Homeward bound

I pack spreading weight between X's case and my own. The excess cost £85 on the way out and I'm hoping to reduce the penalty on my return.

We have lunch outside on Zagette - pasta with more fresh seafood and glasses of prosecco. Afterward, we walk to Nico's gelateria. We are served mountainous glass bowls of creamy ice cream and feel like children delighted with Knickerbocker Glories.

Back at the hotel we order a water taxi to take us to the airport. As we head through the rose coloured city for the last time the weather turns to rain and Venice weeps at our departure. Once out into the lagoon our driver gives the boat full throttle and we bounce quickly over the water, marvelling at the floating city we are leaving behind. As we near the airport a plane flies low overhead coming in to land. As we race towards it, it feels like a scene from James Bond.

I'm sorry to be leaving but at this moment ready to come home. Italy is good for my soul and I know she'll draw me back. Venice in particular. You feel Venice - it's an emotion all of it's own.

Home will give me the chance to organise my thoughts, check in with numerous doctors and hatch new plans. How to finance another trip - robbing a bank is out as I'll be none to quick in a get away. I think I may have to rule pole dancing out too.

I'll leave it to fate. Italy.

Katy

Ouch - here we go again

My phone beeps at 6.30am and I grab it as I know it can only be BF (best friend) telling me that her labour has started. I feel strange and remote as I was only a few miles away for her 2 previous births. I can't go back to sleep; the waiting is always slightly nerve racking.

X and I head to St Mark's square. We know we'll pay a premium for ordering from the pavement cafes here, but it's his birthday so we don't care. We eat sachertorte and drink glasses of prosecco.

I'm giving the whistle-stop tour of Venice and haul X into St Marks, refusing to let him leave without at least looking inside. We climb the stairs out onto the roof, I'm positively casual at this height after Sienna's bell tower. My phone rings and it's BF. "How are you doing?" I'm incredulous when she tells me she's done and eating sandwiches, the last 2 births were far more leisurely. A little boy joins 2 daughters and I'm delighted for all that a son and heir is born. It's surreal receiving the news standing looking out over the square.

X wants a gondola ride despite my protests that its so busy during the day you feel as though you are on the log flume at Alton Towers rather than in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. However, the "it's my birthday" rules win out. Anyway, we leave tomorrow and there's no time to do it apart from now. X haggles a gondolier down to 80E for 45 minutes, and I'm certain he's still laughing all the way to the bank. The sights are beautiful but we are practically head to toe with other boats as they all complete the standard tourist circuit. The gondola in front is packed with American teenagers alternately singing Dean Martin songs and trying to capsize the boat. The look of disdain on the gondoliers face says it all. We glide past the houses of Casanova, Marco Polo, Napoleon and Mozart. I ask the gondolier if he gets fed up of his city being overrun with tourists. He tells me that away from St Marks and Rialto its a different city.

I rest for a couple of hours in the afternoon after Dolores' behaviour last night. I want to keep her as quiet as possible this evening.

We head to our restaurant by water taxi. Venice is even more beautiful by night. So peaceful, the absence of traffic is noticeable. Alone, we stand and wait by a small bridge, listening to the sound of the approaching boat and the lapping water. The unassuming restaurant facade belies the fabulous food within; razor clams, scallops, seafood ravioli, lobster, monk fish and chocolate cake washed down with a delicious bottle of local wine. The journey home is even more beautiful and we glide past sleeping Venice, lights twinkling on ancient Palazzos which seem to float on the surface of the water.

I fall asleep full and content. I can't believe my luck, Dolores hasn't stirred since her afternoon nap.

Katy

Venice

I get up early - I want to get some pictures before the masses wake up.

On my way back to the room from breakfast I stop at reception to ask directions to the hair salon where I have an appointment later in the day. I ask in Italian and the Venetian behind the desk visibly winces at my attempt. "What madam?" he manages in a strangled voice. I give up and ask in English.

The weather is cool and Venice flirts with me this morning. Cloaked in mist I catch glimpses of her down long narrow passageways and then she's gone again, laughing over her shoulder.

The Yank-o-meter is registering high this morning and I can hear the 'waa waa waah' of US accents around me. "Do ya know where ya goin'?" one woman asks her husband; to which he responds (I swear) "Affirmative". Some of them have obviously heard that Venice can be subject to aqua alta and are striding around in Wellington Boots. Beautiful.

I duck away from the crowds to find the rebuilt La Fenice and the Palazzo Contarini del Bovolo; whose outside staircase is fit for fairy tales.

I have coffee and biscuits on Campo San Stefano and then head to the hair salon. Apparently a favourite with Trinny and Suzannah, although on first impression I find it hard to picture the glamorous twosome in here. The stylist speaks no English and I manage to convey in my pigeon-Italian what I want, and I have to say she does a remarkably good job.

I grab some lunch and head up to the Rialto for a quick look but the heaving masses quickly have me heading back to the hotel for some rest. X is arriving this afternoon and I have promised to take it easy.

He arrives around 6pm and we eat dinner in the hotel restaurant. We stay up past midnight to see in his birthday, by which time Dolores has joined us. She's desperate for some attention and makes her presence felt, plucking at my nerves and I can't lie still. I have to silence her with some serious tranquillizers. I feel sorry for X, it can't be pleasant to watch.

