50 Quirky & Interesting Things (in my little mind) About Italy & Italians

There are so many.

1. Like their toilets.  Need not to delve into too much here, literally and in scripting- but one holds one’s breath each time there is a requirement to utilise the facilities.  What treat would we have in store in this one?
   Actually, was very concerned when leaving NZ how my knee would hold up with no regular gym strengthening work on the quads and hamstrings to aid the knees ability to work correctly.
   No problems there – just utilising the Italian toilets gives me all the quad/hamstring/knee squatting strengthening work I could ask for.  The more I drink water, the more the quads get a great work out - holding that knee joint on a certain angle.  Therefore, incontinence can be looked upon as  a great work out. 
   The loos themselves – particularly in cafes, restaurants and public places - It’s all a bit yuk.
   Public lavatories are rare here and once found, there is always a cost – from 1 Euro to 1 Euro 50.
2. Takeaway coffees (you knew coffee would have to be high on my list of anything).  They don’t do takeaway coffees.  At all.
3. Coffees.  Generally the Italians rush in for their quick coffee on the way to work, order the espresso and stand at the counter and drink it as one would drink a shot of something alcoholic. You can sit down at a table and drink it, but it costs extra – to sit.
4. Lattes.  They don’t do lattes; despite them thinking they do.  Their espresso (short blacks) are good, but latte to them is merely warmed milk.  We saw someone order a latte and received just that, warmed milk.  The best alternative is to order an Americano coffee, that’s as close as you will get to something we know of as a flat white. For us to get a good latte-style coffee in the manner we are used to we ask for a ‘coffee latte’ (so they know it’s not just hot milk and will put a severely weak shot of coffee in it), plus an espresso.  Then when we get the two we tip the entire espresso into the coffee latte and presto!  We have a barely reasonable latte.
5. No Starbucks anywhere.  Well, hardly anywhere. Yay.
6. SMOKING!  AS IN CIGARETTES!  Unbelievably backward here.
   Almost every Italian smokes.  Everywhere.  City, country, everywhere.  Unfathomable.  They have universities everywhere and love telling the tourists how many universities they have – yet they continue with the moronic and unintelligent habit of smoking.  Where is the intelligence in that?  We asked Michaella that question (he admitted, guiltily to smoking) and he just laughed.
   One sees a most attractive Italian woman, dressed to kill, then she lights up a fag and BLAH, she’s ruined the picture.
7. Dressed to kill women.  They do.  And do it with style.  They dress beautifully.  If I came home in the style the average Italian woman dresses in it would be considered OTT – or mutton as lamb.  Lots of flowing clothing.  Lots of colour (which I do love). Lots of gold jewellery.  Fabulous shoes.  Scarves for every outfit.  None of this old Italian women dressed in black over their matronly bodies.  The older Italian woman dress so beautifully and stately.  Gold jewellery and all. 
   We saw a woman today who was well past the age of 80, and she was dressed in a lime green suit.  Skirt & jacket.  And it looked really smart, she looked fabulous.  Mind you, none of that stupid permed hair either for these older women. Styled only.
   The fashions here are exquisite.  Italian women are so beautiful. New Zealand women could learn much.
   It is rare to see women dressed in the Kiwi womens’ love of all black.  In all our touring around Italian cities and towns we would have seen less than 5 women dressed in all black.  Walk down Queen Street any business lunchtime and there are thousands of cloned black dressed Kiwi office workers.  Like giant ants.  Or crickets.
   Italian women – think a cross between Sophia Loren and Bridget Bardot and their glamour and  style and you have the average look here. Class, style, elegance and head turning.
8. Men dressed to kill.  All of them.  Young and old.  Appearance to an Italian (male and female) is VERY important. Pity we can’t have a bit more of that in NZ.
   No crack hugging, sloppy pants with crutches down to their knees – that’s so NOT here for young teenagers and men in Italy.  These guys dress immaculately, whether 17 or 77. 
   Not one backward wearing cap – what dumbo thought of that anyway? No underpant elastic showing, no such thing as a hoodie (have not seen one on an Italian youngster), no dragging or scuffing of feet cause their legs are too heavy to lift – as they seem to be for so many hoodie-wearing-crack-showing-underpant-showing zombies in NZ; no jandals.   The young 16-26 year olds ain’t cloned here, they are all smart, snazzy, with great haircuts; individuals and handsome.
    
