The day I opened the paint.

I went back down to the paint shop for a big fat brush, I had googled it and it was necessary. I went on my own and got there without turning off to the left! The paint man and I spoke in a bit of this and that and a smattering of Google and discovered a few extra bits of information, importantly that I should put the paint on in vertical strokes (the internet suggested criss cross, they were wrong). I came home with a special paint for the cupboards as well. I am ready for this. But maybe tomorrow. Meantime, I stop for a coffee and a wholemeal croissant (slightly healthy).

I awake from an interrupted slumber, took a deep breath (and had I been Catholic I would have made the sign of the cross) and opened the largest bucket of paint. It was thick like clay. I removed a quarter of it and added 500 ml water and I stirred and stirred and stirred some more. I got my huge paint brush and started on the bathroom. I have found a dodgy ladder in one of the old toilet rooms on the staircase. I hope it will hold me, my body is tense from getting up and down wondering if each time will be my last but it is surprisingly sturdy!

It was easier than expected. After a while I got into the swing of it and moved on to my bedroom, learning as I went that if I was really careful and applied it horizontally first and then vertically, the coverage was superior. I was, in fact, becoming a lime wash Queen. I was also becoming adept at using the huge brush to cut in (painter's terminology for doing perfect edges along the roof and floor line) instead of having to change to a smaller brush for that job. But because I have more paint left and I worry that because it has the water in it something might happen if I don't use it all, I have to keep on painting until the last drip has been absorbed by the brush. I am officially exhausted but happy.

And then strangely obsessed. I start on one of the larger rooms, the lounge room and as I sand back a couple of patches that are peeling, I discover that beyond the white, is a similar colour that I am painting! By the third wall, I wonder how I will finish it. Everything is sore, my fingers from clutching the brush, my feet and thighs and a few twinges have occurred in the hip area. I stop for a break but I have to finish it, this time I run out of paint and the process begins again. I make it as mindful as possible, as I add and stir and now with no measuring just a feeling of what it should look like. And then, I have some left over and so I have to start on the kitchen as we have to move a cupboard against wall because I start on the hall. Then I am truly buggered as they say.

(So I forgot to mention that every room in the apartment is white and I am a woman who likes colour, I have gone for subtle colours but have finally got rid of the pink in the bathroom so am happy. For the rest I've gone for a cappuccino colour which strangely looks different in every room).

After that, the daughter and I go for a celebratory Spritz. We meet up with the font of all knowledge and he shakes his head that we are Spritzing at 3.30. He doesn't do that until the witching hour of 6.30. We don't care. We see old men having a quick red wine at 10.30 in the morning, we don't feel compromised in the least.

I tell the daughter I will have the next day off but then...the kitchen looks a mess and so I start, just one wall, then another, then precariously balancing on an old ladder to paint above the cupboards and I'm done! And then half of my Ikea order arrives and I can't help but assemble a small lounge for the kitchen. It's a 23 degrees day here on Easter Friday and the moon is full, sitting above the balcony and just as I finish the assemblage, the villagers come down from with candles, going through the twelve stations of the cross that are here. They stop outside our apartment and sing. It is eerily beautiful.

The week has disappeared in a lime wash finish. Tomorrow, we're off to Austria.

Sappada - a day off.

I can't start painting today as the furniture isn't being moved until this evening and so...we go for a drive while we have the hire car. We head off straight and then finally, I get to turn off to the right! How many times have I been tempted! We're going to a German speaking down up in the mountains, a ski town by the look of it when we arrive and I see a sinuous curve of still thick white snow coming down.

First stop - the church and not for reasons you might think. To look at the ceiling, the art work? No, the daughter is bent over looking at the Rosso ammonitico limestone slabs that house the sea fossils. She finds several and then lighting two candles for her dad and Aunty, we leave the building. There's not a great deal to see here but it's interesting that it is an island of German speaking people in Italy. But way back, borders kept changing from Austria to Italy and Germany.

We find a cute old fashioned shop with everything in it, including tabasco (which is rare up here where we are), run by an old couple. We buy a Fragolini liquor, which is the wild strawberries that taste like roses and we head home.

That night the mountain men arrive to remove the furniture. Smelling of manure and woodchips, the cousin and an older man take the heavy pieces down, a mid sized one carries the cushions from the lounge that I was going to carry but they wouldn't let me. Old fashioned chivalry is alive and well in the mountains. And then the cousin's mother arrives, huffing an puffing from the four flights of stairs to deliver me news.

