In July of 2001, I travelled to Italy for the very first time. Ancient Rome had always featured as a personal interest and I was able to take in the various sights and sounds. Apart from visiting the Eternal City, I ventured further south to Vesuvius and Pompeii. However, I made one fatal error. I booked a day excursion from Rome. Time was against me from the outset.
I climbed aboard my designated coach anticipating a seamless journey. For so long, my experience of Pompeii had been limited to the spartan pages of a school text book. Now I was to see the antique town in person. That at least was my hope.
After meandering the length and breadth of Italy's capital, we finally reached a highway. Nonetheless, we were in for a rude awakening. Normally, one expects to reach an average speed of 80 km at this point. But the needle on the driver's speedometer struggled to move beyond 8 km. What had gone wrong, I hear you cry? The answer is both simple and the source of much consternation. Italians are amongst the world's greatest artists, lovers and wine connoisseurs. Where they are found wanting is on the roads. On one occasion, I attempted to cross a road in Rome. An elemental task one might assume. But to the oncoming biker, both myself and the traffic lights were a mere anomaly. My whole life flashed before my eyes. I darted for the opposing pavement and made it by the skin of my teeth. The adrenalin coursed through my body as I lived to cross another day. Suffice to say then that Italians are amongst the globes worst motorists.
Cue: Blackadder's asthmatic ant with heavy shopping! As the sands of time began to dissipate, I began grinding my teeth. My back was also suffering. After 4 hours, the picture became much clearer. Virtually at Naples itself, a brown fiat had given up the ghost. The vehicle had been abandoned. The local police (if they existed) had elected to leave it in situ. There was no point ruining a delectable lunchtime for the sake of national traffic. By default the fiat, a symbol of Italian pride, had become an object d'art. As gridlock became a modus operandi, passers by looked dispassionately at its damaged hulk.
Upon arrival, it became blatantly clear that half our day had evaporated into the ether. The guide announced rather sheepishly that we would have two hours to beat a trail around Pompeii! I was disappointed to say the least. I tried to make the best of a bad situation.
I can't say that I remember much from that tiny fraction of a day. If you'll forgive the expression - we visited the brothels, replete with graphic murals and examined a myriad of villas. Much to my chagrin, a great many artworks had been pilfered by the museum of Naples.
Before we knew it, we had returned to our trusty coach. The guide had another unpleasant surprise in store for us. On the way back to Rome, we stopped at Sorrento - made famous by the eponymous song. There to greet us were the paradigms of tourist villainy - purveyors of souvenirs. I avoided them like a Biblical plague. My counterparts, however, were not so lucky. After the Italian national debt received a shot in the arm, we were permitted to leave.
At the end of the day, I ventured back inside my hotel room feeling that I had been short changed. Whilst the empty Fiat represented the core excitement, my desire to experience Pompeii had not been satiated. One day I hoped to make amends.
I climbed aboard my designated coach anticipating a seamless journey. For so long, my experience of Pompeii had been limited to the spartan pages of a school text book. Now I was to see the antique town in person. That at least was my hope.
After meandering the length and breadth of Italy's capital, we finally reached a highway. Nonetheless, we were in for a rude awakening. Normally, one expects to reach an average speed of 80 km at this point. But the needle on the driver's speedometer struggled to move beyond 8 km. What had gone wrong, I hear you cry? The answer is both simple and the source of much consternation. Italians are amongst the world's greatest artists, lovers and wine connoisseurs. Where they are found wanting is on the roads. On one occasion, I attempted to cross a road in Rome. An elemental task one might assume. But to the oncoming biker, both myself and the traffic lights were a mere anomaly. My whole life flashed before my eyes. I darted for the opposing pavement and made it by the skin of my teeth. The adrenalin coursed through my body as I lived to cross another day. Suffice to say then that Italians are amongst the globes worst motorists.
Cue: Blackadder's asthmatic ant with heavy shopping! As the sands of time began to dissipate, I began grinding my teeth. My back was also suffering. After 4 hours, the picture became much clearer. Virtually at Naples itself, a brown fiat had given up the ghost. The vehicle had been abandoned. The local police (if they existed) had elected to leave it in situ. There was no point ruining a delectable lunchtime for the sake of national traffic. By default the fiat, a symbol of Italian pride, had become an object d'art. As gridlock became a modus operandi, passers by looked dispassionately at its damaged hulk.
Upon arrival, it became blatantly clear that half our day had evaporated into the ether. The guide announced rather sheepishly that we would have two hours to beat a trail around Pompeii! I was disappointed to say the least. I tried to make the best of a bad situation.
I can't say that I remember much from that tiny fraction of a day. If you'll forgive the expression - we visited the brothels, replete with graphic murals and examined a myriad of villas. Much to my chagrin, a great many artworks had been pilfered by the museum of Naples.
Before we knew it, we had returned to our trusty coach. The guide had another unpleasant surprise in store for us. On the way back to Rome, we stopped at Sorrento - made famous by the eponymous song. There to greet us were the paradigms of tourist villainy - purveyors of souvenirs. I avoided them like a Biblical plague. My counterparts, however, were not so lucky. After the Italian national debt received a shot in the arm, we were permitted to leave.
At the end of the day, I ventured back inside my hotel room feeling that I had been short changed. Whilst the empty Fiat represented the core excitement, my desire to experience Pompeii had not been satiated. One day I hoped to make amends.
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