9. And the older men – they are head turners too.  Had a conversation with American women who were discussing just this factor – that the older men dress so beautifully.  I am talking 50-95 year olds.  Jeans, immaculately pressed, great colour shirts (pastel greens, pinks, yellows). Great shoes, classy, expensive and always unmarked.  Great sports jackets – blue, green, pink, white, cream – any colour, with jeans – looks fab. Stylish haircuts – whether they are almost balding or with full head of hair – it’s clearly upgraded monthly.  Our Kiwi Gold Card holders could do much with spiffing up their dress standards from Farmers or The Warehouse to an Italian standard menswear shop. Think Rodd & Gunn.
10. Family.  The whole of NZ could do with looking to Italy on this.  Family matters.  There is no such thing as a rest home here. 
    After my heart ache over my friend who died last week in a rest home this is close to my heart.  There are no rest homes here.  They look after their old.  It comes naturally, without family conflict.  It happens.  Not in NZ – with the epidemic of ‘Me’ the older folk get put away – out of sight, out of mind – into rest homes.
    Not in Italy.  Italians look after family.
11. Corks. As in wine bottle corks. Yay for the Italian cork.  Almost all wines are corked.  Something magical was lost when the wine cork was disposed on in New Zealand.  That ‘pop’ of the cork represents happiness, conviviality and a sense of comfort.  I miss that cork popping at home.  So we’ve done lots of it here.
12. Road rules.  There aren’t any.
    Traffic lights and pedestrian crossings are for decoration only.  Stop signs don’t mean stop.
    Some of the major roadways have no lane marking. It’s like dodgems.  Reminds me of Buenos Ares. 
13. Which brings me to their driving – AND CYCLISTS AND VESPAS. 
    Yes, Italians drive crazily.  BUT there are tens of thousands of cyclists everywhere – and millions of vespers – especially in Florence and some of the other smaller cities.
    As mad as the Italian driving is – they actually are great with cyclists – and cyclists here wear no helmets.  And SO MANY people cycle.  Old, older.  Middle old and older.  Actually didn’t see too many teenagers, except for uni students (every small city has universities).
    But you see old men, old women, heading through the  busiest streets of traffic and the cars do not aim for them.
    In NZ every man and women who get behind the wheel of a car sees a cyclist as

A target

An idiot

To be eliminated

Here they are merely driven around and given lots of room. 

When we went to Verona, felt we were in Holland, such were the great numbers of cycles.


14 Supermarkets and shopping malls.  Hurrah, there are hardly any.  Specialist shops only – in villages, towns and cities.  We have been to a couple of supermarkets, but they are hard to find.  No mega stores seen anywhere along the thousands of miles of highway we have travelled.  You want fruit and vegetables?  Go to the small store or the roadside or piazza vendor.  Same for the meats, fish and breads.


15. Meat.  Not a lot of beef in this country.  It is because they do not have beef farms, or very little.  Not helped by the Mad Cow problem in Europe a few years ago. They are pig farmers here.  Which means wonderful ham, prosciutto, salamis, pork.  Yum.  Still, have missed the ferritin giving stuff though.   However at $NZ50-60 a kilogram, am happy to down loads more of their great tasting and economical prosciutto.


16. Kiwi fruit.  Loads of it in Italy.  Yay.  Great for our NZ export market.  They seem to love it.            


17. Hotel rooms. No such things as tea and coffee in hotels or any accommodation rooms.  I miss that majorly.


18. Tea.   There hardly is any. Italians don’t do tea.


19. Corruption.  Yep, it’s rife here.  We have been told numerous times by Italians how corrupt authorities are.  Everything is ‘negotiable’.


20. Smoking.  Thought I’d drop that back in.  Arrghhh…. Told you it was still third world in many aspects – that’s one.


21. Customer service.  There is none.  Whatever the trade.  Governmental or hospitality.  They are not there to serve you.  They are there because they are collecting a weekly pay packet.


Oh, heck - all the formatting has gone haywire now - too bad, haven't got time to fix is - needless to say that the next point is point number 22....  and finishes at 50.

