Chapter 13

The rest of our time in Rome was wonderful—harried and action-packed, but I loved it. I definitely wanted to return and I wondered if there was some brass somewhere that I was supposed to be rubbing. Then I realised how superstitious that was, and I am not the superstitious type.

I made a vow to stop wishing on coins and throwing them into fountains and to stop rubbing brass all over Europe. If I saw a black cat, I would pet it and I’d happily walk under any ladders propped up against buildings.

Although I really did want that Isabella Rossellini wish to come true. I still couldn’t believe I’d seen her in person.

Lou and I had a funny moment as we were walking to the Spanish Steps—they were just steps, by the way. Nice steps, sure—people seemed very happy to sit on them and while away the time—but really, they were steps. I digress. As we passed a department store, there she was, Isabella Rossellini, her face twelve feet tall. I stopped and pointed. “That, Lou, is her.”

She looked at the exquisite photograph. “Sorry, it’s who?”

“My second wish.”

“Ohhh. Yeah, I think I’ve seen her before.” I rolled my eyes. How could she not have?

Spanish Steps

From the Spanish Steps, we walked north to Piazza del Popolo and climbed the hill to the massive park which overlooks the city. “I’m beat,” said Lou as she took refuge on a park bench.

I joined her. “Yes. Lots of walking the past couple of days.”

“Well, at least it burns off the pasta.”

We hung out there for a little while, resisting the urge to buy gelato from a nearby cart. How good can cart gelato be, anyway, even in Rome?

“Where are we meeting Jaelee and Dani again?”

“Not far. Via del Corso. It’s down there somewhere.” I pointed in its general direction.

“I don’t know if I can handle shopping today. It’s just walking that costs money.”

“Hah! Hilarious. I could text them and tell them to meet us at a wine bar or something. Jaelee did say shopping then prosecco.”

“Text them. Say, ‘prosecco, no shopping.’ Then we can find somewhere to go.”

“Jean-Luc took me to this great wine bar yesterday, but it’s a bit of a walk from here.”

“Don’t say the ‘W’ word.”

“Sorry.”

“Honestly, I’ll go anywhere—close. There must be some place down there.” She pointed to the Piazza del Popolo below us.

“I’ll look.”

And that’s how we ended up tipsy at four in the afternoon. Dani and Jaelee met us laden with bags—seriously, how were they cramming this stuff into their luggage?—and caught up to us soon afterwards. “Another bottle, por favor,” Jaelee called out, speaking Spanish to the Italians. The calling out part was unnecessary. It was a very small place.

By the time we got to Anna’s restaurant to meet the guys, we were completely sloshed. Thank goodness for the pin I’d dropped on Google Maps the night before, or it would have been a minor miracle if I’d found it.

Carlo and Anna greeted me like a long-lost friend and though I wasn’t usually the sort of person who liked to clock up social karma, I was well chuffed.

Carlo squeezed together two tables and the six of us clambered around. Knees pressed against knees, but I knew they’d think the meal was worth it. As the veteran, I told them how it all worked.

Surprisingly, my meal was completely different from the previous night, though, not surprisingly, every bite of it was delicious.

As we were leaving, Anna herself came around the counter to kiss me goodbye. I made a mental note to invite her and Carlo to the wedding, which made it official. I was off my trolley and just plain drunk.

Craig took charge and got us to the pick-up point ahead of schedule. Lou was cognisant enough to clap her hand over my mouth as I started spouting not very nice things about Georgina when the coach pulled up.

I was put to bed and shaken awake with enough time to down some headache tablets, grab a very quick shower in the hideous concrete ablution block, and get on the coach with all my belongings by 8:00am.

“Have I mentioned how much I love you, Lou?” I said as we took our seats.

Her tight lips told me that the feeling wasn’t mutual at that particular moment. This was confirmed by what she said next. “I’ve had a lot of experience putting a drunk person to bed.” Oh dear. I was really going to have to make it up to her.

