Venice, May 2014

I've been in Venice for more than 24 hours now, and the worst problem was finding Bristol Airport - a place I've driven to many times. I like to creep up on Bristol Airport from behind, a trick which is difficult to pull off. If you haven't the nerve to drive like a thing possessed through the city (the recommended route), and you're inclined to slink furtively along country lanes, you'll find that the presence of Bristol Airport, even only a couple of hundred yards away, is resolutely denied by the rural sign makers.
I drove I know not where, and reached the point where I gave up hope of catching the flight and started to make plans to hole up in a quaint inn in Somerset and just pretend to be in Venice. Tempting, but not as tempting as actually being there.
Eventually, I stopped and asked a woman pushing a pushchair and talking on a mobile. She directed me, accurately and compassionately, and after that it was plain sailing - always allowing for Ryanair. Ryanair is certainly the Cinderella of airlines. My flight wasn't even mentioned on the departures board, the check in for Ryanair was situated in a gloomy cavern, and I had to walk twenty miles to
the departure gate, as if something shameful, and possibly infectious, was being attempted.
The flight itself was the usual mixture of terror and boredom. The stewardesses had holes in their tights and were chewing gum, but hey! They got us there safely, and the sense, on landing, of a tyre blowout proved illusory.
Next it was the bus from Treviso airport to  Venice - some 30 kilometres of modern buildings, fields of maize, the occasional interesting old villa stashed away among evergreens. Then suddenly (but not really suddenly enough) we were barreling along he causeway that connects Venice to the mainland by road'n'rail.
And then we were disgorged out into Piazzale Roma - the hub, or possibly the hubbub, of the Venice transport system. As I'd already prepaid a museums'n'transport pass, thinking myself very clever, I was annoyed to find I hadn't printed out the right page at home and was compelled to pay an extra 7 euros for the privilege  of getting on a vaporetto and reaching my digs at Zattere.
The boat surged out into the Lagoon, and a brisk wind reminded us that this was still only mid-May. I didn't care. I was in a trance of delight, even gazing rapturously at docks, cranes, industrial buildings and a truly monstrous cruise ship. No, I'm lying about the cruise ship. A gigantic beehive with its thousands of cells.
The boat reached Zattere, by the Church Gesuati, its facade as white and icy as wedding cake, and I trundled my case down a pleasant lane beside the church and easily found the lovely monastery guesthouse where I am staying. It's like a university hall of residence really, only without the sex and drugs. I was welcomed by a friendly young man, who didn't offer to show me his dog (memories of the 1960s - suspect it was a specialist chat up line for English girls).
My room is on the fourth floor and has three windows with lovely views of rooftops, churches, the lagoon, and hundreds of wheeling screaming swifts. I flung the windows wide open and left them like that - a tedious English affection, I realised later.
Already lame from my trek at Bristol airport, I nevertheless went out and limped about, down to the Accademia with its arching humpbacked bridge like the spine of a giant dinosaur, up and down the Zattere quayside until I was completely Zattered. I stopped for a coffee, and watched the world go by - dogs, boats, etc. I had a tuna and egg sandwich so soft I had to ram it into my mouth with both hands as it disintegrated. I had a lemon and mulberry ice cream constructed as a towering edifice which threatened to engulf me. The waitress was St Ursula by Carpaccio - or something. Blond crinkly hair. Many Venetians are blond. I saw a waiter today who looked like Boris Johnson.
It being my first day, I experienced many of those infantile moments which result when so many basic mundane things are foreign. I thought I'd summoned the lift, but I had instead switched out the light. In the supermarket I selected the wrong kind of trolley, reserved for the war wounded. When waking along alleyways I failed to give way to ginger cats. That sort of thing. Good job there's not a Doge these days or I'd probably find myself in the Doge House.
Eventually I limped home and, after surfing the web pointlessly about nothing in particular, I switched out the light, leaving all the windows open in my foolish English way.
Woken at 3 am by barrage of Mosquitos ("zanzare" in Italian - great word).
Tossed, turned, cursed and swatted till approx 5.30 am when I finally fell asleep again, to the Dawn chorus (alas suspect some of these songsters are in cages but at least the swifts are free range).
Henceforth my windows will remain closed. A pity.