1. Italians are not well travelled.  Which explains point above.  Overall they hardly travel.  Despite all the Italians restaurants we have in NZ and Australia, those ones are the exception.  Overall, they hardly leave Italy and thus know not what we well-travelled think they should know.
2. 
   
3. Fuel prices.  We moan.  We shouldn’t. The gas station we have just pulled out of is selling diesel for E 1.75 per litre (NZ$2.75)  if you serve yourself, or E 1.85 ($2.88 NZ) per litre if you request service to fill your tank.  And it only comes from a couple or three countries away.
4. 
   
5. Sundays are family days.  Just like it used to be when we were young in New Zealand before that changed over the decades – we’re all too busy to have family days.  Pity. Italians have got that right.
6. 
   
7. People. This country has 62 million people.  And they think approximately 27 million illegal immigrants.  We can tell.  They’re the ones selling the fake Rolex, Prada and souvenirs at every tourist spot.  Or begging.  Usually with child at breast.
8. 
   
9. They are also all smokers too – so that says it all.  Beg for money then go buy smokes.  Yep, intelligence questionable.
10. 
    
11. SPQR.  Won’t ever go into that restaurant in Ponsonby Road again.  The letters SPQR are emblazoned on every street gutter, man hole and sewer cover in Italy.
12. 
    
13. Andiamo.  That over rated restaurant in Jervois Road, Andiamo.  It means, “let’s go”.
14. 
    
15. Health system.  They may not be able to get their wifi up to world-wide scratch, but every Italian proudly tells us how good their health service is.
16. 
    
17. That’s probably why they smoke. They know they’ll get their lungs, throats, legs and other bits taken off or out without cost so puff away.  Arghh… cough… cough
18. 
    
19. Spaghetti.  Was not an Italian invention after all.  It was Chinese.  Marco Polo on his travels to China came back with spaghetti. 
    This begs the question – why don’t we see spaghetti pasta in China?
20. 
    
21. Casanova.  He was real.  I always thought he was more mythical than factual.  Not so. He came from Vienna and there are plaques around the pace denoting where he lived.  And the prison he was sent to.  And plaques for every other person I’ve never heard of.
22. 
    
23. Vivaldi came from Vienna too.  And a whole bunch of other famous musicians but my mind has gone blank on who they were.
24. 
    
25. Shakespeare was a plagiarist.   Tis true.
26. 
    
27. Romeo & Juliet really did exist.  They were Italian, Romeo and Giulietta.  Their true story was written up by an Italian, Shakespeare liked the story and rewrote it Shakespeare-style.
    There really is a balcony.  In Verona. We were taken to it. Got photos of it – as have all the other thousands of tourists.
    
28. And a bronze statue of Giulietta  (Juliet) where, if men rub her breast they will be lucky in love.  If women rub the elbow (how boring) we get lucky in love.  
    I rubbed both elbows (why miss any good omen or opportunity! ), but couldn’t get Delwyn to go near one elbow, let alone two.
     
     
29. Tourists.  Those who have travelled to Italy.  Have to have the biggest bums ever seen.  Lord knows how they fit down bus or plane aisles.
30. 
    
31. Vegetables.  Apart from tomatoes (which I don’t eat), zucchini and egg plant – and maybe the odd capsicum – not a lot of veges here.  Am missing the broccoli, the beans, the pumpkin, the carrots, the green cabbage ….   Even their salads consist of Iceberg lettuce only and maybe some grated carrot.  That’s all.  No Cos, Rocket, Mesculiin. 
32. 
    
33. Tunnels.  Italians are fabulous at making tunnels.  We can’t even get one under our harbour.  Italians would have had six under there by now.  Tunnels everywhere – big, small, short, long, deep – wonderful tunnels.
34. 
    
35. Motorways.  Lots of AND smooth asphalt.  No tar with loose stones tossed on top in this country.  AND NO TRUCKS in fast lanes where there are three lanes or more.  Of course that system works.  They have that system in the UK – works perfectly.
36. 
    
37. Toll roads.  Lots of them everywhere.  Which explains why they can afford the two points above.  But, that works too.  Get over it New Zealanders- just start paying the tolls and get better roads.
38. 
    
