Back on the mainland of Italy, the next stop was Pompeii.  To get there they rode some of the famed autostradas of Italy, where cruising at 100 mph they would be passed by cars clocking near 150 mph.  The high-speed roads were a fast way to move around Italy, but came at a price, as most were toll roads.  An additional cost was the lower miles per gallon needed to maintain the 90-100 mph speed while riding in the middle lane of the three lanes moving in their direction.  The far right lane was for the much slower vehicles, like trucks and slow cars.  The left lane was for the Big Dogs, those BMWs and Mercedes that flew at speeds close to lift-off levels for airplanes.  One crash resulted in a 15-mile traffic stall while police and maintenance people cleaned up the scene.  Fortunately for Greg and Donna-Rae they, as well as other motorcyclists, were allowed to ride between the stopped cars, ‘splitting lanes.’  What could have been a several hour delay turned out to be little more than a slow down.  Motorcycles are often seen riding between cars, even when the cars and trucks are moving, sometimes at speeds near 60 mph.  Greg wisely opted to go with the flow at speeds above 40 mph, but when things slowed down would join the locals and take advantage of the opportunity offered to motorcycles.

     A street in Pompeii, with Mount Vesuvius in the background.  In 79 AD the mountain blew its top, dropping nearly 20 feet of hot ash on the city.  Over 1,000 of the 20,000 residents of the city died, mostly those who chose not to flee.  Those dying would tire from trying to push through the ash, coming to a stop to rest, then being covered in falling ash.  As the ash built up on them they were smothered, then broiled or BBQ’d in their surrounding cocoon of warm ash.  2000 years later plaster could be poured into the cavities of the dead and molds made of their bodies, several of which were on display.  The city of Pompeii was never re-occupied.  Today most of the city has been uncovered and is a walking museum.  Donna-Rae spent the better part of a day hiking the streets, taking photographs.  Greg lasted only a few hours in the morning, retiring to a bistro and a jug of vino de la casa, to ease the pain in his aching knee and ankle joints from climbing up and down, saying, ‘I’m a biker, not a hiker.’

      ‘People, people, people,’ was how Greg described much of Italy.  He noted that nearly everywhere houses could be constructed they had been.  In the cities streets were jammed with traffic and in the countryside villages and towns flowed from everywhere.  His comment was usually followed by, ‘The Italians are following too literally the Pope’s condemnation of condoms.  They need to pull-up on their baby-making or soon there will no clean air or space on mountain sides to build houses the way they are following the gospel. The rhythm method or their timing isn’t working.’ 

     Eventually they tired of fighting city traffic to find a place to sleep at night, and started looking more in the countryside for small guesthouses instead of hotels.  The guesthouses cost less and were often owner-operated, to include family members doing the cooking and cleaning.  Seldom was English spoken in the smaller villages where they spent the night so Donna-Rae found herself trying to recall the Italian she had learned nearly 40 years earlier.  When she spoke Italian it sometimes came out as a mix of Italian and leftover Spanish from months earlier as she and Greg passed through South America. 

     One night Donna-Rae ordered broccoli and was served what she thought was spinach.  She complained to the waiter by saying, in her mixed Italian/Spanish/English, ‘I ordered broccoli and this is spinach.’  The waiter answered, in English, ‘That is broccoli madam.’  She repeated her complaint, and the waiter repeated his answer.  Finally Greg said to Donna-Rae, ‘Eat you broccoli Donna-Rae.’ Donna-Rae snapped back, ‘But it’s not broccoli, it’s spinach.’  Greg swirled the wine in his glass, took a sip, then gazed at the ceiling, before responding, ‘Remember what is said about doing Roman things when in Rome?  We are 50 miles from Rome.  That spinach on your plate is broccoli.  You ordered broccoli, broccoli is what you were brought, so you should be enjoying it.’  Donna-Rae scowled at both the waiter and Greg, then politely said, ‘I don’t like spinach.’  Greg and the waiter lifted their eyebrows while looking at each other, as if to say, “Momma mia!’  The broccoli went untouched during the rest of the meal.

 At the end of a road in a lazy fishing village they found a sleepy eight-room hotel.  Donna-Rae captured sunset over the rocks and waves, saying how beautiful the setting was.  Greg, with his drool humor, tried to prepare her for dinner, by saying, ‘Hey, I saw on the menu board outside they had cheese covered broccoli as the dinner special tonight.’