Chapter 33
Fifty minutes, two sips of limoncello and a prosciutto Piadina later, our next and final stop is Pompeii. The crowds are already slowly swamping the entrance, like the walking dead in bumbags and crocs.
We have four hours here to explore. My knowledge of Pompeii is somewhat limited but what I do know is that it was a Roman city, buried under a volcano, and some of it still stands.
It was the subject of a British comedy series in the late sixties where every second line was an innuendo, and my father said it was the funniest show ever made. It wasn’t.
‘Mount Vesuvius,’ Ellis informs me. ‘That’s the name of the volcano.’
I roll my eyes. Is he really volcano-splaining me? I decide to have a little fun.
‘You only know that because Camilla just told us.’
‘What? No, I knew that!’
‘Did you, though? Seems awfully convenient that you repeated that right after she shared that information.’
I enjoy watching him vehemently insist that he already knew this fact until he understands that I am just winding him up.
‘Very funny.’
‘I’ll have you know that I took A level geography,’ I inform him. ‘I know mountains.’
(I know four mountains.)
‘What else did you study in school?’ he asks.
‘As well as geography I took maths, English, drama, biology. All grade As.’
‘Good to know,’ he replies. ‘Did you get extra credits for being a smart-arse?’
‘Signore e signori, from your information pack, you will see that there is a lot to discover in the city. We have a tour with an archaeologist scheduled but for those who wish to be alone, please return to the coach no later than three p.m. If you are late, we will leave without you and so will the ship. Then you live in Italy forever.’
There are giggles as half of the group scramble to go their own way, while the other half, mainly older passengers, stick with Camilla. We choose to leave with the former.
‘Anywhere you want to go first?’ I ask, opening the map. ‘Holy shit, this place is huge.’
Ellis shields his eyes from the sun with his own map. ‘I say we just start walking. I doubt we’ll see everything, you’d need about a week in here.’
We visit the brothels first. Fascinating. Tiny rooms, almost cell-like, stone beds, iron bars on the minuscule windows and erotica painted on the walls. I stare at them closely, tilting my head left and right to observe the parts that aren’t entirely clear on first inspection.
‘You know how every generation thinks they invented sex?’
He steps beside me, his head tilting to match mine. ‘Yeah.’
‘I think these guys might have actually invented sex.’
As we walk around the uneven stone streets, the past is still very much present.
From the architecture and archaeological findings to the smell and the sobering sight of the casts made from the unearthed bodies.
Men, women, children and animals, their last moments on earth preserved under layers of ash.
After almost two thousand years, their story lives on.
‘It’s surreal to think that in two thousand years, people might be looking at our bodies and commenting on how primitive our lives were,’ I say, swigging from my almost empty water bottle.
‘If a volcanic ash cloud suffocated London, we’d all be discovered holding our phones,’ he replies. ‘Half tweeting about it, the other half recording it.’
I laugh. ‘It’s called X now.’
He tuts. ‘Elon’s not the boss of me.’
By the time we get to our last area, the amphitheatre, I feel like I’m going to melt. There are hardly any shaded areas so even my sun hat feels like it might disintegrate. I take my sun cream from my bag and begin to reapply.
‘I noticed you were going pink,’ Ellis comments as I rub the cream vigorously into my arms. ‘Watch you don’t burn.’
‘I’m either going to dissolve or tan for the first time in my life,’ I reply. ‘Probably the former. You want some?’
‘Thanks,’ he replies. ‘I can feel my nose peeling as we speak. No one needs to be subjected to that.’
The grey-bricked amphitheatre is quite imposing from the outside, and gloomy as you walk through the tunnel to reach the middle where it suddenly opens, becoming a bright, open-air arena.
‘You can practically smell the gladiatorial battles here,’ I say, feeling very small as I stand in the middle.
‘That might be me,’ he replies. ‘I’m a big guy. We sweat.’
I laugh. ‘Can you imagine what went on here? It must have been brutal.’
‘Yeah. They hold concerts here now, don’t they? I’m sure Pink Floyd played here.’
‘Fucking Pink Floyd,’ I mutter.
‘Not a fan?’
‘Sorry, an old boyfriend worshipped them. Our musical tastes weren’t exactly aligned.’
‘No? Let me guess, you’re into hair metal. Maybe some old-school gangsta rap.’
‘I happen to have a very eclectic taste in music and, as it happens, I have both Dre and Bon Jovi on my playlist. Amongst other things.’
‘I’m just messin’,’ he assures me, grinning. ‘You just don’t look like you’d listen to either of those, but kudos. “Living on a Prayer” is a classic.’
We continue walking the perimeter of the theatre, moving around other tourists. I see Camilla and her group all looking as sun-drenched as we do.
‘What was the last song you listened to? Show me. I don’t want to hear that it’s some cool, highbrow band when it’s actually Vanilla Ice.’
I take out my phone. ‘“Lautar”. Pasha Parfeni.’
‘No idea who this is.’
‘He’s a Moldovan singer,’ I reply. ‘He’s quite good.’
I also love him. Deeply.
‘What about you?’ I ask.
He shows me his Apple Music. ‘Jackson’. Johnny Cash and June Carter.
‘Ha!’ I reply. ‘I have this on my playlist too. You don’t look like a Johnny Cash fan . . . but kudos. This is a classic.’
‘Touché.’
‘Anything else that would surprise me?’ I ask. ‘Taylor Swift? Stray Kids? Some Beyoncé before bed?’
‘I have a teenage daughter,’ he replies. ‘These are all staples in my house. I’m not pretentious about music. It’s subjective. If I like it, I’ll play it.’
I like his answer. It’s refreshing to hear that. ‘Your daughter has good taste.’
‘Sometimes,’ he replies, smiling. ‘My son is a closet Elton John fan. To the outside world, it’s all Kendrick Lamar and Post Malone but when he’s home, he’s Yellow Brick Roading himself all over the house. I’m not even sure his girlfriend knows.’
I laugh. ‘How old are your kids?’
‘Chris is twenty-one, third year at university. Lena is seventeen.’
‘What’s he studying?’
‘Law at UCL. Lena wants to get into medicine, though she also wants to study piano, so we’ll see how that turns out.’
‘Impressive! You must be proud.’
He smiles. ‘I am. They’re good kids. What about you? Any other Bon Jovi fans in your house?’
‘No,’ I reply. ‘Just me.’
Part of me is glad that I’m now at the age where strangers don’t follow up my answer with well, there’s still time. Ellis just smiles.