I wish I could tell you that was my enthused response when faced with Mount Vesuvius. Alas, it was not. Minus the mild expletives, my reply was something a little closer to, ‘have you completely lost your mind?!’
Apparently, my gap year mentor had. Under the false pretenses of an Art History tour, Lucie had led us to one of the most dangerous and active volcanoes in mainland Europe (a.k.a. the conical chasm of doom). Not only that, but just moments before, she had actively shown us the damage that this very same volcano had caused to Pompeii and Herculaneum in 79 AD. Crumbling ruins, partial frescoes and ash-preserved bodies had done little to instill me with confidence.
Deciding that this was the right time for a few words of encouragement, our mentor resolutely informed us that an eruption hadn’t taken place since 1944. So, what?! All that meant, in my mind, was that an eruption of epic proportions was long overdue. Unashamedly staring me in the face, this gigantic glob of solidified magma, smoldering ash and sulfurous gas, seemed anything but inactive. To me, she was about as dormant as a sleeping dragon; wield the slightest bit of provocation and her cavernous jaws would unclasp to release a fiery wrath of fury on the world (again).
So there I was, forced to choose between the lesser of two evils. Stay at the bottom and die an unsuspecting and lonely death, or, climb to the top and die a faster death amongst friends. Climb to the top, it is then.
No sooner than stepping out of the bus (three quarters of the way up) did a strangely disquieting sense of calm fall over me. Honestly, how hard could it be? An Italian beauty sauntered along in her six-inch stiletto heels. Well then, no problems after all. Nonchalantly ignoring the knowing glances of the kiosk vendors, I casually waived away their supportive walking sticks…
…Oh, how I lived to regret that decision. Trudging along the rocky and dusty trail, I kept imagining the reassuring relief of a crutch. Instead, I was stuck with just my weak core stability for company. Wonderful.
At this point, Lucie decided it was a key moment to perch upon the barren near-vertical slopes to read some letters of Pliny (an ancient Roman author). As the sole surviving eye-witness account, Pliny is essential to our understanding of that fateful eruption that buried two villages under a blackened cloud of ash. Recounting descriptions of a dense mushroom cloud, shaking buildings, roaring lava surges and a rainstorm of pumice stones, she recited,
“The buildings were shaking with frequent large-scale tremors, as though dislodged from their foundations…They used strips of cloth to fasten pillows on their heads as a protection against falling stones.”
Trying to distract myself from Lucie’s comical sense of timing, I looked away only to see the Louboutin-clad lady tottering by. Seriously?! I would have liked to have had a pillow strapped to me, if only to throw at her head.
Keen to muster on, we continued on the short trail to reach the summit. Peering into the wide-rimmed crater, we relished in reaching the highest point of Vesuvius (about 1,281 meters high). Bubbling like a smoking cauldron, plumes of billowing steam rose from the crevice to remind us of its latent power. As if I could forget.
Pausing for a moment of reflection, we all stared out at the sweeping panorama of Pompeii ruins encircling the Gulf of Naples. Eerily quiet in collective awe, even a wimp like me could admire the beauty of the scene unfolding.
It didn’t take long, however, for those fateful words to come tumbling out….
‘Can we go down now, please?!’
25 January, 2012 9:00 am
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