and a cheese we
could not identify, washing it all down with liter-size
bottles of Peroni beer. After we had each had several slices
and were feeling somewhat more coherent, I smiled over at
Ken, and said, "Well, what do you know. We are among the few
survivors of Pompeii." He laughed and so did I. Late in the
morning, as the sun began to rise over Rome, we laughed and
drank and ate, the dust of Pompeii still lining our shoes
and faces.
1. We later discovered that this train that we had boarded was actually a much earlier train, but it had been delayed more than an hour. Apparently the day before we decided to visit Pompeii, a new computer system was installed in the Termini train station. The new system was supposed to automatically route the trains through the vast maze outside the train station to the correct tracks, but it was not yet working properly. Despite monumental delays in the trains, the Romans took everything in stride, so it was not obvious to us that anything was wrong.
2. The aqueducts are one of the best reasons to take the train out of Rome--they run for miles into the farms of the countryside. Truly a marvel of ancient engineering.
3. After our unbelieveable meal, Marco took us for a drive in his tiny car to see interesting things in Rome, and we were able to see his driving techniques first hand. Romans apparently have no regard for the lines in the road, or even traffic lights at times. Moving with traffic means moving with a mass of scooters, small cars, buses and motorcycles, all mere inches apart from each other, at harrowing speeds through narrow streets.
4. A "Margherita" pizza is tomato, basil and mozzarella on pizza crust. Legend has it that this, which some believe was the first modern "pizza," was created for (and named in honor of) the queen of Italy. The three ingredients represent the colors of the Italian flag.
