Mantova - Signs from above.

Mantova ,someone told me, is a city of mists; low lying, surrounded by lakes. I arrive to find it filled with Italian tourists, grey but unmisted. I love that Italians tourist their own incredible towns full of history and art. The pebbled streets give you a free foot massage. The daughter arrives and we visit the Palazzo Ducale, the best preserved palazzo outside the Vatican. The entrance is modernised with 70's floor tiles and I almost leave but beyond that, room after room of breathtaking beauty; every surface covered four hundred years ago by artisans - tapestries, frescoes, hand carved and painted wooden ceilings, paintings. I tell the daughter that her ancestor Titian came to this court of the Gonzaga's to paint their portraits, she's unimpressed. I'm awed.

The old part of the city is small, we walk to the Palazzo dei Te, a palace built by a famous Gonzaga for his mistress Isabella Boschetti, they fell in love at the age of 16 and continued their affair throughout each other's subsequent marriages. Again, the artwork is stunning.

I notice the amount of astrological paintings and symbols on floors and ceilings all over Italy and wonder why Christianity subsequently saw it as heretical. I research and find that in medieval times, Astrology was studied by Doctors and members of the church, also by farmers for planting. Catholics were permitted to have the belief that the stars impact our lives because of the influence that planets had on earth but what is forbidden, is to believe in a form of astrology that denies free will.

Mantova is the town of mostarda, a specialty mustard that dates back to the Renaissance. It's made of candied fruits with mustard essential oils that is served with boiled meats and soft cheese. It's a favourite of mine and hard to find even in Italy, except of course here in it's place of origin. There are so many shops full of gigantic class bottles of mostarda, with all different fruits, pear, apple, orange, peach, lemon and chinotto peel, cumquat and clementine. The shops are decorated as if you had just stepped into a Renaiisance artwork.

We discover the torta di tagliatelle - alternate layers of an almond mix and thinly shredded raw egg pasta which is then topped with butter and sugar and baked. Delicious. Then we find a Sunday bar for aperitivo and have an Lambrusco spritz - another unique specialty of Mantua, served with a buffet full of beautiful small savoury bites, all included in the Spritz price. For dinner, we have another unique dish of this city - Tortellini filled with pumpkin, amaretti (marzipan style crunchy biscuits), apple mustard preserve and nutmeg, served with melted butter. We have tasted Mantova, in all it's forms.

On our return train to Venice, we end up having to change when we thought we didn't and the daughter looks at some graffiti on the wall as we wait. It says in Italian ( I'll translate): 'Little one, I love you, you can't imagine how much mine you are forever)' and ends with the daughter's and the late husband's initials. We are amazed. He is definitely with us on this trip as we head back to his home town of the Dolomites for Easter.

Venezia - A dream unfulfilled.

So I booked an Air BnB for four nights in my spirit city so I could live as a honorary Venetian for a few days. My vision was to go to the markets every day and cook. It was a dream thirty years in the making. It wasn't meant to be. I should have known there could be issues as the Air BnB host didn't respond to any of my questions. I had to go to a hotel to pick up the key. That was the easy part. The rest...it wasn't ready on time; when ready I was taken through a hallway that looked like it was being half demolished, I had to step over chunks of concrete and plaster. Inside there'd been a hurried clean, the cover on the lounge was still wet, there were tiles on the floor in the bathroom, the paint was flaking off the walls and lying on the floor, when I opened the shutters to the canal, there was a crane operating plus the canal had been drained and there was no Wifi.

I've never had much luck with Air BnB's, this was living proof. I went back to the hotel to complain and he told me he'd find me a room here. No arguments, and no money to be refunded, an exchange deal. All very odd. My dreams of being a Venetian matron over, I went in search of a Spritz, as you do in these circumstances. The drizzling rain I had arrived in had stopped and a softly filtered afternoon sun shone on the canal. I'd never been in this part of Venice before, it was the sestiere (as they called the sections of Venice) of Cicchetti bars. Not such a bad situation to find myself in. Sitting by the canal, Spritz in hand, a cicchetti with gorgonzola and walnuts, life took on the sunset hues. I watch the boats going by taking school kids home; handsome Italian boatsmen, one hand on the wheel, the other usually holding a cigarette; grandmas trailing dogs with diamante collars; older couples arm in arm strolling, ready for aperitivo. Oh, the luxury I have of being here and observing Venetian life go by.

