Napoli, Day Six

 June 7, 2025

The Last Night, the First Forever

The day started early. I wanted to stay in the room a little longer, knowing that this was the last day of my Campanian trip and the first time I’ve ever felt quite like this. We left the villa just as our neighbors were leaving too. I now had a face to connect to their cheerful euphemism from the night before. The area was green, and I felt sleepy. The humming of the morning air was singing Neapolitan songs in my ears. I didn’t want this day to end. I wanted it to last forever.

Lush green trees and flowering bushes, the smell of Paestum’s soil and its quiet, elegant warmth, mingled with traditional houses and the love I felt for everything around me. Our first stop was the same dairy farm we’d discovered the day before: Tenuta Doria. For breakfast: thick yogurt made of buffalo milk, one topped with strawberry jam and the other with red fruits, both locally made. The buffaloes were already soaking in the pond, half-asleep, half-smiling in their own animal way. The land was silent. And inside me, everything was happily screaming: I love you. I kept the little jars for souvenirs to bring back home, as proof that something this gentle and perfect had really happened.

We set off for our next and final destination of this trip: Pompeii, the lost city. On the highway, I struggled to keep my eyes open. There were plenty of times I quietly napped while my body tensed to keep its balance on the bike. Maybe my brain refused to wake up from the dream it was still dreaming.

We arrived. The town was alive, so many people already sipping coffee outside the café near the entrance. We parked and made time for a second breakfast. Barely able to keep my eyes open, I asked for my usual espresso and a baba soaked in syrup and rum, exactly the way a Neapolitan baba should be: intoxicatingly sweet.

We walked to the entrance, booked our tickets, and set off together with hundreds of people from all four corners of the earth to visit a city of pain, destroyed by the deadly breath of Vesuvio. The eruption of 79 AD buried Pompeii beneath six meters of ash and pumice, preserving it in a moment of stillness and devastation. Over 2,000 people died, their lives frozen under layers of volcanic history.

He bought me a map, something I always appreciate when visiting archaeological sites. No one had ever done that before. This trip, he had equipped me with a whole library of all the things I love most, offering me the kind of information I truly value. It was more than thoughtful; it was love disguised as care.

The sun was scorching. Tourists clustered around their guides, listening in English, French, Chinese, but we didn’t need that. We’re both curious souls. We prefer to wander on our own, to follow the thread of history at our own pace rather than be pushed through it.

We entered through Porta Marina and passed the Suburban Baths. We gazed at the Temple of Venus and the Temple of Apollo, and finally saw the Basilica and the Forum, an open space buzzing with visitors, everyone pausing, uncertain which alley to follow next, like ants in a maze. We passed the municipal buildings in search of shade and continued to the Temple of Isis and the Large Theater.

But we knew where we were going. Maybe better than most. We were heading toward the Amphitheater, where Pink Floyd had played live in 1971. We walked along a shaded alley flanked by tall house walls, and entered the House of Octavius Quartio. Inside: painted walls, gardens, frescos. I thought to myself, this is what I want one day, not a house with a garden, but a house around a garden. A home where the open space is the heart of it. Where so many things can happen, in silence or laughter.

I imagined us there. A room filled with his books and music, with plants and light pouring in. I saw him sitting, smiling, blowing me a kiss before returning to his reading. Maybe later, he’ll come and share something he’s just read and we’ll talk about it, knowing, of course, that we agree. Because we’re fragments of the same star. Two parts of the same soul.

We exited the house from the opposite side and sat on the stone steps beneath the wide shade of a tree. In front of us: the Grand Palestra. We entered. And inside, another world. Glass displays filled with artifacts recovered from the site. Jewelry. Household objects. Tools and precious belongings that once decorated homes made with care. I was thrilled, really thrilled, to see these things. To connect to the women who had touched them. Mothers and daughters. Their lives were unfolding in front of me like an ancient papyrus, unrolling just for me to read.

From there, we made our way to the Amphitheater. We entered the arched corridor, once reserved for Pompeii’s most important citizens. Now it held Pink Floyd posters, screens with footage of the band, interviews, how the impossible became real and one of the greatest live performances of all time took place there. I wasn’t born yet. He was a young boy. Their music would shape both of us.

"Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun" played in my memory. I sang it silently in my mind, remembering dark clubs and early mornings when that song had been my religion. And now, I was walking on the soil where it had all happened. But not alone. Never alone again. I found you. You found me. Right when the world was collapsing. And in one moment, everything was rebuilt with Love, and the deep green of your eyes.

We walked into the center of the amphitheater. The heat was unbearable, our faces burning, but we smiled at each other. Unable to believe what we had seen. What we had lived. What we had become.

After photos and videos, we walked the shadiest alleys back toward the forum. The sun was burning, hotter now than the fire that once rained from Vesuvio. We made our way toward Villa dei Misteri, stopping along the way to drink water, to take photos, to kiss.

And then came the stillness. The plaster-cast bodies. The figures caught in time. What were they thinking, in their final moments? How do you face death, when it comes with such power, such heat?

We saw more inside Villa dei Misteri. They were still there, witnesses of the tragedy. Not the first, not the last. The villa itself held erotic murals, deep red walls, and quiet rooms that offered shade and silence. Just what we needed.

We left Pompeii hot, tired, glowing. We had lunch at the same café as earlier. Mozzarella. Fresh tomatoes. Gnocchi alla Sorrentina. Sweet, soft, steaming. Tomato sauce and bubbling cheese. A small glass of limoncello and the golden road opened for our return to Napoli.

The port appeared, and then the city center. Like it always had. Familiar. Alive. Whispering: will you return? Yes, I will. I promise.

Back in the room, I showered, washed the dust from my skin, wrapped myself in clean clothes, and wrote a letter. Not just a thank you. A declaration. A confession. All your doings, all your gentleness, all your strength. You kissed me with tears in your eyes. I’m here with you. And you’re there with me. Always.

We went out early that evening. We walked through Piazza Plebiscito and down toward the water. Saturday. Locals filled the promenade, walking slowly, joyfully. Vesuvio watched from across the bay silent, still. Not threatening now, but protective. Like a sleeping sentinel. Or like the soft rise of a woman’s chest in climax.

We arrived at the Castle of Parthenope. Where legend says the siren, having failed to seduce Odysseus, let herself die. This was her resting place. And from Parthenope, Napoli was born.

Then came Lungomare. Full of voices. Laughter. Hands held tightly. These people, I knew them. Even if we had just met. Una faccia, una razza. But something tells me it’s even more than that.

And then came the surprise. Our final dinner. A pizzeria by the water called Mamina, with red-and-white checkered tablecloths and tables facing the sea. The castle. The sunset. Our hearts. And the miracle: our table, right at the front, empty. As if fate or magic had reserved it just for us.

We sat down, looked at each other. Tired. But drunk on love.

The pizza arrived. The best pizza I’ve ever had. The crust soft and crunchy, the mozzarella melted in the center, the pomodorini sweet and fresh like a wild flower. I thought I couldn’t finish it. I was wrong. Napoli sat beside me and said: This is how we do it here.

Dessert came: baba and ricotta pera. Soft. Creamy. Delicate. A whisper of salt to balance the richness. And then—

Music. Musicians walking from table to table. I filmed them, smiling. Life is beautiful with you.

They played for the table next to us. A beautiful girl with dark eyes. Then they turned to us. “The lady is Greek.” “Then we’ll play Zorba.” The sound of sirtaki filled the air. “Play Quanto Chiove,” he asked. And they did. Our song. The one sung to me a month ago. The one sung to me since. The one that makes me beam. That makes my heart dance.

I smiled like a little girl. That’s what love does to me.

He filmed it. Proof. Of love. Of difference. Of intoxication in the best possible way.

The girl looked at me, smiling. As if to say: You’re one of us now. Enjoy it. Live it. I couldn’t stop smiling. Couldn’t stop looking at him.

Yes. This is love. When both feel equally. When souls match and hands find each other in the dark. When kindness echoes between two hearts.

This is the love I was born for.

We walked to Gambrinus. Our last stop. A special vermouth. A lemon ice cream inside a frozen lemon.

The night was calling us back. The morning was waiting. The plane was waiting. Greece was waiting.

But I was there, walking on Via Toledo, next to you. Real. Present. Aware. In love.

And in the shadows of the Quartieri Spagnoli, the past whispered:

You were always here.
And you were always together.