This morning we took the 8:14 a.m. Circumvesuviana commuter train to Pompeii. This part of Italy is a little different from the rest of the country. I don’t want to call it the Stone Age, but… you can’t tap to pay or buy tickets online. There are ticket machines, I suppose, but most people just buy tickets at the office from attendants who have a 50/50 chance of knowing English. Also, the train does not announce stops ahead of time. You just have to know.

We arrived in Pompeii right on schedule—which, if you know me, means plenty early. Our tour was at 9:30 a.m., and had we missed the 8:14 train, the next one would have gotten us there at 9:26. Too close for me.

Our guide was a local Italian who also happened to be an archaeologist working on active digs in the area, which was very cool and made me trust her immediately.

By the way—Pompeii is huge. And they’re still uncovering more and more of it.

I kept wondering what it would look like today if Mount Vesuvius hadn’t wrecked it in 79 AD. They were already pretty advanced, with plumbing and all.

But get this—Pompeians apparently had no idea Vesuvius was a volcano. Before it erupted and obliterated the city, there had been a series of brutal earthquakes. Some excavations even show families were in the middle of repairing damage before they got crushed. There’s also evidence some of the town’s bigwigs had gathered the very day of the eruption to decide what to do about the constant shaking and the whole-town-falling-apart situation.

Then… BAM. Actually, more like BAM x6. Pompeii wasn’t just slowly buried in ash the way I always imagined. Yes, earthquakes were shaking things apart, but what really finished the city were terrifying superheated pyroclastic surges—fast-moving clouds of scorching gas, ash, and debris roaring down from the volcano. Historians think many who hadn’t escaped were killed almost instantly from heat shock or suffocation, then buried afterward.

So it wasn’t one dramatic final boom so much as a series of increasingly catastrophic waves that made survival nearly impossible.

We wandered through the ancient city for hours. Our guide taught us how to distinguish storefronts from houses, and some homes even had political slogans painted on the walls—basically the ancient equivalent of yard signs before elections. Some things never change.

The homes followed similar layouts with recurring features, and I think I was most surprised by the plumbing. Also the mosaic floors—lots of them—which is wild considering much of it was built in the first and second centuries BC. Some houses were enormous and housed servants as well. Allegedly around 30 percent of inhabitants were enslaved people living with these families.

Toward the end of the tour, our guide showed us the area where new excavations are underway. We could already see the corner of a roof from a building that hasn’t even been fully dug out yet. We also got to look down into freshly uncovered rooms from above.

She told us they recently discovered another victim frozen in time holding a terracotta pot over his head, desperately trying to shield himself. That was surreal.

Walking through Pompeii, with all the household shrines, pagan gods, and serpent images painted and carved into walls, it was hard not to wonder whether news of Jesus had reached here yet—and if so, what people made of it.

By 79 AD, the gospel had already been spreading for decades, so it’s entirely possible some people in Pompeii had at least heard whispers of this new faith while still living among Roman gods, protective household spirits, and symbolism woven into daily life. It creates this strange overlap in time where the old world of idols and multiple “gods” was still fully alive, even as Christianity was quietly beginning to move through the empire.

Anyhow, at some point we ended up in the café area and wanted a snack before continuing. Most places had long lines, so naturally we walked into the only shop without one, pointed to something that looked like a pastry, and halfway through eating it realized it was pineapple rum cake. So I’m no longer sober.

Just kidding—everything was fine, and I didn’t react to it. (If you’re new to me, this is significant because my body doesn’t metabolize alcohol properly, so it’s less “I don’t drink” and more “I’m not built for it.”)

We ended our visit at the famous Garden of the Fugitives. Surprisingly it wasn’t as crowded as the rest of the site, and even our guide hadn’t taken us there—we had to find it ourselves.

It’s likely what you’ve seen in documentaries and YouTube videos if you’re a nerd like us. The figures are plaster casts made from voids left in hardened volcanic ash where victims’ bodies decomposed, preserving the haunting shapes and final positions of people caught in the eruption. Very sobering.