39. Bread. Hard bread.  That’s how they like it.  Hard, as in 3 days old hard – even when its less than one day old, it’s hard.  Yet to come across a soft, fresh loaf or slice anywhere.  Only once have had the opportunity of anything wholemeal or grain – and that was at the home of the Italian family we stayed at – they had made their own grain bread – it was like caviar to my taste buds.  I long for a 5-grain or Vogels.
40. 
    
41. Lack of obesity.  It’s been a talking point between Del and I in our first few days in Italy and now among many on this hi-de-hi bus we are on.  Even the obese ones who are on the bus.  With 62 million, plus 27 million illegal people around this place one would think we should see millions of obese people – especially when considering all Italians eat daily diets of hard breads, pastas, pizzas, prosciuttos, salamis, olives, oils, wines and gelatos.
    We haven’t fathomed that one out – even after asking lots of Italians why there aren’t hospitals full of obese people.  They smile and say – we don’t eat junk food.  Yeah, right – pizza, pasta, wine, ice cream – they don’t class this as junk food.  
    Funny, isn’t it.  Weird funny.
    Go figure.
42. 
    
43. Post Note To This Point:  There certainly are no Macdonald’s, Burger Kings, Taco Bells, KFCs in abundance in Italy.  Only in the tourist cities where there are lots of tourists who crave the stuff.  Of course, always handy when in a strange city to find a Macdonald’s and know you can use their loo.  Went into one in Florence and bemused at the queues of American & German tourists in there.  And sadly, just outside the walls of Pisa yesterday there was a Macdonald’s and Burger King and Subway.  Full of tourists. Shame.
    We gather most Italians do not eat between meals.
44. 
    
45. Rosé Prosecco.  Yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmmmmmmmm. The best.
46. 
    
47. Graffiti.  Sad, but everywhere.  Horrible.  I know it’s everywhere in Europe as hear people being surprised at seeing it in Paris – along with rubbish.  Rubbish everywhere here too.
    As Italians don’t travel much, they don’t realise it is unacceptable in many places in the world.  Makes one all the more happier to live in NZ.
    Rubbish and graffiti elimination has got to begin at the top- here, anywhere.  Government, regional, local, educationally, home.
    Fortunately for us 2, it was eliminated at the small Italian medieval village we walked to and through.  They need the tourism, so kept their towns clean. The big cities couldn’t care less – there will always be tourists.
48. 
    
49. School – one for the Shelleys, Mels and co.  School here is 6 days a week.  Moan not about being a NZ teacher.
50. 
    
51. Spritz.  Yum.  Almost as good as Rose Prosecco.  I want some, now.
52. 
    
53. Table cloths and tea towels for bath towels and hand towels.  Been staying in some 3 star hotels on this hi-de-hi tour – and some of them utilise what looks and feels like table cloths for bath towels – and tea towels for hand drying.
54. 
    
55. Smoking - ARRGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

AND FINALLY, NUMBER 50

50.  Italy and Italians – coming to Italy one must realise being Italian is a totally different life style, totally different culture than where we come from.  Just as travelling to China you would expect to see and be in a totally different culture.  Or travelling to Nepal you would be expecting a totally different life style and culture.  Or Peru, or India, or Kenya, or whatever other very different life style and culture – as it is in Italy. 

It has bemused me on this bus with the surprise some of the Americans initially had to find that Italians are different and that Italy is different.  They seemed to expect another USA just with people speaking another language.  One family told me one evening over dinner that they couldn’t understand why Italians do things differently in Italy.  The ones they know in New York don’t!  But then, of all the Americans on this bus, only two have ever been out of the USA before.  So it was not surprising that they were surprised – it is renowned that the US has less passports per head of population than most other Western countries.  Italy may beat them.

Italy – it’s Italian.  And full of them.

Take a walk - Italian style

Italy, a fascinating and interesting place to be.  Being here is taking a step back in time; at least, that is how I feel.  Many steps back in time.

At this very moment though, I am bored. Am sitting on a bus heading to Venice and nodding off to sleep along with the other 47 people on the bus – so will type something to update family & friends about our Italian excursion.

Have gone from being totally lost in the Italian out backs of Tuscany, being ripped off by an Italian telecommunications company, to being pushed into the underground tubes due to peak hour office workers going home, to having the funniest taxi ride around Rome by a rogue and rough taxi driver,  to mixing it with Rome’s street girls, to condom machines and of course, the Pope heaving at me.