***

The drive to Venice was five hours. Sorry. You can’t drive to Venice. The drive to Fusina, where we were staying, was five hours. Then we’d catch a water taxi to Venice.

After enduring the day song, which Georgina played every morning right before she got on the microphone to tell us the day’s itinerary, I fell into a deep sleep, my face pressed against the window. I should say that it wasn’t a bad song, but after the tour, it was going to be a long time before I could listen to Pharrell Williams’s “Happy” without cringing.

I slept until the mid-morning rest stop.

“Lou, seriously, I do love you.”

“Uh huh.”

“Can I buy you a tea? How about a pastry? What can I get you? Morning tea is on me.”

I could tell she was trying to stay miffed, but Lou was one of those people who got cross and almost instantly forgave, so she was doing a poor job of it. And, I can do pretty amazing puppy-dog eyes, especially when I want my bus bestie to forgive me for being drunk.

She pointed to a pastry in the glass cabinet and muttered, “And tea.” I ordered. Sipping my tea as we settled back on the coach, I started to feel more like myself.

“I had fun in Rome,” I said, feeling the waters.

“Mmm.”

“Did you?” I was half-turned in my seat watching her and she honoured me with a sideways glance and half a smile that told me she was giving in to my charm.

“Yes. I had a good time in Rome.”

“I’m really sorry I got so drunk.”

“It’s okay.”

“I forget sometimes that I’m only five-foot-one-and-three-quarters. In my head, I’m six-foot-two, so I tend to drink like a man—a big one.” She snort-laughed and I think a little tea came out of her nose. I handed her the napkin from my pastry. “I really am sorry. And thank you for looking after me.”

“No problem. By the way, I really needed this.” She held up the tea. “I have a huge hangover.”

“Oh, my God, Lou!” I started digging around in my bag. “You should have said! Here.” I found my stash of ibuprofen and paracetamol and popped two of each into my hand. “Take these.” She eyed them dubiously. “I know. It seems like a lot, but they work together, and it’s totally safe. Trust me.” She must have, because she tipped them into her mouth and took a sip of tea.

She started snoozing not long after—Lou, who couldn’t sleep sitting up. She must have been shattered, the poor woman. I gently took her empty takeaway cup from her. Our Mama Lou—so busy looking after everyone else.

***

The campsite at Fusina, where we would be sleeping in tiny caravans for two, was dreadful. As soon as we stepped off the coach we were swarmed by mosquitoes, our caravan smelled like stale urine, and it was a good five-minute walk to the ablution block.

And we had exactly fifteen minutes before we were due at the dock to take the water taxi into Venice. Merde, merde, merde.

I prioritised the following: changing clothes and brushing my teeth—hangover teeth are furry and disgusting and must take precedence when you are about to spend six hours exploring a fifteen-hundred-year-old city.

The first priority was easy. When we got to our caravan, I flung the contents of my case about until I found a dress I hadn’t worn yet and changed into it, slipping my jacket on over the top.

To brush my teeth in the ablution block would have taken far too long, so I did a camper’s brush, which included swishing from a water bottle and spitting into the bushes next to our steps. Lou made a face to indicate I might have slipped out of her good books once again. With these two tasks completed and three minutes left until we were due at the dock, I took a moment to zhuzh my hair with some leave-in conditioner, slather on some SPF30 tinted moisturiser, and swipe on some lip gloss.

We sprinted to the dock and made it onto the water taxi with thirty seconds to spare. And even though we weren’t late, we were the last ones on board and, once again, I’d put us in Georgina’s firing line. If glares were bullets, I’d have been dead about a hundred times over.

You know what, Georgina? The schedule is too frigging tight! Fifteen minutes to get our bags, get our caravan assignment, find our caravan, then get ready for an evening out in Venice? Im-bloody-possible. Grrr.

It didn’t take long for me to forget all about Georg-bloody-ina, because Venice materialised ahead—and gawking in awe became involuntary. Ah, Venice. The first thing to hit me was the smell. We were inside a water taxi, yet the heady brininess of the water and air permeated. It wasn’t unpleasant, just distinctive, just Venice.

