Under a Pompeii Sun
In Pompeii's ancient city, scores of tourists mill on dusty trails with the eyes of time travelers trapped inside the frame of an archeologist's dream. At the ticket booth, a tour guide thrusts his purple stick in the air. The prop: a giant lollipop, a visual aid, corralling a large group visiting from Brazil. Before the three-hour walking tour, the group populates near a concession stand, adorned with hanging baskets of ripe oranges and large lemons. On a hot summer day, the most popular item in the visitors' hands is a botteglia di aqua. A bottle of water chilled. Nearby, vendors push an assortment of trinkets, many of the items sold in the outdoor tents, are humorously explicit. More on that tour later.
Passing Porta Marina, the town gate, our driver Alessandro grows increasingly impatient with the flock of pedestrians grazing on the graveled streets. Quite abruptly, he slams on the horn with his right hand, and then, he punches the steering wheel, cursing the herd of tourists. Minutes later, he finds an opening in the crowd and swerves into the parking lot, near the indoor gift shop. A tall, thin man in aviator sunglasses walks toward the car. My travel partner, Linda, studies him, as she clutches her Channel purse.
"Who is that handsome man?" she asks, smiling with great curiosity.
Alessandro barks, "So... now I am chopped liver?"
The man with a streaky mixture of red and blonde hair disappears from my view as I pull down the mirror flap from the windshield. The silence in the car is deafening, on day number three with Alessandro, our driver who reeks like a chimney sweeper.
.....
Alessandro swings open the door and exits the car in an uncoordinated fashion. His clumsy gait matches his sloppy attire, a complete opposite of his Facebook profile picture. That photo must have been snapped in another lifetime, decades ago. Like so many others, Alessandro glosses his appearance on social media. Offline, he is much older, disheveled-looking (wrinkled shirt half-tucked into faded pants), and he is not as tall or as thin as he appears in his profile photo. My intuitive powers tell me not to trust him. Standing next to Alessandro, Linda sparkles like a crown, royal jewel. To which I am not surprised, he mined her on my social media friend list. At the time, it seemed harmless to accept him into our social circle. After all, we were planning to return to Rome. We wanted to visit Pompeii for literary research on the libidinous feasts, once celebrated in the name of Bacchus, the Roman god of wine and debauchery. The latter, undoubtedly good writing material and the primary purpose of our private tour.
Linda reflects a golden halo on the crown of her head, against the backdrop on a brilliant day in Pompeii. She is part Cherokee Indian with Nordic bloodlines, and she has a passionate heart for anything Italian. Painted on a fresco, in another life, Linda could have been one of the elite women in Ancient Rome who wore the most beautiful Persian silks and Egyptian bling, cooled by an oscillating fan gripped by a hulky gladiator. In modern-day, Linda is a ringer for the Queen of Pop, Madonna, shielded behind her large round, designer sunglasses.
Capturing the glamour on film, I point my Canon Rebel lens at her, "Ciao, Madonna, strike a pose for your fans."
Linda giggles, "Well... I always wanted to be a movie star."
She then covers her face in full celebrity character as if silently saying: Don't take my picture!. Ironically, her daughter Allie is a musician, singer, and actress in Hollywood, filming the second season of The Red Road, a Sundance television show. Allie is very talented and lucky to be staring with Jason Mamona. Now, he is an adonis, demi-god, a gladitore. Mamma Mia!
So what does a good friend do? Frame after frame, I snap the shutter like a paparazzo- me, being the female version, paparazza. We would later find out that Madonna was in Rome, the same time we were; so, it wasn't a far stretch to pretend Linda was a pop star, after all. Then again, we were two American donne biondi, blondes in Italy, standing out from the crowds in sunny piazzas, and under a bright moon on dark, narrow cobblestone streets. Ah, a Ruth Orkin moment, snapshots of unforgettable moments of men ogling us. When I'm 80-something in a nursing home, I will flip back to these memories, images of men shouting, "Ciao Bella. Bella Ciao."
Alessandro lights a cigarette and rolls his eyes, balking at our pageantry of photographs. He starts a conversation in Italian with the mystery man in the dark, aviator shades. Observing closely, I warn Linda we need to keep a close watch on Alessandro. A few yards away, under the shadow of an olive tree, an older man keeps watch, holding his position like a statute, steading a wooden cane under the palm of his right hand. Minutes later, he comes alive to join the conversation between Alessandro, and the handsome man with the aviator shades. At first, I follow their words with no difficulty, and then dialects quickly bury the translation. The exchange blows up without warning, like the fatalistic eruption of Mount Vesuvius that spewed 30 feet of ash and pumice over Pompeii in 79 AD. Italians are known (my father was) for volcanic discussions in business affairs, politics, and explosively in calcio (soccer).
Alessandro sternly glares, then blasts evacuation orders, as though he were Benito Mussolini, pointing a stiff, pointed finger in the direction of the souvenir shop.
"Ladies, go away now and get your free shots of limoncello inside!" he brusquely commands.
His stern manner irks me. But the very mention of gulping alcohol-infused lemonade instantly cools my Italian temper. I look at my watch, three more hours weathering the hot sun and dusty trails in Pompeii.
..........
A stout, older woman holds her post at the front entrance of the main gift shop, greeting visitors with brochures and coupons. She invites us inside a mini-mall of merchandise stocked with everything under the Pompeii sun. Apart from the usual souvenir pile of pens and magnets, leather shoes, purses, belts, and bright colored clothes merchandised on racks and shelves. My eyes fall to the right corner of the store, an assorted collection of limoncello bottles stacked in wooden crates, as tall as the bookshelves in the New York City Public Library. Next to a robust red wine, the aperitif made from Sorrento lemons (Sfusato Lemons) has become my favorite drink in Italy.
