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It wasn't the first time I had escaped from a museum in an unconventional way. But never had it required Nato's assistance. To understand the predicament, however, first requires some sense of how I move through museums.

I can do the Louvre in under an hour, my pace guided by all that I am not particularly interested in. I will happily skip British Museum altogether, considering I have been to many of the places from which it looted artefacts.

Once you have discussed the possible return of an Easter Island statue with an actual Rapa Nui islander, its hallowed halls begin to feel absurd. Years earlier, unable to locate the exit of a museum on the Indonesian island of Ambon, I scaled a wall and leapt across a ditch instead. Almost immediately an ojek rider - one of the island's ubiquitous motorcycle taxi drivers - handed me a helmet, beckoned me onto the back, and sped away as if we had just robbed a bank.

My escape from Museo Madre in Naples was nothing like this. That morning I had taken an early train to Pompeii. The weather was near perfect: azure sky, uninterrupted sunshine, spring temperatures ideal for wandering among ruins and imagining what it must have felt like when all hell descended from Mt Vesuvius and history froze in ash.

Vesuvius itself seemed in a cheerful mood, basking in the pre-summer light, its slopes startlingly green and not yet crowded with tourists trudging up its flanks. Pompeii was remarkably quiet, too. Entire streets lay deserted, except for the occasional elderly American carrying improbably large cameras to preserve the moment for posterity. After a few hours, I had seen enough and wandered back toward the station, stopping for coffee while contemplating what to do next. Contemporary art, I decided, would provide the perfect counterpoint.

Naples' Museo Madre occupies the spectacular Palazzo Donnaregina in the old heart of the city, and its collection includes works by an astonishing roster of contemporary luminaries. Upon entering, I was instructed to begin at the top and then work my way toward the terrace.

This involved following animal footprints painted onto the floor until they led to an unremarkable door opening onto a messy stairwell. The view from the roof was glorious. Naples unfolded in all its chaotic glamour, the breeze from the sea carrying a faint trace of washing powder. The city's streets are famously narrow, and one of its defining sights is the endless choreography of freshly washed clothes suspended overhead on poles and wires.

Almost equally ubiquitous is the presence of Diego Maradona: his image plastered across small shrines dedicated to his eternal blessings, his status elevated to that of the city's patron deity.

As I descended again, Museo Madre's central courtyard caught my attention. From above, it looked magnificent. Yet, upon reaching it, I discovered not art, but only signs indicating where installations had once stood. Another sign pointed toward the exit. The elevator did not work. The emergency exit was locked. So it turned out were all the other doors, including the one through which I had just entered.

No amount of shouting and banging produced any response from staff. The evacuation route ended at a tall gate secured with a rusted chain. I tried calling reception. But none of the numbers listed online worked either.

Then I remembered that I did, in fact, know someone in Naples: a Dutchman working for Nato intelligence, a former commando no less. Usually quick to respond, he immediately grasped the seriousness of the situation and somehow managed to contact the museum directly.

A few minutes later a staff member emerged from one of the previously sealed doors, fixing me with the kind of expression that conveyed amusement laced with disapproval. Although travel is all about creating memories, it was high time to call it a day.