The ancient streets of Pompei are no place for spike-heeled boots.

But that's what she's wearing. She and her little cluster of beautiful friends are très chic as they trot after their guide. They totter carefully over the enormous rocks paving the street, now worn between with gaps waiting to catch an unwary ankle. One holds a cell phone, pointing it skyward every now and then in hopes of catching a signal. This is Pompei today.

Filippo, our driver-translator-guide, has hooked us up with a friend who does tours of Pompei. His name is Riccardo and we love him. He has lively blue eyes and a mischievous look. He knows everything there is to know about Pompei.

We stop after the first climb up to the city and look out to Mt. Vesuvius. Riccardo begins to speak. In 79 AD, the volcano erupted. The city of Pompei was buried in lava. Now it exists as an archaeological and anthropological fascination, an ancient city frozen in midstep. We know this part of the story.

I should take a moment to add that looking at the real Mt. Vesuvius is just surreal.

The beginning of what I didn't know about Pompei is that people dug it out and reinhabited it more than once. Vesuvius has been an active volcano through the years. Even today, people living in the Pompei area are being paid by the government to leave. The volcano hasn't blown since 1944 and locals are becoming, perhaps understandably, very fucking nervous.

What all of this tells us is that some of Pompei is still underground. My father learned in Jerusalem to look for arches at ground level: arches always have something beneath them. We see a lot of arches.

I wonder why Pompei was repeatedly rebuilt. After the second eruption, wouldn't you think they would look into moving somewhere else?

In its day, Pompei was a busy port city. With that in mind, look at the Amalfi area map again. The distance between Pompei and the Bay of Naples was created by Vesuvius. It's all volcanic rock. It's a long-term shoreline shift by volcano. Amazing.

Like other port cities, Pompei's economy was primarily fueled by sailors, who came ashore seeking food, trade items, entertainment, and sex. The city's thirty-five brothels took care of the sex part. To make it easy for illiterate sailors to get what they wanted, brothels had painted depictions of different acts on the walls above the individual rooms. When I glance up, it occurs to me that reading the sex menu is a lot like reading a fast-food menu.

Outside, Riccardo tells us that archaeologists have uncovered graffiti left by the customers of the brothels. Some individuals were reviewed and recommended; others were the subject of disease warnings to future customers.

I can't decide whether I'm more amused or saddened by the brothels and their accompanying graffiti. I think about the women (and men) waiting in the little rooms of the brothel, and how deeply rotten their lives must have been. But maybe I'm wrong.

We walk. Riccardo talks. It's impossible to contain every bit of beauty, every curious detail, every funny anecdote. Riccardo tells us that archaeologists working in Pompei found loaded dice from 79 AD. He shows us the grooves in the front stones of shops used for sliding doors closed at night. He points out the pipes which sent water from the aqueducts into houses in Pompei. The downside to the indoor plumbing is that the pipes were made of lead.

Some items we notice (photos found online):

a faun statue with marble mosaic (my mother says, "That would look good in the garden. You don't think they'd mind...?")

a mad cool optical illusion mosaic made with marble in different colors

an ancient welcome mat (have means "welcome")

early "Beware of Dog" signs

And speaking of dogs, they're everywhere in Pompei. Big dogs, small dogs, snoozing dogs, dusty dogs, dogs lying in sunlight or sliding into little dog-sized holes in the ruins. As a family, we tend to be friendly to animals, and the dogs of Pompei are no exception. We scritch behind their ears and scratch their backs and rub the furry bellies they offer us.

We don't see any starving dogs, a fact not lost on us. Riccardo tells us that a local woman takes care of the dogs. We see her a few minutes later; she and Riccardo exchange cheerful greetings in rapid Italian. I don't know where she gets the money or what other roles she plays in life, but she's St. Francis to the dogs of Pompei.

We start to lose the light. Pompei will soon be closed for the night. Riccardo chats with a man whose job appears to be telling people to leave when closing time is near. We hit the amphitheater for our last stop.

I am underwhelmed. The enormous curved benches I expected are not there, only metal supports meant, presumably, to hold them. Between the rows of supports are steep and dangerous-looking stairs. We snap pictures and head out.

It's been a long day, and my back and ankles hurt. My mother sets a brisk pace toward the exit. I nag at her to slow down; the time between sundown and darkness is hard on visibility, and taking a Manhattan pace through semi-dark Pompei is just asking to get hurt.

She slows down. "My father used to say that. Don't take that one last run (skiing). That's when you get hurt."

Riccardo calls Filippo as we walk, and Filippo meets us at the entrance with the car. We're sorry to say goodbye to Riccardo, but we're exhausted. Someday I'd like to return to Pompei, preferably with a stronger back and ankle braces. I could spend days wandering unguided with only a camera and a water bottle. But right now, the back seat looks like a little slice of heaven to me.