Katy

P.S - Venice

I arrive at the train station at 9.10am - the woman in the Tourist Information Office told me that there were trains at 27 and 37 minutes passed the hour. However, this is Italy, and I forgot to ask which hour in particular. There is no train until 10.37am. Damn. I have an enormous suitcase plus a weekend bag as a piece of hand luggage - not even a spare hand to get a coffee.

The weight maximum for items in left luggage is 20kg; but it's amazing what fluttering your eyelashes will get you. I dump my large case praying that the Louboutins are still inside when I pick it up.

Heaving my case onto the train is a Herculean attempt - I only just manage it and I know I'll regret it later. I grab the seat nearest the door and barricade myself in with my luggage. It's not until I have practically disappeared from view that I realise other people are getting on looking for seat reservations. I pray that no one needs my seat as there's no way I can move my luggage again.

Someone does come to claim my seat, but not until we are 2 stops away from Venice. To her "Do you have a reservation?" (in Italian) I automatically answer in English. She takes pity on me and finds a seat elsewhere.

Getting off the train in Venice is dreamlike - exiting the station a set of stairs ends in water and gondolas. It's chilly and threads of mist hang over the water. I haul my cases onto the number 1 vaporetto for the 30minute ride.

The hotel is off the Accademia Bridge and is a wonderful dose of luxury. Fluffy bathrobes, a huge deep bath, breakfast in bed if I want it and a steam room.

I go out for food immediately - I am starving - and wolf down a pizza at a place on the bridge. I am too tired to investigate further. I know my body needs to rest and I'm anxious to make the most of the weekend.

Katy

Z is for zero (Part 2)

So how does it end?

I would love to be able to tie everything together neatly, give you a happy ever after. But I don't know.

I agree with E M Forster that Italy is a metaphor for fate. It makes you feel as though, even if something doesn't happen, it could. Does that mean alive?

I have been happy and lonely, sad and excited, old and young at heart, frustrated and capable, well and ill.

We take the longest time getting to know the person closest to us; ourselves. Be at one with yourself and only then can you feel truly grounded, centred and alive. Dolores and I are continuing to fuse together, teach one another and grow from the experience.

This above all: to thine own self be true.

What has this experience taught me? To listen to Dolores more. I am not indestructible. No man is an island.

So it's back to where we came from. Set the counter back to zero.

Having survived holidaying with Dolores once, I suspect I may chance it again. However, we need to dip our toes back in the UK before deciding what to do next. Dolores fancies some sun, and for once I agree with her.

For now though, we're packing our bags for Venice. My favourite city in the whole world.

Katy

(I know it doesn't begin with 'Z' but there was only one choice for the final song.
Non, Je ne regrette rien - Edith Piaf).

Z is for zero (Part 1)

I get 2 "Bella ragazza" shouted after me whilst out this morning. This makes me feel good (a) because I am still being called a girl, and (b) because my hair obviously looks better than I thought it did.

I need to shop for a backless bra in order to be able to wear a dress I have with me. The department store has nothing but sends me to a smaller shop with the promise that "she has everything". "She" turns out to be three men serving ageing signora's support knickers. Obviously it's the twenty something who serves me; and despite the fact that he's very helpful I can't help thinking that part of his smile is due to the fact that he's imagining me wearing what he's just sold me.

I stop on Piazza della Signoria for a coffee. I know I'll be charged a tariff for a table on the square and in the sun, but I don't care as it's my last day. A cafe latte and some strawberries set me back 17.50E - about £12.00.

As I'm savouring the world's most expensive snack, a woman of opera-singer proportions comes and takes a seat to my left. Face framed with a mass of long dark curls, she's dressed in a black tent topped with a bright red coat. She has matching red lips and red nails decorate the ends of pudgy fingers. Red glasses which seem to be a cross between welding goggles and 3D glasses are perched on the end of her nose. She huffs and puffs and orders gin. The drink arrives with bowls full of crisps and olives. Rather than move the glass bowls closer to her, she grabs handfuls of crisps and places them onto the table nearer to her, to ease the transition between bowl and mouth.

Expensive strawberries, but great entertainment.

Katy

Y is for yawn

I wake up shattered having hardly slept at all.

Having injected some caffeine to stop me yawning, I wander to Piazza Republica to enjoy the warm sunshine. Just beyond the square I find a fantastic old fashioned toy shop. All of the toys are carved out of wood. A full size wooden motorbike glazed honey colour with varnish dominates the window. Wooden toys are stocked floor to ceiling; Pinocchio's of all sizes and all telling lies, cuckoo clocks, childrens names, animals and an assortment of wooden weapons. An adopted niece of mine has been hankering after a sword (ever the tom boy) and I am delighted to find a wooden one for her. No doubt she'll think it's rubbish because it's not a real one.

I walk back via the bakery and buy a lasagne for lunch - freshly baked and nothing like the microwaveable plastic back home.

On the way back to the apartment I pass groups of locals out for a Sunday stroll and note, not for the first time, how stylish a nation Italy is. The notion of an Italian 'chav' simply doesn't exist. Vicky Pollard could certainly learn a thing or two out here.

Katy

(Y is for You get what you give - New Radicals)