Mt. Vesuvius

Outside the Scavi, we caught a private tour bus that drove us up to Mt. Vesuvius, about 20 km away. The drive there took close to 45 mins, however, due to the steep angle of the mountain and the hundreds of switchback turns that we had to maneuver in the coach. Several times, cars coming down the mountain had to back up in order to allow the bus to make the full diameter of the turn. The bus driver honked his horn in advance of each turn, but most of the cars ignored his warning and almost ran into us as we moved into the blind turns. Surprisingly, the roadway was covered with trash--and I don’t mean litter. Bags and bags of trash, as if everyone decided to drive to the nearest bus stop and abandon their weekly garbage. The bus driver just shrugged when we asked why it was there. Many people who we spoke to back in the States said that Naples was a dirty, crime-ridden city, but I didn’t think to such an extent. And we really weren’t even in Naples, just on the outskirts. Filthy.

After we drove as far up as we could go, my mom and I disembarked at the observatory, where she remained while I climbed the rest of the way to the top.



It took me 45 minutes to climb to the summit, but only 20 minutes to get back down. The mountain is still entirely covered in ash, so climbing the steep pathways is like walking uphill in sand. The higher I climbed, the windier the peak became, but this was offset by the perfumed air. A fragrant yellow tree, something like frangipani, grows most of the way up the mountain.

At the top of the mountain, the crater is deep and ominous. Smaller in circumference than it looks from sea level, but more craggy. It was sad to think how much destruction began right before my eyes.

When we returned to the B&B and took off our shoes, we realized how covered in ash we were from the mountain. Because of the dark line around my ankles, I, especially, looked like I had a deep farmer’s tan. I had loaded up on sun block before we left, so I knew the line had to be dirt. When I turned around and saw the trail of dust I had left on the clean white tile and on the bedspread, I was horrified. I jumped in the “shower” (sit down with hose extension) and scrubbed the grit from myself, but lo and behold, some of the demarcation was actually tan. So, call me farmer Arlan.