Our first nine or ten days of being in Italy on our self-guided walking tour is long over and we are in Day Something of the hi-de-hi bus tour around all the key points in Italy.

There’s 48 of us on this bus. Lots of Americans, Singaporeans, one Pom, Russians, Australians and four of us Kiwis.  Mixture of ages 10 to 110.  Well, almost. 

Actually… on reflection, Delwyn and I just may be the oldest on the coach.  But we shall not enlighten any of the other passengers of that statistic.

The walking trip

Look, if have every thought of something exotic for a holiday and would like to head to Europe, do a walking tour.  Well, at least this walking tour in Italy.  Getting almost lost every day in the hills of Tuscany and Umbria, whilst frustrating at the time – mostly due to the excessive heat in the sunshine rays of 32-37 degrees – was fabulous. 

And throwing oneself into the Italian culture in this was is the best way to force one into learning the language, quickly.

Since being on this bus we’ve hardly had to use an Italian word. Pity, as was just beginning to feel confident in engaging basic communications with Italians.

It certainly wasn’t quite the easy walking tour I had pictured, walking flat to rolling countryside from wine tasting spot to wine tasting spot.  Indeed, most of the day's walking distances were shorter than they had told us they would be, and jolly hard slogs some days, especially whilst becoming lost. We would find ourselves climbing from sea level to 2,000 feet, on gravelled or broken and hardly distinguishable tracks.  Fun.

We booked  the actual tour through Mac’s Tours, online. But wouldn’t do that again, would book direct as Mac’s merely were the middleman between us and the small walking tour company here in Italy.

That tour company had some rough edges (the botched directions being in that category), but it had so many positives that we shall reflect back on the ten days as the best way to have been introduced to a new country.  And to Michael (or Michaela, as his real Italian name is). He was certainly the epitome of the perfect Italian man and was the main cause for us not throwing tantrums with the tour company over their ineptness.   He did not have a lot of intelligence, but who cares about that when he had a lot of everything else Italian … looks, smoothness, charm, smile, perfect skin, great body….   need more be said?

The hotels and bed and breakfasts we stayed in each night were superb.  By Italian standards.  Wonderful medieval castles, homes, hotels and fortresses.  The food, very Italian – funny that – the wine even more Italian and oh so smooth to move from table top to mouth top.

If I could encourage anyone to seriously consider the trip I would do.

The tour company is a small, local one that is run by three Italians who have lived all their lives in the area – two women and one man. They specialise in cycling tours which to me, after having gone through all the entertainment of the walking one, would be so very ho-hum.  That says something coming from a cyclist. 

They also specialise in Vesper tours.  Now that’s a tour that could tempt me to return.  Zipping around and getting lost on Vespers throughout Tuscany and Umbria would be a dream holiday.  Except for the fact they drive on the wrong side of the road. And drive madly.  And don’t stick to speed limits.  And never stop at stop signs.  And drive through red lights.  And never stop at pedestrian crossings.  And never use indicators.

Seriously, plan a holiday for next year, or the year after - an Italian self-guided walking tour in Tuscany and Umbria.

Arrivederci.

 

Lost - it now has a very, very different meaning

I lost a friend this week.  A dear friend. Back in New Zealand. 

I only found this out yesterday when I finally found a Wi-Fi café - I got the news via email.  I was, and am, gutted.

One of my greatest fears of leaving New Zealand shores for this period was leaving my friend back home and not knowing how she would be whilst I was away.  I hated leaving her when I last visited.  And now she has died.  I am not even sure which day she died. To get this news, and to get it via email when so far away on the other side of the world is heart breaking.

I so remember the look on her face when I last visited her before I left New Zealand, and she asked how long I would be away.  

She knew I was travelling to the UK and she knew why I was coming to Italy; she knew the story about Tony, the one I published on my last blog.  She had known and loved Tony and she understood why I was making the whole trip; but I saw the wave of sadness on her face when I told her how long I would be away; I saw her sadness that she would not see me for so long.  Now, she will never see me again.

She has gone.

All these deaths of such pivotal people in my life in this past period keeps reminding me of how fragile and short term we all are.

