The Camping Zeus is a few short meters from the train
station at Pompeii, which lays tracks opposite the sprawling dead city of
Pompeii. The Camping Zeus is an orange grove full of recreational vehicles and
retirees nestled between twisting trees of tough color and the cement and tile
of motel style rooms and a large bathing complex that smells like bowel pocket.
Gnats, white-winged, rise and fall within a column, silently caught in Dante’s
whirlwind. Unidentifiable birdcalls clamor in the blue, sounding like
windchimes’ metal on metal slide. The train and a cleaning cart rumble. The
oranges are as thick-skinned as everything south of Roma Termini. Last night, a
woman from Holland with white puffs of hair offers us her husband when we ask,
parli inglese? She remains smiling in her fold out chair, catching words in her
slightly opened teeth, words like “they told us it was a train strike,” “stupid,”
“so much money.” We climb each other to twist orange stem from tree, toss them
to each other, slouching in the beds. A dog with mange unthreading his side
comes to paw, to whistle his whine to our windows, a serenade from Naples.
Naples, the first view from the train we thought would never end had already added
unease to the sweat from the long rumble.
Love that odd juxtapositjon of the Dutch woman, the oranges, the campers. This is also very promising. Would give you a chance to write about the experience of being conned, too, which--mark my words--will be something you will write about, over and over.
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