As we docked, which took an incredibly long time, I succumbed to apprehension. With regards to sightseeing, I had no idea where to start and I didn’t want to miss anything important. Plus, I was still mildly hungover, and the boat ride had unsettled my stomach.

Lou eyed my bouncing knee. “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” I replied. “I’m just excited—and a little daunted. I mean, look, Lou. How are we going to see all that?”

Dani leant across the aisle. “You should come hang out with Jaelee and me today. She’s been before.”

My head spun towards Dani and I got a little dizzy. Am I still drunk? “Really, Jae?”

“Oh yeah, I came here after college with my boyfriend, Roger.” Jaelee did not strike me as the type of woman who dated guys called Roger, but I let it go.

“I’ve already pre-booked for us to go up the campanile,” said Dani. She must have read the blank look on my face. “That.” She pointed to a giant tower and I peered up at it through the window.

“Oh. Wow. I want to go up that. Lou?”

“Oh yeah, for sure.”

“You’ve already got tickets though. Do you think we could get some?” How had I not done any research on Venice? What was I, a tourist? Actually, a tourist would have done all the research, and what I quickly realised was that with only six hours, we needed to act like bloody tourists.

“Done!” Dani held up her phone triumphantly.

“Done, what’s done?”

“I booked you and Louise tickets for the same time as us. Four-thirty.”

“Dani! Thank you. We’ll fix you up, of course.”

“Yeah, no problem. Buy me lunch or something.”

I grinned at Lou. “We’re going up the camper-thingie.”

She shook her head at me. “Uh huh.”

We disembarked and, though she was hardly my favourite person, I listened carefully to Georgina as she told us the pick-up location. I peered down at my phone, which was a little blurry—good grief, how much did I drink yesterday?—and compared my map pin to Lou’s, so if I got lost, I didn’t actually get lost. “Yep,” she confirmed.

The tour group dispersed in pairs and small groups and Lou and I walked over to Jaelee and Dani. “Right,” I said, unable to contain my enthusiasm. “What’s first?”

“I need to eat,” said Jae. “I want a pizza.”

I blinked twice, once for each thought. First, I was in Venice. Did I really want to waste time eating? And second, I knew that Jae actually ate sometimes—I’d seen her do it—but pizza? It seemed a little “off-brand” for Jaelee.

“Well, do you know a good place? Like, from when you were here before?” asked Lou.

Jae threw her a look to convey how stupid she thought the question was. “That was nearly ten years ago, and this is Venice. It’s impossible to find anything again. I mean, the whole point of Venice is to get lost.”

At that moment, I wanted Jaelee to get lost. How rude. I opened my mouth to say something, but Dani stepped up.

“No need to be a bitch about it, Jaelee.”

Jae was clearly taken aback. I wondered if it was because she didn’t know she’d been bitchy or because she was used to being bitchy without anyone calling her on it. I’d been on the receiving end of it a few times and I’m a big girl and all, but still, Lou was Lou and she definitely didn’t deserve it.

“Oh, sorry.” She shook her head, as though shaking the bitch away. “Sorry, Louise. Can I start over?” It was a rhetorical question and we stared at her, waiting. “Venice is … well, the best thing to do is just to wander and soak it all in. If we find a place we want to stop, we will, but the walkways and bridges and streets—they’re the real drawcard.”

“Okay, sounds good.” Lou, always so quick to forgive.

“So, if it’s all about getting lost, how are we going to find our way back here?” Dani looked up at the camper-thingie.

“There are signs. I’ll show you when we see one.”

“All right, great,” I said, hoping to get us moving. Pizza sounded good and I was getting hungry.

“Let’s go have a quick look at Saint Mark’s first, though,” said Jae. “We won’t have to line up for long and it’s definitely worth seeing. It’s, like, a thousand years old. Then I’ll take you around to the Bridge of Sighs.” Oh! I’ve heard of that! “Then pizza. Okay?”