More specifically how we must realise that everyone in our life is special. With this modern life that everyone seems to be choosing nowadays that message seems to have been eliminated from many people's self-focused being.

For some time it has concerned me that there seems to be an epidemic around us that could be called the Me epidemic. This is something many have heard me rant about often over the years, how so many focus on their own life, their own busy-ness and just don't have time to fit in a teeny bit of kindness to someone else.

If there is a God  I am hoping he will be pleased of the friendship I (and Tony) had with our sweet friend, Ella.  We made her happy, most of the time. But like everyone else, there was never enough 'times'.  It was difficult when Tony had become so unwell himself - I did not want Ella to see Tony so unwell, I wanted her to only recall the real Tony - so I did not visit very frequently once Tony's health began to really deteriorate.  I am sure that her God will know and understand that.

In the meantime while I was focused on Tony and his passing, she became old, and became frail and fragile.  My friend and I found her late last year in the bowels of a hospital in care.  We were shocked.  She was then put into a rest home, where she has just passed away. 

Ella was hard work to visit and had been for some years prior. She was half deaf and always found a reason not to utilise a hearing aid.  We had to yell to be heard. Her eyesight was going and due to unnecessary reasons she became almost bedridden.  As is always said when something like this happens – I should have spent more time with her.  There's nothing wrong with yelling, or touching, or caring.   

It's totally empty words to say, "I shoulda."  Or, "I woulda."  Or, "I couldn't." 

We all CAN. 

We all can take and make the time for someone whose life would be lifted because we DID.

 

The real reason I have come to Italy

Perhaps I have a serious case of narcism, only others will be able to confirm, but I have enjoyed writing the blogs about our ‘adventures’ in Italy.  It is fair to say though that the blogs have probably been a little lop-sided in certain points of view about our experiences in Italy.  That’s because it makes for more interest to a reader to have facts detailed but to ensure the facts are splattered with teeny bit of cynicism and humour.  And, maybe every now and then, stretched to make the story seem all the more interesting.  What harm is there in that?

And besides, reading a step-by-step, day-by-day journal about someone’s excursion and travels around the world is boring.  It’s like people who love to talk to you about their dreams, it’s boring. You subconsciously tune out within seconds.  Who cares what someone else dreamt about?  It was only a dream.  So who cares about what a carefree time someone else is having when you are at home having to face winter weather and work! Therefore whenever I do write something I endeavour to consider the reader and consider how the story may be told to make it interesting enough to keep the reader reading to the story’s end.

Despite that, those who really know me do manage to read between the lines and fathom out how much is stretched and how much is not in the least bit enhanced; they can then enjoy and appreciate the true reality in between the lines of the words I have written.

And the true reality about this travel log and my coming to Italy is, in itself, a very real and true story of love that needs no stretching or enhancing.  Coming to Italy was not a whim of mine to enable me to write frivolous holiday stories. This trip has had in all its planning and execution a very strong purpose of a promise to myself, and to Tony, that I will one day get to Italy.

When Tony and I planned our 10 month trip to the Northern Hemisphere back in 2010 we had many options of wants and must dos during our near ten month period away.

We knew we wanted to spend much time with Tony’s family in England; we knew we wanted to visit friends in Dubai; we knew we wanted to visit other dear friends in their homeland in the United States; we knew we wanted to spend time with other dear friends in Wales; we knew we wanted to experience the Edinburgh Tattoo and festival together; and we knew we wished to follow le Tour de France while it was on.  And tucked in amongst those ‘must dos’ was a trip together to experience things Italian.

I had never been to Italy and of all the European countries Italy was the one I had, for many years, had a desire to visit. There had been previous opportunities when travelling to the Northern Hemisphere for me to visit the country but for various reasons never manage to cross to the Italian borders.  Tony had been to Italy in his earlier life and assured me that with the ten months we had in the Northern Hemisphere we would easily manage at least a week, or more, somewhere in that desired country.

I was buoyed by Tony’s enthusiasm to take me to the Italian countryside; to take me to real historic Italian cities, to share the history of one of the world’s oldest nations and of course, to share with me the enjoyment of Italian food and wines. This preplanning was enhanced when a distant associate had one evening kindly offered us accommodation in a house he owned in Italy that he insisted we utilise at his compliments. 

