At a dinner party last weekend, the conversation inevitably turned to Tom Hiddleston’s new docuseries. The star of “Loki,” wielding his university classics degree, has traveled back to the site of the infamous 79 A.D. eruption to walk solemnly among the ruins, searching for our shared humanity in the ashes. My tablemates, predictably, spent the evening shaking their heads at the sheer scale of the tragedy. But as I swirled my natural wine, I realized I was the only person in the room who recognized the Pompeiians not as victims, but as pioneers of the ultimate hard boundary.
The dominant historical narrative demands that we pity the residents of the doomed resort town. We are supposed to look at the plaster casts of citizens frozen in their final moments and feel a profound sense of loss. But call me old-fashioned: when I look at the wealthy patricians who saw a massive, advancing cloud of superheated pumice and simply said, “No,” I feel a deep sense of validation.
These were people who refused to let an external pressure—in this case, boiling volcanic glass—dictate their schedule. They saw the sky turn black, they felt the earth fracture beneath their villas, and they actively chose to be intentional with their time. Fleeing to the harbor with the panicked masses is reactive. Staying in your private courtyard to finish a plate of figs while the atmosphere turns to poison is a lifestyle choice.
The patrician class of Pompeii largely perished because they genuinely believed their generational wealth would physically repel a 900-degree pyroclastic surge.
Exactly. They knew their worth, and they stood in their power. How often do we let minor inconveniences ruin our peace? We are constantly abandoning our physical and emotional spaces the second things get difficult. A minor hurricane warning, a wildfire three zip codes away, a slightly aggressive email from a junior partner—we immediately pack our bags and run. We are so desperate to survive that we have completely forgotten how to live.
I thought about this last month when my contractor informed me that the foundation of my summer home was sliding into the sea. His advice was to vacate the premises immediately. But watching Hiddleston gesture thoughtfully toward the remains of the Temple of Apollo, I realized that leaving would be giving the erosion power over my narrative. I simply muted the group chat with my structural engineers and drew a bath.
The docuseries leans heavily on the tragedy of the working class, lingering on a baker who died clutching a final loaf of bread. Hiddleston presents this as a heartbreaking testament to human frailty. I see it as the ultimate Sunday reset. That baker was romanticizing his life right up until the ash hit his lungs. He didn't drop his artisanal sourdough to join the undignified scramble for the boats. He committed to the bit.
Tom was deeply moved by the baker's final moments, which we chose to frame as a testament to human resilience rather than a small business owner who just really didn't want to lose thirty sesterces.
As an amateur classicist myself—I spent a semester adjacent to the ruins of a Roman bathhouse in Bath—I appreciate what Hiddleston is trying to do. He wants us to see ourselves in the Pompeiians. He just chose the wrong lesson. The takeaway isn't that life is fragile and natural disasters are terrifying.
The takeaway is that there is nothing more undignified than rushing. Have you ever tried to leave a coastal resort town on a holiday weekend? The Appian Way must have been an absolute parking lot. The real heroes of Pompeii were the ones who looked at the traffic, looked at the erupting mountain, poured themselves another glass of Falernian wine, and let the earth come to them.