The Remains of Pompeii

Our Italian guide spoke rapid English.  He struggled with the pronunciation of earthquake because he felt impelled to end each word with a vowel.  He called the natural phenomenon a “hurt-a-quake.”  We were touring the remains of Pompeii which was destroyed by a volcanic eruption that covered the entire village in ash. 

There was an old brothel (decommissioned, of course) where the ancient Pompeiians went to pass the time.  Just like today, I bet there wasn’t much to do.  The whorehouse was recognizable by a phallic protrusion hanging above the doorway.  Even back then, subliminal advertising was effectively bringing in customers. 

Inside the building, old paintings showed couples in various positions of copulation.  Perhaps they were instructions for beginners.  I can’t imagine the beds were very comfortable, and I’m sure the repeat customers left with a persistent itch. 

At the end of the tour, there were human plasters on display.  The ash solidified and encased their corpses, frozen in their final postures.  A pregnant woman sprawled out on the ground and breathed through the gaps in her fingers before she suffocated.  Another figure was sitting with his knees near his chest.  His hands were clasped in prayer. 

Aggressive tourists were jockeying for a better position to photograph his remains.  Looking through camera lenses often makes us lose our subjectivity and sometimes our morals.  Although I was slightly disturbed by the disrespect for the dead, I, too, pushed my way toward the front to capture an ironic image of a dead man sitting next to a fountain filled with gold coins.

I bet that man never could have imagined his bodily remains would be such a money-maker on display.  His thoughts were too consumed with the afterlife.  Maybe he was worried about all those trips to the brothel.  How would he be judged by his god? 

Surely he could never conceive of such a consumerist life after death.  But now that man was making more tips than the gypsies begging in the streets.  Tragedy makes for a profitable business eventually.  It’s sad to think some towns are more notable after they’ve been decimated, but repulsive sites are equally attractive for their extreme nature. 

There are two tragedies in Pompeii.  The first obviously being the volcanic eruption.  The second and more relevant is the outrageously priced lunches.  Aaron bought a small salad for four euros, but I wanted something more substantial.  A young, bearded Italian cook caught my eye and immediately started persuading me to buy his food. 

Innocent browsing is impossible here.  I always feel coerced into making decisions to avoid feeling guilty.  The man pointed to lasagna, rigatoni, and gnocchi in long pans behind a glass display.  The mentioning of gnocchi caught my attention, so I inquired about the price.  Its ridiculousness was on par with the rest of the stands nearby, so I had no choice but to pay up. 

Besides, I had already locked eyes with the vendor and wasted his time conversing in broken, simpleton English that consists of pointing to things and grunting, “How much?”  If I backed out at this point, undoubtedly, he would’ve cursed me in his language.  He may have implored me to engage in bestiality with a local farm animal, and I, ignorant to his voodoo, would have thanked him because I didn’t know how to apologize in Italian. 

So I chose the gnocchi and watched him inexpertly spoon the pasta into a bowl.  His tiny utensil necessitated several trips to build a full portion.  The pasta was not near a heat source that I could identify, so I wondered how he was going to warm it up. 

Fortunately, my question was soon answered, but, unfortunately, the solution was a microwave.  So much for authentic Italian cuisine, I thought. After tentatively taking a bite of lukewarm gnocchi, I concluded that Pompeii was struck by a third tragedy.  Not only did its citizens burn to death or suffocate from inhaling a giant cloud of volcanic ash, the present food is overpriced, and the quality is worse than the grub served at my high-school cafeteria.  Is this what the people of Pompeii died for?  Mediocre pasta?