A Venetian winter.

I wander Venezia, wrapped in my ochre coloured trench coat and I buy myself some gloves because it's my first time here in the winter and it's freezing when a wind travels along the Grand Canal and lifts off the water, slightly frozen. I even wear my hat, which barely gets aired in Australia. I head straight to my favourite cafe, Florians, for an expensive coffee. It's still early so the coffee is cheaper than when the musicians set up outside and play Italian love songs in San Marco square, then everything doubles. #Florians became the place to be seen in #Venice in 1720, the first cafe where women were welcomed. I slide into a corner seat, surrounded by mirrors and paintings, on both the walls and the roof. An elderly Japanese couple is sitting in another corner, arranging their food and both of them are taking photos. My coffee arrives and I do the same, and then look up to see them both uploading to Instagram! My tray arrives ,cradled lovingly by a white blazered waiter; it's as if I had ordered their most expensive breakfast. The silver tray has a tiny cup of coffee, there's a monogrammed jug of hot milk, a carafe of water, glass and serviette. On the small coffee plate there is a single chocolate coffee bean. It is perfect and I sit and gaze out at the puddle of water reflecting the grand old buildings while the pigeons make their early morning ablutions there, rippling the shadows of the colonnaded surrounds of Saint Marks Square, with the heavy canvas curtains pulled up with big light balls.

Then I'm off to the markets to see what winter vegetables are nestling there waiting to be bought, taken home and cooked lovingly by the Venetian matrons who are already haggling in the #Rialto. There's a red basket of chillis, presented in bunches, like flowers, wrapped in white paper, tied with string; radicchio di Treviso, with long tendril-like white leaves edged in deep purple, next to a trough of peeled and cut artichoke hearts; there are violet and bright pink curled cabbages; eggplants, cream and magenta striped; blood oranges from Sicily individually wrapped in tissue paper and big thick skinned lemons with their leaves attached, probably picked yesterday, in beautiful wooden crates. I lunch on homemade taglioni with baby artichokes and tiny coral coloured shrimps. I was so exhausted from walking that I chose this restaurant only to realise it's one of those places where they talk you through the specials of the day, a couple of choices and no prices. I don't care, I can't walk another step. The patron recommends a wine and I go for it all! I panic slightly but the wine starts to work its way into my bloodstream and I don't care. How much can a pasta cost in the middle of Venice? Surprisingly very little after the grumpy patron and I start talking about his life and my husband's connection to Titian, the famous Venetian painter. He brings me his special lemon flavoured homemade polenta biscuits and a Limoncello on the house. We part friends, even though I stood for ages at the door before he bothered to come and show me to an empty table. He knows before I say a word that I'm a tourist as no self respecting Venetian would turn up at a restaurant at 12.45 pm.

That afternoon I find the Libreria Aqua Alta. A bookshop like no other, with a gondola full of books in the middle and walls and a staircase made of books that leads to a viewing platform that looks out over a canal. I am entranced and amazed and worried what would happen if the high waters of Venice made their way into this amazing space.

That night I dine in a trattoria with the cheapest Spritz, if you drink it at the bar. The waiter takes pity on my aloneness and sits me at a corner table and charges me bar price for my drink. He recommends the mussels that another solo female traveller is consuming in the diagonal corner; a Spritz and a book close at hand. Why, as women alone, do we feel the need to look busy? I check my phone, edit my photos but when my meal comes, I concentrate on the simple tomato chilli broth surrounding the tiny black mussels.

Venice is welcoming to a solo female on a cold winter's night.

Venice, my spirit city.