The next day I walk and wander after finding a fabulous cafe on the canal with the best coffee.I try to find a shop that has relocated but find other's instead. I walk in the rain, through the tiny streets of umbrellas fully unfurled. I look into galleries and find Carla Tolomeo's amazingly luxurious and curious armchairs. She's 74 and started out as a painter of angels but now makes chairs out of glorious velvety exotic fabrics with pineapples, birds and roses sculpturally popping up all over. I find a cheap restaurant just off San Marco and eat, drink and then am merry, especially as they bring me a plate of homemade biscuits at the end. I am always amazed how Venice can continually welcome tourists with open arms. Although I know tourism is what keeps Venice literally afloat, it still must be hard to maintain friendly relations with grumpy wet tourists.

The days go quickly, there's a Wifi issue in Venice at the moment so I have to walk out to the bridge to talk, umbrella and phone in hand. I succumb again to depression out of the blue, like Eeyore in Winnie the Pooh, a little cloud is sitting just above my head. The partner and I are missing each other and talking in the rain, trying to find a spot of Wifi, isn't helping.

I have wandered far and wandered wide, have found the oldest paper shop in Venice which started out in 1851 and has a sign on it saying: Rarely Open. I try to find my favourite art shop where there are wooden boxes full of powdered pigments, ground stones. Of course Google maps doesn't work within the tiny alleyways of Venice but I ask locals (easily spotted by the way the dress) and I finally find it, only to discover it's closed, no hours of operation; open somewhere between lunch and aperitivo, I'm told by an Italian who finds me peering in the window longingly.

The old post office, Fondaco dei Tedeschi, which was built in the 1200's for German and northern European traders to stay in is now a department store! I am horrified! Carved on the building is: 'No weapons, no games, no prostitutes. For the rest, free to trade.' The famous painter Titian painted a mural on this building. I suppose this is how the old buildings are preserved. Times, they are a'changing.

I find another beautiful old theatre is now a supermarket, I wander in and look up and around me at the stunning paintings, the old staircase. Does this mean the Venetians are leaving, that plays are no longer being performed? They say more and more are Venetians are moving out because they can't afford it. Will one day only tourists wander this beautiful fragile city, no longer cared for by Venetians? The thought is sobering. I go to my favourite trattoria, close to my hotel and have a large drink, and a pasta dish of velvety homemade taglioni with fresh baby artichokes, zucchini, scampi in a vodka sauce.

I leave Venice, having taken too many photos of canals and sumptuous gondolas, and I'm heading to Mantova or Mantua to meet up with the daughter.

Bologna - A concert in the middle of nowhere.

I meet the daughter in #Bologna. The hotel I booked that suggested it was in the centre, isn't. It's like a Fawlty Towers scenario. The man at the front desk is ancient but has dyed his hair jet black and the few bits he's missed, he's coloured in with black texta. He's wearing a bright brocade waistcoat and a ruby red bow tie.

We walk into the centre which is a good twenty minutes away, making our way through the colonnaded arcades. I seem to see things differently through the lens of depression. I've been here before but have never fully appreciated the beauty of this city of over 38 kilometres of porticoes, each section painted in different colours - ochres, reds, salmon pinks, with different patterned tiles underfoot in each of the sections. Once this city had canals running through it that took ships from here to Venice in the Middle ages, utilising a hydraulic system of canals and locks that worked up until the 18th century. Now there's only one canal left. The daughter takes me to an amazing cafe that specialises in croissants with different fillings. The pistachio one is to die for.

We're here to go to a concert. I leave the details of how to get there to the daughter. The tickets have to be printed out. We go down and ask the man of the black hair to do so. He has no idea. He doesn't speak any English. Luckily the daughter has some Italian. He eventually tells her to come around and do it herself but she doesn't know the log in details. Eventually someone else turns up who does and we finally have the tickets in hand. We meet up with her Uni friends and get an Uber. To the middle of nowhere. It looks like an aircraft hanger. The Uber drops us off and points vaguely to a distant place. We walk through a field, hop over a fallen tree and finally see a crowd of people. This is where Passenger is performing. Why? Why would anyone come here to serenade a small crowd of Italians and the odd Aussie? The daughter thinks she has informed me that it is a stand up concert. I am sure she has neglected to tell me this. Passenger is running an hour late, he probably couldn't find it either and has been dropped in the middle of the field as we were. In the end I sit on the ground, my newly operated upon back demanding it. He's worth it as always. I've never known an artist to be able to lock in a crowd as well as Passenger.

Getting back is another story. We follow a crowd, they say there are taxis to be had. There aren't. We ring one, they say they will come. They don't. We follow people who say there are buses. We walk a long way. There are none. Eventually the daughter sees a taxi, steps out and hails it like in a movie, set in New York. We drop the girls at the station to get a train back to Modena and we are dropped safely to the hotel. We hear that the last train to Modena was cancelled. The girls had to get an expensive taxi back as Bologna station is not the sort of station you want to hang around after midnight. Adventures.

Porticoes and doorknobs.