We agreed and let Jaelee lead us from the waterfront, past a giant pink building with lots of arches (I later learnt it was the Doge’s Palace) to San Marco’s Basilica. When we arrived, I almost didn’t want to go in. The outside was so ornate and interesting I could have stayed right there just soaking in all the details. Unexpectedly, I decided to do just that. “Hey, I’m not coming in. I’ll wait for you here.”

“You sure?” asked Lou.

“Yes, totally. This is …” I looked up at the wondrous structure. “I’m happy here.” How very traveller of me. While the others joined a short queue to get inside, I took out my phone and did a quick search on Wikipedia.

I know, it’s a little cringe-worthy, but I learnt a lot, like how the cathedral—sorry, basilica—was an excellent example of Byzantine and European architecture. East meets west, with its onion shaped domes and mosaics from the east, and Gothic archways and stonework, which reminded me a little of Sainte-Chapelle.

It’s embarrassing to say this, but I learnt more about Venetian history in those fifteen minutes than I’d bothered to learn in my thirty-five years—and I’d taught The Merchant of Venice the year before. I was such a fraud. Traveller indeed! I vowed to lift my head more often, especially when I was away from my safe little patch of London.

When they made their way back to me, Lou was bouncing like a little kid, her face flushed. “Oh, my goodness. All of these historical churches. It’s just so unbelievable to think I’ve stood in places where people have worshipped for centuries!”

Jaelee looked at Lou with affection—also a little off-brand for her, but I understood. Lou was a darling.

San Marco’s Basilica

“Okay, let’s head around this way and see the Bridge of Sighs and get the obligatory photos,” said Jaelee the photo queen. “And then we can get off the main drag and get ourselves lost.” The Jaelee who’d come out of the basilica was different from the one who’d stepped off the water taxi. I wondered if, like me, Venice was having a calming effect on her.

We jostled for position at the Bridge of Sighs along with dozens of others. In truth, I was less than impressed—maybe because I’d seen the Bridge of Sighs in Oxford and the one in Cambridge—Bridges of Sighs?—and they were all pretty much the same.

Also, I couldn’t help but ruminate on what they each represented, that last glimpse of freedom as prisoners were marched to their deaths. When it was my turn for the photo, my grim thoughts left me confused about whether to smile or not. Was it appropriate to smile? Macabre? I ended up with a sort of grimace on my face—definitely not a photo for Facebook, just proof I’d been there.

I was relieved when we were done and I forced myself to shelve all thoughts of death. There were other things to dwell on, such as this wonderful city, the warm afternoon sun, and the brilliant blue of the sky.

Bridge of Sighs

We escaped into a side street away from the touristy crowds and walked along a canal, Jaelee slightly in the lead. I lagged behind because I couldn’t stop gawking. The further we got from the main square, the more intrigued I became. All of Venice was like, well, like Venice. I’d thought there would be the parts that looked like the Venice I saw in films, but that most of it would be more like the suburbs of other towns and cities—generic, soulless and “could be anywhere”.

Even the lines of washing strung between the buildings were charming.

We stopped at a little trattoria which, as Jae had promised, I would never have been able to find again, even if I was pressed. I was pretty sure Google had no idea where we were.

The trattoria was dark and when my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I saw fixtures which looked a millennium old and furniture from a previous century. We crowded around a small table and Dani pointed to a chalkboard resting against the small bar. “The pizzas are only six euros. Probably just for one person, don’t ya think?”

I did think, yes, and I was starving by then, so I wholeheartedly agreed we would each get our own. Also, I don’t like to share—well, food anyway. I detest those restaurants where you’re expected to get an array of sharing plates then split the bill. I want to order what I want and eat it.