"Ciao bellas, you want to try some limoncello," asks a young man from behind the counter.
"Si, naturalmente!" Yes, of course, I say- promising to return after a quick visit to the bathroom.
Upstairs, we locate "Il Bagno", the bathroom. To avoid confusion, we stand in a gender line: women to the left, men on the right. I stay as far left as the narrow space permits, hoping not to get trapped in a stinky urinal inside the men's room. I rather not whiff fermented urine and the putrid scent of mothballs left inside the drains. And in this situation, I cannot afford the error; there is a fifty Euro cent, exact change entrance fee.
Instead of a coin slot on the door (found in many of Italy's public restrooms), two women sit at a long table like poll workers, monitoring ballots. A thought comes to mind: what if these women are involved in a mastermind coin operation? You never know what to expect in foreign countries, especially in Europe where tourists suckered in droves. I observe one of the women tallying the number of entrants on a spreadsheet, attached to a clipboard, while the other collects the lavatory levy. With no time to debate their authenticity, I fumble through my purse and find two shiny nordic gold coins. Before checking the face value, a scrunchy-faced woman swipes the money out of my hand and waves me through it. Entering the bathroom, I notice soap and napkins fully stocked in the restroom, and it is sparkling as if Mr. Clean had just visited. Next to the dispenser, a sign reads:
DO NOT WASH YOUR FEET IN SINK!
The sign written in English- are they picking on Americans? Perhaps.
I wash my hands and reach for the napkins, stuffing a handful in my purse, then I look around in fear as If I had just stolen something inside the bathroom. Guilt surfaces from a TV episode I had recently watched. Unlike the slapstick character Larry David, I would not get busted for shoplifting napkins. Fortunately, there was no "Napkin Nazi" in the bathroom like the guy in the pizza shop who warned Larry, "Only two napkins per customer". The obstinate and slapstick Larry stuffed a hefty stack of paper napkins in his take out bag. Soon after, he was pulled over by a police officer. Of course, this probably would never happen in real life- but it sure as hell made me laugh on a couch in my family room, and again in a public restroom in Pompeii. Come to think about it, the Napkin Nazi sort of reminds me of Alessandro, our driver, the Roman Pigeon as he would be called.
......
Orgasm at the Limoncello Stand
A young, handsome man with a devilish grin waited nearby as we shopped for souvenirs. Dressed in a red apron and a colorful, whimsical hat, he looked like a nostalgic poster boy for an old-fashioned ice cream parlor. At his counter, the limoncello stand, he showered us with aperitifs from the Southern Italian region.
"Ah, that is delicious!", Linda belted, as she took another shot of the tangy, lemon drink.
"Esqusito!" I second the motion.
The young man poured many more flavors in small plastic cups.
"Allora, try Pistachiocello, Meloncello and Fragoncello."
Swig. Repeat.
Switching to English, "Here is coconut and-a sweet ending for sweet girls, I give you chocolate."
Swig. Repeat. Mamma Mia!
The sampling was orgastic, a creamy waterfall cascaded in the back of my throat. I felt a burning sensation run through me each time I sampled a different flavor. The young man, the host of the limoncello orgy and pleasurable skinny dip, handed us plastic shot glasses, like sampling spoons you would use at a Baskin Robbins or Ben and Jerry's. The flavors: lemon, pistachio, cantaloupe melon, strawberry, coconut, and chocolate warmed my stomach. I wanted very much to feel a buzz, but the desire waned as I thought of the three-hour tour on uneven streets in the ancient ruins. Before we left, we bought a few bottles, which we later consumed in a moon-lit courtyard with new friend. Regrettably, there was a flavor we didn't sample Viagroncello, a shot that is said to bring about arousing side effects. As you probably may have guessed, it's named after Viagra, flavored with Sambuca, chili pepper, and mint.
Aaaaah, I love Italy!
I exited the gift shop in a lighter mood and surveyed the scene. The older man with the cane sat in the same shady spot. This time, undisturbed by the Roman Pigeon, pecking next to him and the mysterious man with the stylish, aviator shades, a Pompeiian-Roman treaty was reached. History would soon repeat. Once again, Alessandro waved us off, as an invisible meter ran inside his black Mercedes sedan. Before I could protest, the man standing beside him peeled off his sunglasses and introduced himself as Enrico, our private tour guide. Oooooh, Linda was right--he was very handsome indeed.
......
Enrico donned a long-sleeve, blue and white stripe button-down shirt and dark blue jeans belted with a thick white belt. Our tour guide wore clean, comfortable white sneakers. It was a sporty wardrobe ensemble you would find on a mannequin in the window of a clothing boutique in Manhattan or Milan. Looking down at my black Italian-made, open toe leather sandals, I questioned whether I should have also worn sneakers like Enrico. But I simply refused to pack white as bleached teeth, tennis shoes. The footgear and sloppy faded blue jeans attire shout, "I'm American!" when traveling abroad. Don't get me wrong, I'm proud of anything made in the USA; however, on this trip, I must blend into the local scene, dressing fashionably at every step on the historical cobblestone. And, so did Linda.
Our handsome escort grinned, whisking us away from the restless pecking head and dark, beady eyes of Alessandro, the Roman Pigeon. I looked behind and watched Alessandro flash a thick, porcelain horse teeth veneer, sarcastic smile as he slipped away under the shade of the olive trees...
