The train to Pompeii was packed tighter than bark on a tree. The doors slid open and 3,186 passengers almost fell out.

“Tutti a bordo!” shouted the attendant.

A few of us American tourists looked at each other. “What’s that mean?”

“I think it means ‘all aboard.’”

“Aboard? How are we supposed to fit aboard THAT?”

The train horn sounded.

“TUTTI A BORDO!”

So we elbowed our way onto the train car, past Italian passengers who were not thrilled to make room for us, and showed it. I sustained a blow to the upper lip from a little old woman carrying an umbrella. An elderly man in a beanie delivered a power shot to my kidneys.

We were jellybeans in a jar when the train doors shut. Standing shoulder to pelvis.

In a few hours we were in Pompeii. The world’s largest archeological site.

For those who failed fifth-grade history class (present!), Pompeii is an ancient city dating back to 8th century BC, shortly after the birth of Cher. The town is 150 acres wide, sitting at the base of Mount Vesuvius, a large double-volcano.

When Vesuvius erupted in 79 AD, Pompeii was blanketed in 20 feet of volcanic ash, frozen in time forever, transforming the city into what archeologists refer to as, “a tourist trap.”

There are hundreds of simultaneous tours happening at any given hour in Pompeii. The tour packages are tailored to suit different cultures. You can close your eyes at any point and hear guides speaking Hindi, Korean, Portuguese, Japanese, Swahili, and whatever else.

We were with the American tour group, which means we were the only ones, in all of Pompeii, who were complaining.

Throughout our tour, I heard things like:

“Isn’t there anything to eat in this freaking place?” “Why are we moving so fast?” “My feet hurt.” “Why are there so many hills?” “It’s too hot out here.” “I can’t understand her accent.” “Why can’t they hire an American tour guide?” “I want to speak to a manager.” “The least she could do is give us a bottle of water.”

Our tour guide, who I’ll call Anna, was a friendly and knowledgeable tour guide. She told us that Vesuvius is not dormant, but long overdue for another eruption, which could happen at any time. Hopefully, during the American tour.

On our tour, Anna gives us a snapshot of Roman life. We see their bathhouses, brothels, private homes, temples, courthouses, latrines, sculptures, mosaics, and plaster casts of dead bodies, preserved in ash, only minutes after the eruption, frozen in the moment of their death.

The first thing I am struck by is how small ancient Romans were. The men and women of Pompeii were roughly the size of fifth-graders.

“We Italians are small people,” says Anna, who is only four-foot ten. “But we have big butts.” At first, I’m not sure Anna intended to say this, maybe it’s a mistranslation. But then Anna smacks her own rear and simply says, “Pasta booty.”

Next, Anna shows us a dying figure holding a child. Another is clutching its throat, probably choking on ash. There is a clearly male figure, writhing in pain. I overhear an American woman point to the dying figure and say, “I bet HE got a bottle of water.”

We toured an ancient Roman home, and were given a glimpse of social norms among the wealthy. The dining room, for example, was spacious, and would have been lined with mountains of expensive food.

Anna tells us wealthy Roman dinner guests would have shown appreciation by overeating and overdrinking until they induced vomiting in the courtyard. Whereupon they would overeat again, pausing only to vomit between courses, until the food was gone. In short, it was like my family Thanksgiving.

At the end of the tour, Anna was exhausted from delivering historical information, answering questions, non-stop, and walking for two solid hours.

We noticed other tour groups of various nationalities generously tipping their tour guides in Euros. But only two Americans out of our group of 38 took the initiative to tip Anna, who seemed genuinely surprised by the gratuity.

“You’re too kind,” Anna said. “Most Americans don’t like me enough to tip.”

After which, we stingy Americans were led to the gift shop where we were free to spend our Euros on shot glasses, beach towels, plastic Roman swords, phallic gag gifts, and a host of other truly worthless crapola, which we purchased liberally, as Anna stood by, smiling.

Then, it was time to board the train and go back to our hotel. We squeezed into the crowded train. A man jabbed his elbow into my ribs. Another man had his knee digging into my backside. I was uncomfortable, tired, and thirsty.

But this time I decided not to complain about it.