Sarah tells this embarrassing story about me from when we were teenagers. We’d gone to the cinema, and I’d got a bag of my favourite lollies, Jaffas, from the pick’n’mix. Right before the film started, she asked for one and I said, “No. I got exactly the amount of Jaffas I wanted. If you wanted some, you should have said so.” I thought that was perfectly reasonable. She thought it was fodder for making fun of me for the next twenty years. I digress—again …

Jaelee asked us what pizzas we wanted, and shamelessly ordered for us in Spanish. The lovely older man seemed to understand enough and when our pizzas arrived, we all had what we’d asked for. What we hadn’t counted on, however, was that the six-euro pizzas were enormous. They couldn’t even fit on the table. After laughing nervously at their arrival, we commandeered a second table to make enough room for four fifteen-centimetre pizzas.

Even more surprising was that after groaning at the sight of them—how am I going to eat all that?—we all ate all of our pizzas. Even Jaelee.

The crust was thin and crispy underneath and chewy around the edges. The tomato sauce zinged with tanginess and a bit of heat from chili and pepper. The basil was fragrant and tasted a little of aniseed, and the mozzarella was so creamy I practically had a food orgasm. It was, without question, the best pizza I’d ever had, and we mostly ate in silence, as though we were sharing some sort of spiritual experience. Perhaps, in a way, we were.

Eventually, we sat back from the tables and regarded each other and the empty platters in front of us. Our shared looks indicated a communal feeling of, “Oh my, what have we done?” and I couldn’t help it. I smirked, which soon turned into a giggle, and then there were four of us sitting around two tables giggling like idiots while the lovely older man looked at us sideways—which, of course, made us laugh even more.

I got the bill for lunch—to thank Lou for looking after me the night before and Jaelee for the tour, and to pay back Dani for the camper-thingie ticket. Speaking of which, it was time to find our way back to the camper-thingie.

“It’s campanile,” said Dani. “Geez.”

“Campanile,” I said.

“Yes.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I have no idea.”

“It means belltower,” said Jae helpfully.

“Ohhh.”

At the campanile, we moved quickly through the queue and I was grateful to see an elevator. It was a very tall campanile and I hadn’t fancied climbing what would have been a lot of stairs, especially as I was weighed down with half a kilo of scrummy pizza.

To say the view from the campanile was “epic” would be an understatement. With blue skies in every direction, we could see all of Venice, all of the surrounding islands, and the mainland. I was even sure I could make out our hideous campsite and those pokey little wee-ridden caravans.

The only thing marring the view was the wire mesh that enclosed all the openings. I could understand why it was there and why it was so robust, but the squares were teeny, and it was tricky getting a photo which wasn’t spoiled by grey crosshairs.

After twenty minutes of oohing and ahhing we collectively agreed it was time to leave.

Campanile

“I want to ride on a gondola,” drawled Dani in that half-whine she did sometimes.

I hadn’t even thought of a gondola ride, but once she said it, it was the only thing in the world I wanted to do. How quintessentially Venetian! “We have to do that,” I said with urgency. Jae looked like she could go either way and Lou’s face scrunched up. “What? What’s that face?”

“Nothing.”

“No. Sorry, but that—” I circled my hand in front of her face to make sure it was clear that “that” meant her expression “—is not nothing.”

She sighed. “It’s just, well, I’ve always wanted to go on a gondola.”

I was frowning at her, confused and a little annoyed. “Right, and …?” I said in my best kindly-sarcastic-and-ever-so-slightly-passive-aggressive (a.k.a. English) tone of voice.

“And we always said we’d do that for our tenth wedding anniversary. It was supposed to be Paris, Florence, then Venice.”

Well, I was a total cow. I’d forgotten.

“Oh Lou! I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She brushed off her feelings and I tried my best not to be annoyed, because her feelings were important. I looked at Jaelee and Dani for support. Nope. Nothing. Jaelee seemed extremely uncomfortable and Dani, perplexed. It was all on me.

“Lou, seriously. If it’s too much, we can skip the gondola.” She was avoiding eye contact, but I tugged on her hand and she looked at me. “Really. It’s fine.” It wasn’t really fine, but sometimes being a good friend takes priority.

