Roseburg, OR

Andreas Paepcke
Aug 26, 2017 · 4 min read

Visited a friend in Portland. Two notable items (the first notable
mostly for me).

Klutz!

In an effort to repeat my wonderful Edmonton Segway experience, I
participated in a Segway tour of Portland. I was the only one in the
tourist group with experience on the vehicle. And yet.

Negotiating a corner in downtown I did not execute a 90 degree turn in
farm vehicle style. My right wheel caught the base of a decorative
lamp post, and off I went flying. This mode of provoking ejection from
a Segway was something the chipper guide had warned us about at the
outset.

While the sciatic nerve had, and still has quieted, and the lower back is just a bit of background drone, the upper right quadrant of my left foot is now
banged up. To my relief, the area did not swell, and I fit into my
motorcycle boot. I just can’t flex or pivot the foot on the ground. I
found out today that when you get off a motorcycle you put your left
foot down, toes facing forward. You then swing the right leg over the
seat towards a standing position. In swinging, your left foot pivots on
the pavement towards a position where your toes face the bike. While executing that pivot, your left foot bears your weight. Never noticed that. And: not any more, it doesn’t. I’m still working on a good
alternative dance move for dismounting.

What is ironic is that I had just 30 miles North of Portland rolled
past 5000 miles on my 780 pound motorcycle without incident. Then a
Segway does me in. Damn. Don’t tell anyone.

Pompeii for American Audiences

The Oregon Museum of Science and Industry (OMSI) in Portland is
hosting an exhibit of Pompeii. I visited this exhibit right after
banging up my foot, and their first aid people kindly iced me a bit.

Here is an observation: I forgot to take photos, even though they had no prohibition. Part of it was mild concern about my foot, which hurts in a way it never has. Not intensity, just where and how. I thought of a colleague who had a “hair fracture” in his foot and was on crutches for weeks.

But mainly, I didn’t take photos because my friend was with me. Doing anything in company, eating, driving, or visiting a museum turns off most of my sensibilities. That is, my ability to see, feel, and transform. So the forward looking activity of picture taking fell away. Its usefulness was buried by the perceived need to communicate with my friend from time to time. Executing, or anticipating this communication turned off my open receptivity to impressions and associations. Hmm.

As it happened, my visit occurred 1938 years after the Vesuvius
eruption. To the day!

Beautiful artifacts, 3D models of a Roman villa as reconstructed from
excavations. What made me shake my head in wonder, and elicited a bit
of European arrogance was the museum’s coverage of Pompeii’s erotic
life.

In the broad, two story exhibit, a roughly 6 foot by 6 foot area was curtained off with giant signs warning of the horrors that awaited within. Visitors were given ample opportunity to bypass this tiny area. Naturally, I could barely find
space inside among people crowded in. Lighting was a sultry red. Two
points struck me.

First I found one minuscule statue of a man with an erection. I’ve
been to Pompeii, Heraculaneum, and associated museums. These places
are packed with images of Priapus, whose giant erection is a good luck
charm for the house, and promises fertility and richess for the
household. If male reader egos can handle it, I suggest this image as
an example.

Just one example of what Pompeiians liked to show in their homes. Utterly underplayed in the exhibit to protect the innocence of American visitors.

A Google search for Priapus might convince you that phallic fantasy
was quite a part of the Pompeii home. Deserving, most certainly, more
than the representation exhibited in Portland.

The second point that struck me in the exhibit mini peepshow was a
large-screen, 3D schematic walk through of a brothel. Pompeii featured
several, and we even know the names of the proprietors and relative
popularity of the establishments. What made me wonder was the
inclusion in the imagery of one service provider in her room. She was
by herself, and weeping. A voice over suggested that she was sad about her existence as a sex worker. This (as I remember) animated image of the woman was not a fresco of the time, but a modern day creation.

What I strongly suspect, but have not investigated, is that this
pitiful depiction of prostitutional mood might be pure puritanical
projection. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the sex workers in Pompeii were all
crying just as soon as each customer left. But I do wonder.

The lives of slaves were much more cheerfully presented. Those happy
souls prepared the food, washed the dishes, schlepped amphorae of
wine, olive oil and spices from here to there, rearranged furniture to
afford their owners comfy dinners in the atrium. They even got some
money, and if they were good and frugal they could buy their freedom.

Nonetheless, I think the exhibit is worth seeing.

Body cast of people surprised by the eruption.

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