Last year I got a letter from the state electricity company saying that I had a small sliver of land on the hill near our home and that they owed us some money for power lines over the area. I was to come and sign some documents and money would be exchanged. Easier said than done but a cousin said he would take us as he had to do the same. That afternoon, his wife came and said that the name on the electricity account wasn't the same as on my passport and that there would be issues with the bank and after half an hour of her trying to make us understand in dialect, she just got louder and louder in the hope that we would understand more clearly. In the end we got it. I was to go to the bank before 9 and ask the manager if he would accept a cheque with the wrong name on it. The daughter and I needed a drink after that.

The next morning, after waking up in a panic at 3 thinking about all the things that had to be done and done in another language and not being able to go back to sleep, I did come up with a bright thought - I would google translate the bank manager! Easy. I head off down to the bank bright and early and with a bit of google and bits of English, he agrees to do it.

And then it's off with the 86 year old cousin in his Fiat Panda. He drives hunched over the wheel, holding on tightly and strangely follows the speed signs. We have taken a neighbour with us to drive around in the car so we don't have to pay for parking. She is agreeable to this. I thought we were taking her because he didn't like driving but I find out listening to their talk that that is why she has been asked to come. This man owns about seven apartments! (probably why he does!) We get the job done and I think he will offer her a coffee but nope, home we go. Still, I am eternally grateful for the cheque in my pocket. To think, the power lines went in in 1955, it's only now people are being reimbursed. Things move at their own pace here.

That afternoon, I walk up to the hillside after the old men have left (I don't feel in the mood for a proposal today). The view is captivating, I sit in the sun and admire the valley, it's lake, the church spires, the grey peaks crenellated and with rivulets of snow in it's gorges and I feel at home. It's as if my husband's spirit has transferred some of his great love of this place into me. I can only hope that he does the same with his Italian.

The intricacies of living Italian-style.

Ps. This should have gone before the last post!

So we head back down hoping not to run into another policeman but this time at least we have prepared a tale of woe just in case. That my wallet was stolen in Bologna (my daughter had hers stolen two years previously there so why not use that location) and that I've applied online for my International licence and that it's on it's way (I have a photo of the payment now on my phone). All tracks covered, we go to collect the paint.

The paint mixer man starts to bring out my paints and there is a strange code on the top so of course I ask what it means. Ah, he said, you have to add 30% water before you use, so 2 litres to one, 300 mls to another and so on. I came in confident, I leave thinking what have I done? I ask what I should mix it in and he brings me a big red bucket with measurements, I ask how I should mix it and he brings me a wooden stick that was lying around the place. He gives me his card and tells me to call him if any 'problemi' as the Italians say which makes a problem sound like something cute and cuddly .When I asked the 'font of all knowledge' in our town about painting, he says he has never painted anything, he gets someone to do it. Now I know why. One container is so large, I can't lift it. I soldier on.

We arrive back home without me wanting to turn off continuously. This is a problem I have and the daughter gently talks me out of doing so. She says go straight and for some reason if I see a bunch of signs that point to the right, for some inexplicable reason, I want to take them. Maybe a part of me wants to explore the unknown. The daughter is very patient with me. We make it home without detours.

But then we open the boot, take the small things out and look at the huge paint container and at that moment, a friend of my late husband's and someone who worked for him briefly in Australia wanders up our street. We say our Covid hellos (Italians don't kiss each other any more, they do a knuckle thing) and we chat about life and he shows us he's solar panels instead of his etchings and his garden. He tells us because his sister is away, he won't plant this year. The daughter and I exchange a look. You see, since the daughter has become a lockdown gardener and is obsessed with all things seedy and earthy, she has been asking if I knew of someone here who would let her help them garden, as little vegetable patches spring up all over this town on the 1st of May. Here is her opportunity. He is thrilled that someone will help and look after the garden if he goes away. Then he comes and carries the paint up four flights of stairs. He is slight and wiry and 74. Mountain men.

I close the door and am in wonder, I truly believe my late husband is with us on this journey and that he helps with everything he can. I remember after we got our visa appointment, we got into our car and in the next car, there was a little plastic sunflower nodding on the dashboard. The sunflower is linked with my husband and daughter in a very special way. I know he was sending us a message. This trip will be very interesting I believe.

PS. A bit of a vision board for the place.