A frown scuttered across her face for a second. Then she shook her head, tucked her hair behind her ears, straightened herself to her full five-foot-ten and said, “No. We’re going. I was supposed to go up the Eiffel Tower with Jackson, and I did that by myself. The Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, the Duomo, all of it—all supposed to be with him on our second honeymoon, but he messed it up. He did this to us. I know, I know in my heart of hearts, it’s an illness, that he’s sick, but isn’t there something inside him that’s supposed to take responsibility? Do I have to be the grown-up the whole darned time?”

She had worked herself up and I felt for her so much, my heart was breaking. Lou. Our Mama Lou. Lou, who was always generous and sweet and kind. All she wanted was for someone to be there for her, for her to have someone to lean on. And she deserved that. After being so strong for Jackson. After being so good to us—strangers only a week before—she deserved something just for her. I reached up and hugged her tight as the tears started streaming down her face.

“Oh, Lou,” I said, my voice muffled by her shoulder. “We’re taking you on a gondola!”

And we did.

Apparently, gondola rides are something else you should book ahead in Venice. But most people didn’t have Dani. Dani had mad skills when it came to online searches and figuring out how to get to or into places. She found us a gondola ride for four on Viator. It left twenty minutes after she booked it, and we had to speed walk to the dock, but we made it.

We stood between two lines of red velvet ropes as though we were queuing to get into a nightclub, and I noticed Jaelee keeping a sharp eye on the gondoliers. “What are you doing?” I whispered.

“I want a hot one.”

“What?”

“I want us to get a hot gondolier,” she said pointedly.

I looked at the tightly packed gondolas and the group of men who leapt between them, some pushing back from the dock and some docking their gondolas, all working with grace and ease. They each wore the traditional uniform: black pants, striped shirt and red kerchief. All of them were young(ish), all had jet black hair and olive skin, and there wasn’t one among them who wasn’t at least attractive.

They were like a boyband—something for everyone.

“Well, does it matter? They’re a nice-looking bunch.”

She looked at me as though I’d said, “They all bathe in rubbish and have citrus reamers for penises.”

We moved to the front of the line and a gondola manoeuvred into place. Our gondolier smiled at us, and the ticket taker helped us on one at a time. We got seated and settled, which was when I learnt two things. One: Dani had sprung for a bottle of prosecco, which she held up with a smile. And two: Jaelee did not think we got a “hot one”.

“Buonasera,” said our gondolier. He said some other things in Italian, which could have been him reciting his shopping list for all I cared. He was lovely.

Then, as we rounded the corner of the nearest building and glided into a smaller canal, he started singing! And not just any singing, opera. And he was good! With the acoustics in the canal, his voice echoing off the walls and accompanied by the mesmerising sound of the gondola slipping through the water, it was simply beautiful.

“I wanted a hot one,” hissed Jaelee.

Three pairs of eyes pinned her to her seat. “What? There were way hotter ones. I mean, come on.” The eyes remained fixed on her. I gave her what I hoped was my best teacher glare. She rolled her eyes in reply, unapologetic.

“That’s enough,” said Lou in a low growl I hadn’t heard from her before. “This ride is not about you wanting a hot one. This is about the four of us experiencing something special together. And, darn you, he sings like an angel!”

Jae put her hands up in surrender and the tension dissipated. Though it may have been because Dani chose that moment to crack open the bubbles. She poured it into four plastic cups and handed them around.

“I’d like to propose a toast,” she said. “To quattro bella.” Jaelee started to correct her syntax, but she closed her mouth when I flashed her a look. I didn’t know enough Italian—or Spanish—to know what Dani was supposed to say, but I understood the toast. I tapped my plastic cup against the other three and drank to that. Four beauties. My friends. My bus besties.

My phone beeped in my bag and on reflex I pulled it out and looked at it.

Mum had finally scanned Jean-Luc’s letter!