Before we left New Zealand for that ten month vacation we spent quite some time pouring over Italian travel brochures.  We looked at the kind offer of accommodation and at perhaps adding on a bus tour of Italy, but dismissed that as being for old people only.  We very seriously looked at a number of options of cycle tours in various parts of Italy.  That option enthused us greatly as, if you were a triathlete, who would not want to enjoy cycling the Italian roads whilst pretending to be taking part in Tour of Italia bike race?  Thus we began defining which cycling tour was the best option.  Northern Italy?  Southern Italy? Tuscany? Sicily?  There were many options available. 

During the days of perusing all the various brochures Tony noticed one particular cycle tour of Holland which he considered to be the ideal and perfect holiday, for him.  To me Holland would be a boring  option, all that flat land and dykes.  But Tony’s heart began to really settle on cycling the Dutch canals via a canal boat that would drop us off each morning then tug itself up along a major canal and wait for us at a preset meeting point. They would provide the evening meal, we would head off to our cabin each evening and by morning the canal boat would have motored to some other township where we would disembark with our bikes and set off on a day’s adventure to another eventual destination where the canal boat would be waiting for us yet again. 

After seeing the brochure on this cycle holiday Tony’s heart was set on Holland and the canals and biking. I did not try to persuade him to change his view.  This entire ten month trip was after all, a trip of a lifetime, and I knew that he had such a short life time left that all I really wanted was to make him happy and for him to enjoy every moment.  It was important to me that whatever we planned and did was what Tony wanted to do.  Little else mattered.

By this time the seemingly generous offer of Italian accommodation seemed to have vaporised between the initial offer and my attempting to formalise with the associate, which did not enhance my chances of confirming any specific Italian dates. It had become a little awkward and Tony had felt the awkwardness hence making it seem a bit in the ‘too hard’ basket.

Thus it was decided Holland biking would be booked and we would wait until our arrival in the UK and then book a tour of Italy that would fit in between all those other activities on our Must Do list.

However, it never happened.  Each time we went to book the Italian sojourn something would occur that meant it would have to be delayed until later in our trip.  A family birthday, a celebration, something that meant it was timely for us to remain in the UK at the period we would ear mark for Italy. We kept attempting to make the Italian date but it seemed to slip away at each attempt.

It was no matter, we were busy doing so much else that Italy soon became only a mild thought rather than a purpose.

Our ten months expired and before we knew it we were on the flight from Heathrow heading back towards the New Zealand shores after having had a most glorious few months of happiness and travels together.  It was not long after our plane left Heathrow that Tony turned in his seat to face me, picked up my hand and looked at me with an earnest sadness in his eyes and said, “I am sorry I didn’t get to take you to Italy darling.”  I smiled and responded by saying that it was no matter and that, “… we will still get to travel to Italy together one day honey,” whilst knowing deep in my heart of hearts it would never happen.  I think he knew that too, but he smiled, squeezed my hand and leant over and kissed me.

That was the last of our conversation about travelling to Italy. 

The next two years were busy years for us, with his health taking priority, a stroke and more procedures and operations for him and yet he still managing to continue beating the odds by enjoying as much of his life as he had left.  He completed another Ironman event in 2011 and his last in 2012.  By the middle of 2012 his health began to deteriorate considerably.  He knew, we all knew there was little time left. By December of that year it was clear it was only a matter of weeks.  The hospital could do no more for him, I brought him home for Christmas where he happily spent his last couple of months.

Sometime in early February 2013, when  Tony’s brain tumour had taken complete control of his life, of his body and of his mental capacities, he was sitting in a lazy boy chair in the corner of our lounge.  I was sitting on the couch next to him with the computer on my lap doing some work when he suddenly sat upright, turned to me with the old Tony look of serious conversation and stated, “You have got to go to Italy.”  I paused and looked and said, “I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve got to go to Italy,” he repeated.

“Where did that come from?” I asked.  “You’ve got to go,” he replied with insistence.

“Of course I will go darling, we will go together,” was my spontaneous response.

With that he smiled his Tony smile, leant back in chair and returned to his own world again.  I think that was the last proper conversation I ever had with Tony.

That is why I am in Italy.