I arrived in Venice on a cool, winter's morning. My first winter in Europe. Before now, we had travelled to the husband's hometown at the height of summer. In the continued theme of being pseudo rich, I look for my name on a board at the airport exit, am found by the taxi driver and then driven to the water taxi. My back is an expensive partner to maintain. There was no way I could travel with two suitcases with my years worth of clothes and items in them over the many bridges to my hotel. The water taxi driver is handsome of course, it's Italy after all: he takes my hand and helps me navigate my way in. Nautical curtains in the seating area, all wooden surrounds with highly polished metal. Like the gondoliers, who are a revered profession here; so too are the water taxis drivers. It's early morning and quiet. We glide in and out of canals, the water a snail trail of dusky pinks, mercury and a touch of blue obsidian on the outskirts as we turn into the Grand Canal. I stand and watch the fading palaces, the softened colours of early morning; the traffic comprised of mainly boats carrying vegetables and other goods to keep up with the demand of this tourist hub.

The boat pulls in at a designated stop and a porter is waiting for me to take my bags and guide me to the hotel. I am an actor in a dream scenario for a brief moment in time.

I have always been embraced by Venezia, from the first time my then boyfriend (later husband), told me to close my eyes as he guided me out of the railway station and then said: Look! I was paralysed with wonder then and still am thirty years later.

My room in the hotel is beautiful, the hotels here in the winter are half the price of the summer. The room is decorated in dusky violet shades, the bed huge; just for me. In one corner there's the fading remains of an old fresco. Most of the hotels are old palaces, history and art hidden within their crumbling facades. The porter opens the shutters of my room and there is a series of bridges over the canals. I have been upgraded! I'm sure the late husband arranged that one. I change into warm clothes and head out into my dream world. I can't believe how lucky I am to be here, with the ability to travel for a year.

Running away.

This is the first of my posts about my year long sabbatical overseas. I hope you enjoy armchair travelling with me.

I ran away from my life as I knew it. I packed up all my cares and woes, some sexy outfits, some bling and a Xmas box of Mac lipstick miniatures that would match with everything I chose to wear, (I do like to coordinate dress, jewels and makeup as my friends will testify). I knew I needed to redefine myself, as along the highway of life, like most women (and maybe men), I had become a chameleon and had begun to blend in so much in relationships and motherhood, that I had trouble finding myself. I was lost between grief from the deaths of my husband, mother and father and therefore - family; and not seeming to actualise a new life that I was comfortable in. I had the ability, time and money to run away. I am one of the lucky ones, in that respect. Emotionally, not so much.

On a hot, steamy Sydney day, the partner dropped me at the airport for my year long sabbatical. We were sad, confused and tentative about the survival of our relationship.

I went through the doors towards security and was automatically directed into the x ray cubicle, and then waved over to be tested for drugs. I blamed the recent passport photo. I looked like a drug running granny. If you are heading towards sixty, as I am, you will know that having your photo taken with your fringe parted to the sides, no smile to lift the beginnings of a saggy jowl, and harsh lighting; do not an attractive photo make. I'm assuming they looked at my passport, they saw, they sent a message out: Check this one out, she definitely could be supporting a drug ecosystem secreted somewhere within.

I had booked myself Business class, having only six months previously having had emergency back surgery. If you're going to escape, you may as well go in style. I began the drinking in the lounge, Prosecco and some small delicacies to tie me over for the next hour. I didn't even look out the window as we took off, I was too busy drinking the champagne offered before the doors were closed, and was now choosing which cocktail to have when we were air bound. Such is the life of the rich and those who have borrowed to pretend to be rich. Strangely, no one looked exactly wealthy. We all looked like we'd mortgaged our houses to be here.

There were pyjamas in bags, facial products in bags to get me through the flight and hopefully emerge fresh and shiny faced upon arrival. There was food to be had whenever the urge to eat came upon me, which was often, as I wanted to get my moneys worth. Being already quite inebriated from the initial drinks, my appetite coped with the three course meal provided, and of course there was a glass of a sweet wine to accompany the dessert. This was living. They even made my bed up! This was how the other half lived! And for a few brief hours, I was one of those people. I sadly slept most of the time, I should have been awake to enjoy the extravagance of my once in a lifetime purchase.

And then I had arrived at my destinazione, as the Italians say - Venezia, (just add ione, io, ia, issimo, and you're on your way)!