Two point six million people a year
shuffle through the high arch of the Porta Marina and into the remainders of
the ancient Roman city of Pompeii. Some of these visitors meander into the town
forum, guidebooks in hand, and mentally rebuild towering marble columns from
the crumbled ruins. Or perhaps they journey to this sacred spot to imagine the
cobblestone streets alive with tradesmen, children, and slaves. Perhaps, like
me, two point six million people a year come to Pompeii and reflect upon death.
I came face to face with my own mortality in the wreckage.
When I first arrive at the
Pompeii-Scavi train station, the only reminder of death is the murderer herself
looming in the distance. Mt. Vesuvius erupted last in 1944, killing twenty-six
people. Scientists say she is due for another eruption soon. Of one thing they
are certain—she, who sits on a 154 square mile layer of magma, will spew lava
from her top again and the consequences will be cataclysmic. It’s unnerving how
her grey figure stands in the distance above her destruction, watching,
waiting. She was made to create chaos and her work is incomplete. Under her
watchful eye, tourists explore what she destroyed on that tragic day in
seventy-nine A.D. The explosion that brought darkness also brought light by
burying the town alive and consequently, preserving it. I am here today because
of her. Her hand could bury me tomorrow.
The bits and pieces of conversation
that I hear along the walk to the entrance to the site are lighthearted. Signs
advertising cheap pizza and free Internet access line the walls. Persistent men
push their arrays of multicolored selfie sticks into the face of every tourist
who comes within ten feet. People here actually buy these egocentric devices
that maximize the amount of people you can fit into one picture you take of
yourself; I see a group of teens bartering in Italian for one. It’s not the
concept of the “selfie stick” that is so disturbing as the context in which
they are being sold. Pompeii is a place where thousands of Romans were smothered
under pumice and ash; it is a place of remembrance and mourning. Imagine the
disrespect of someone selling selfie sticks at a graveyard. Everyone smile, you’ll make the spirits proud. Why does no one give this
practice a second thought here? We are
at the ultimate historical graveyard, eternal home to both young and old,
healthy and sick. Are the Pompeian’s
dead to a lesser degree because they died two thousand years ago? At what point does death demand less respect?
The clicks of camera shutters surround
me as I enter the forum. Picking up my own Nikon, I snap a few pictures of the
rust-colored rubble contrasted against the bleak sky as I try to push the
thought of death from my mind. My group follows our guide to a corner, where
the plaster casts of victims are on display. Excavators filled plaster into the
hollow spaces left within the hardened volcanic debris after the decay of the
bodies, creating lifelike statues from the molds. They are graphic reminders of
the last moments of life here. One man crouches with his hands pulled up to his
face as if in prayer. Another lies down with his face buried in his arms, too
afraid to look death in the face. A jaw with perfectly preserved teeth opens
fully in mid-scream. I can barely look at the image of the pregnant woman
without feeling a deep sense of sorrow because she never looked upon her
growing child’s face. Click. Someone
next to me takes a photo of the casts. Click.
Click. Click. The clicks grow more prevalent the more I pay attention to
them. As the shutters close, my mind opens. Where I see death, some see
plaster. When I look at these casts, I imagine myself in their position and
suddenly I am screaming, praying, and fearing for my life. Click.
Disturbing thoughts of the dying
woman follow me around for hours until I’m unable to separate myself from her. I
think of my aspirations and everything that I want to accomplish before departing
the earth. I want to love people the way I imagine the pregnant woman loved her
baby—fiercely, bravely, unconditionally. Whose
faces will I picture in my last few moments? What legacy will I leave behind?
It’s strange and uncomfortable to
think about one’s own mortality, but it’s also an important part of the human
experience. The technological distractions of this day hinder this kind of
reflective thinking. Suddenly, the successfulness of selfie sticks makes sense.
It’s not that we intentionally disrespect the dead; we just prefer to ignore
them. It’s less painful to smile for a selfie than to face the thoughts of our
own death. It’s easier to place these people into a category marked Ancient and
snap a picture. When we are unwilling, unable, or too distracted to dive deep into
mortality, we lose our appreciation for both the past and present.
“The beauty of things must be that
they end,” Kerouac wrote. The beauty of life stems from our humble mortality.
We must always seize the day or again in the words of Kerouac, “Climb that
goddamn mountain.” The mountain represents our passions—the things that make us
feel alive and whole. One-day molten lava may bust down our front door and
we’ll never look up from our Iphones. One thing is for sure--the Pompeians
never wasted time looking at a screen. The pleasant Italian climate meant they
spent a great deal of their lives outdoors. Romans from elsewhere traveled far
to vacation in the picturesque setting. The ruins of their houses, brothels,
bathhouses, frescoes, and even the grid of their streets reflect a tight knit
community of people. Running water and the ingenious design of their bathhouses
suggest they were smart, clean, and sophisticated. They valued art, music, family,
theatre, sex, love, and the Gods. Pompeians climbed that goddamn mountain.
Even in death, these ancient
peoples embody life. Blood stopped flowing through their veins thousands of
years ago, but their legacy marches on for two point six million tourists a
year to uncover. Put down your cameras.
Refuse the selfie sticks. Pay attention to the voices of the people who
perished here. Learn from them. Life and death intertwine and coexist, and
there are few places that shout this louder than Pompeii if only you pause and
listen.