I’m sweating profusely walking up a rocky trail that is poorly maintained. I rush because I started late, about 1.5 hours later than I had planned. When I tried to catch my train, two Argentinian tourists were stuck at the ticket machine, struggling to buy their tickets to Sorrento fast enough, and I was stuck behind them. With 20 seconds left before departure, I ran after my train and watched the doors close in front of my eyes. I was stuck on the Circumvesuviana platforms under Napoli Centrale. The next train was in 1.5 hours.
It is a warm day, around 30°C, and I pace towards the patches of shade to avoid the burning sun. My skin is taking a hit from all the brambles I have to push through. There will be a total of 1,300 metres of ascent before I reach Mount Vesuvius, and somewhere in the back of my mind I travel through time. I imagine myself as a peasant of the Roman Empire climbing the hill from Ottaviano. The town is said to take its name from Octavianus, better known as Augustus, the first Roman emperor.
After a couple of hours and a few hundred metres of ascent, I reach a plateau where the path improves significantly. A wide gravel road continues uphill and the landscape becomes more scenic. The brambles are progressively replaced by holm oaks and bay laurels surrounding the path. The slope eases and the climb turns into a walk. I meet nobody. It feels almost like a spiritual retreat on this Wednesday morning: me, the lonely Roman peasant, and the wild volcano I am trying to reach. After a few technical sections of slippery, sliding rocks, I reach the top of Monte Somma, the ancient rim of the volcano from which Vesuvius grew. How special, to stand on such a powerful mountain looking straight at Vesuvius.
There is something almost comical about being alone in nature with a deep viewpoint. An hour earlier I was sprinting after a train with 20 seconds on the clock, convinced those 20 seconds mattered. Up here, the ticket machines, the timetables and the rush of the city look like props on a stage, and the superficial materiality of our daily lives hits the hardest.
The hike to the peak of Vesuvius continues by climbing down a portion of that elevation to a middle plateau. From there a road leads to the place where the tourist buses drop off the day’s visitors. That is where there is money to be made, for those who know where to look. And if one person there that day knew it, it was Giovanni. But at that moment I was still focused on reaching the crater of Vesuvius. To do that, I had to connect to a WiFi spot to snatch one of the last-minute tickets available at the entrance. Most tickets are sold by tour operators, so getting one of those last-minute ones is a gamble if you are not putting all your eggs in the same basket.
With my ticket secured, I start the last ascent of the day, surrounded by the crowds that define Western mass tourism. Many Americans, Germans and French people, ill-equipped yet powering through their only ascent of the day. They need frequent breaks on the way up, and the Italians have planned for them with shops serving drinks alongside souvenirs. I eventually reach the crater of this sleeping giant. A half-circle loop is the last flat stretch from which to observe the crater from different angles. In one spot, smoke is slowly fuming, a reminder that an eruption is never fully off the table, whatever the sleeping cycle the volcano is said to be in.
As I finish my loop around the caldera and walk down the slope to the bus area, I need to ask permission to take one of the tour company buses, because no public bus goes to Ercolano, my destination, where I want to visit the frozen city of Herculaneum. I ask the gate employee how to find a ticket and he quickly points me to the cafeteria: “Ask for Giovanni.”
At that point I was not sure whether I was looking to buy 2kg of cocaine or a one-way ticket to Ercolano, but I followed the instructions I had been given. I reached the little cafe and walked inside to ask the bartender, an older man with a white beard chatting with two friends at the counter. “Are you Giovanni?” I asked, quite sure I had found the right person based on looks. “Giovanni!?” he answered in a startled voice. “Outside!” I went outside and found a man sitting on a bench in the sunlight, wearing an official Vesuvius ranger vest. “Hello, are you Giovanni?” I asked. “Giovanni! Aspetta, Giova!” he shouted towards the road (“wait, Giova!”). A man turned and stared at me.
Giovanni wore a tight black shirt tucked into skinny jeans. His short grey hair was neatly brushed back and he wore golden sunglasses. He never stopped moving, constantly walking somewhere around the perimeter of the car park. Every time a bus or taxi came close, he made contact with it. For a second he turned his attention to me, never quite looking straight at me, staying on the lookout for other vehicles entering his territory. “Next bus, 16:30,” and that was it. Giovanni started his dance again and went straight to other vehicles to scold drivers, direct their manoeuvres and shout instructions.
Nobody in that car park dared to talk to Giovanni as an equal. Everyone looked employed by him. On that day, in that car park, Giovanni was the ruler of Vesuvius National Park.
I eventually managed to hop on a bus full of tourists, everyone showing their return tickets. The driver paid no attention to them, because the person responsible for collecting money was Giovanni. Before we were due to depart, the man himself came on board to check tickets. He wanted to make sure the travellers to Naples had bought an additional ticket. He pointed out those few travellers to the driver in a scolding tone, to remind him of his responsibilities. Luckily he forgot to ask me to buy a ticket, so I enjoyed a free ride to Ercolano. The rest of my day was a beautiful visit to Herculaneum, which will be another story.
I don’t know if I will remember the crater of Vesuvius more than the aura of Giovanni. What seems certain is that they were not that far off from one another.