Overall the visit was incredible. There were, however, a lot of students there. Like… a lot. Clearly multiple school field trips. The younger groups all wore matching neon baseball caps, each class a different color, which was… something.

The older high schoolers, however, were not amused. Many were looking at their phones. Or at each other. Or vaping. God bless them. Meanwhile I had to keep watching the ground, which is made of lava stone and wildly uneven. I’m coming back to the States with steel ankles.

After Pompeii, I reluctantly agreed to go with Matt into Naples for pizza. Initially I had planned to spend as little time in Naples as possible, but we felt we couldn’t leave Italy without real Neapolitan pizza, so we penciled it in right after Pompeii.

I had briefly visited Naples by myself in 2010 and was so overwhelmed I skipped Pompeii entirely, skipped Neapolitan pizza, and took my behind back to good old Rome.

I’m trying to kindly describe Naples. If the rest of Italy is regular print writing, Naples is cursive. Flowy, slurred, messy. Like it was blended with the chaos of Cairo and other dusty Middle Eastern cities. It even mirrors Cairo’s scam culture. (Egyptians forgive me!)

Meaning: as soon as we got into a taxi at the station and noticed the driver didn’t turn on the meter, I knew we were paying double. And we did. Cash only, of course.

Normally I’m a fighter and would have pointed to the fixed-rate table he had posted, but I didn’t have the energy. My goal was to get in and out of Naples as fast as possible.

He dropped us at the end of a mostly pedestrian street, pointed down the block, and said it was a 20-second walk to “the red tent.” Our restaurant was not the red tent. I take it the red-tented restaurant belonged to one of his buddies. It was actually about a five-minute walk and then a ten-minute wait for our restaurant of choice: Gino e Toto Sorbillo.

Excellent pizza. Service… so-so. I think they’ve reached the point where they know people will come no matter what, so the hospitality element is a little lacking. Either that or they hate tourists. But I’m just speculating.

I ordered the Diavolla pizza, which sounds spicy, but so far everything in Italy claiming to be spicy has not been. And that’s coming from me. I’m a lightweight with spice.

The pizza arrived as thin as copy paper in the center with a decent crust, somehow giving the illusion of eating a lot while not really. Everyone there ordered and finished an entire pie on their own.

Afterward we looked for an authentic Naples sweet treat. The internet recommended Sfogliatella—a shell-shaped pastry with sweet creamy filling—and we found one nearby with a hint of lemon. Honestly we had to wing it. We saw it in a storefront and ordered. No time to Google. No time to choose a place. 

Naples will eat you alive if you hesitate. The whole culture, at least on that street in the historic center, is in-your-face soliciting. And I loathe it. Loud. Obnoxious. Uncomfortable. My theory is if you have a good product, it will sell itself. If you have to sell me on it, I don’t want it.

At that point I wanted a taxi back to the station, but I literally couldn’t stop long enough to order one because we kept getting approached. The first taxi driver had given us his card so we could call him later, but I’m not trying to support scam culture.

So we walked. Fast. To the Station. Through Neapolitan arguments, crowds, and relentless street vendors. I had to shoulder-check a couple barkers just to maintain stride. Some saw us and started pointing, yelling “Americana! Americano!” Which honestly made me want to choose violence. I blame Matt; he was dressed way too flashy for this city.

Matt picked up on my discomfort and asked if I was okay. I shook my head no. So he stayed close and started pointing out random things he thought I’d like to distract me. Typical Bucky.

We finally made it to Napoli Porta Nolana station and got tickets back to Sorrento. We had a little time before departure, so he walked me into a leather store in the station to calm me down. Something about the smell of leather and retail makes everything less scary.

Alas, we made it back to our home base of Sorrento after a long sleepy train ride—and just in time for aperitivo. Which for us was… coffee on the hotel rooftop lounge. We needed the pick-me-up.

Then more strolling, a little shopping, and eventually dinner at Storico8 Focacceria Artigianale e Cucina. The classic Sorrentine dish is gnocchi, which is great for healing any lingering trauma from Naples.

Alright, I’ll cut the theatrics. I promise I’m fine and I didn’t panic. But my brain prefers order and etiquette.

So therefore… I’m not built for every city.