1965: My birthday, and a new baby

This is the second in a series of recollections I'm preparing for my mother.

All through the latter part of February 1965, my mother’s small hospital suitcase stood just inside the sliding door of our lounge room, and every morning without fail I checked to see if it was still in place.

If it was missing, then I would know that Mum was at the maternity hospital – and that our new baby was finally on its way.

The only morning I didn’t do this was 4^th March – my 8^th birthday.

I guess my mind was on other things.

It wasn't until after I saw Dad in the bathroom and he said “Happy birthday. Mum’s bag is gone.” that I even thought of it.

Of course, being eight years old, I had to go to check it out for myself – and sure enough, her suitcase WAS missing.

But there was no baby yet.

Over breakfast Dad told us that he'd taken Mum to Baxter House overnight and he would have more to tell us after school.

In spite of this earth-shattering news, we still made time to open my birthday presents. I only recall one present that day – although there must have been others. It was a my new school’s tie pin, which I was pretty pleased with and wore on my lapel.

I was such a dag – but you have to remember this was the mid-sixties…

I went to school as usual, but had to catch a different bus at the end of the day, because Lynda and I were to stay with family friends, Gordon and Cynthia Hall at their home in Highton (a suburb across town).

Coincidentally, it was the also their eldest daughter’s 16^th birthday that day. Natalie and her sister Michelle attended my school and were given the task of bringing me home from school with them.

It was all quite an adventure for an eight year old.

School really dragged that day and I could hardly wait to find out whether I had a new brother or sister. And I wanted details!

I’d been fascinated by the whole notion of babies ever since I’d known Mum was pregnant and had plagued her with all sorts of questions. For instance, I knew that ALL babies had blue eyes when they were born – and I was anxious to see this phenomenon for myself, since we all had brown or hazel eyes in our family.

You can imagine my frustration when we were told that there was no news yet. I thought I was going to burst. What had Mum been doing all day?

We joined the extended Hall family in their celebration of Natalie’s birthday over dinner that night – and I think that a cake was produced for me too, which was a bit special. But the most memorable thing about that meal was that it was the very first time I’d ever eaten corn on the cob. Freshly picked and slathered with butter. Yum, sensational.

It is still one of my favourite foods.

Lynda and I stayed up late waiting to hear from Dad, but bedtime came and went with no word. Since tomorrow was still a school day, we finally went to bed, trusting that there would be news in the morning.

Thank heavens, there was.

Cynthia Hall woke us the next morning bearing hot chocolate, news and a small gift for us both. The news was that we had a brand new baby sister. Her name was Tracy Kim and she’d been born at 11:30pm – just inside my birthday.

Woo hoo!

Oh the gift? Bizarrely, a troll doll each. Mine had red hair and Lynda’s had white. I think I still have mine … somewhere.

In those unenlightened times, a woman's confinement was taken quite literally. New mothers were scarcely allowed out of bed for toilet privileges for a week or more after a normal delivery. Children were not permitted to visit their mothers and I suspect fathers were barely tolerated. They certainly didn’t venture inside the labour ward. Not then anyway.

For us the only direct means of communication with our mother was to write her a letter.

I wrote and I asked her that burning question. What colour WERE our new baby’s eyes?

Mum wrote back, telling us that it was hard to see her eye colour since she was sleeping so much, but that her eyes seemed to be very, very dark. She also told us how tiny and perfect her hands and fingernails were.

Naturally we were desperate to see this for ourselves, but it was nearly two weeks later before we finally met our sister.

Tracy did not disappoint.

I don’t remember too much about her homecoming, except that she was a very good baby and her eyes were never, ever blue. They were almost black right from the start. But she was utterly perfect and we all thought she was gorgeous.

Four year old Lynda announced that she was the most beautiful baby ever. Ever modest, Mum said that every family felt the same way about a new baby. Lynda replied. “Yes, but ours really is.”

You can’t argue with that kind of devotion, can you?

A post script:

A few months later I really earned my big sister stripes. It was winter and Mum was outside putting the washing on the line. She slipped over on the wet grass, and broke her upper arm.

She was in plaster for what seemed like months, probably because she continued to breast feed and didn’t have an ounce of calcium to spare for mending bones.

Basic tasks like showering and dressing were all very challenging, and caring for an infant was even worse.

She continued to breast feed and it was an ongoing battle to keep her cast from resting on Tracy’s head as she fed. Feeding was one thing, but she couldn’t bathe her, carry her safely or even change her nappy – so I became her right hand (or left in this case), at least after school anyway, while our grandmother handled the cooking and cleaning side of things.

Excellent training for when I had my own children twenty-something years later.

Chris' duckpond adventure

I'm currently working on a series of family recollections for a scrapbook for my mother, who recently turned 85. This is one of them.

It was just a few days before Christmas 1995. The boys were seven and Andrea was about to turn three. My mother and father had arrived from Victoria the day before and I wanted to show them a local beauty spot. I also needed to pick up the ham and turkey we’d ordered from our local butcher, and since the kids had gone slightly feral, I thought I could kill three birds with the one stone.

Everyone piled into the Tarago and we drove to the nearby Punchbowl Reserve. As its name suggests, it is a shallow bowl-like depression and it has been beautifully landscaped. It is very popular with families.

There is a glorious rhododendron garden, sweeping lawn, a duck pond, barbeque and picnic facilities and a recently refurbished play area. I anticipated we would take a pleasant stroll over the lawn to see the ducks, planning to finish up at the playground and then back home via the butchers.

Easy.

Or Not

Everything was quite straightforward until we reached the duck pond, which is half way across the reserve. We didn’t even have a chance to point out the ducks, let alone feed them, when Chris ventured one step too close to the edge and slithered right in.

The pond isn’t excessively deep – perhaps waist deep – IF he’d not floundered around. But by the time I hauled him out, he was completely soaked up to his neck and covered in mud and pondweed.

Thankfully the weather was fairly mild and we stripped him off at the water’s edge but the issue remained; what could he wear back to the car?

I had Nick give him his woollen jumper and Andrea gave up her hoodie for the cause. The jumper was a straight swap since the boys were of a size, but the only thing I could do with the hoodie was tie it around his waist like a little apron or some kind of native lap-lap (since the hood swung between his knees). Modesty was satisfied – sort of – but he looked quite bizarre.

That sorted, it was time to bundle up the wet clothes and get home asap.

But Nick had become bored and decided to explore the picnic area while we were occupied with Chris. The next thing I knew was that he was doing a pretty good mountain goat impression – leaping from one picnic bench up onto the table, down again and over to the next bench. Easy.

Until he missed - and barked his shin against one of the benches.

Now all of our attention was on Nick who, not surprisingly, was yowling in pain.

So then we realised that Chris had wandered off in the direction of the playground. He was making a beeline for the slide and we were too far back to stop him.

You can imagine the looks he was getting from the other children as he climbed bare-arsed up the ladder and lowered himself onto the top of the slide.

I should point out here that this newly refurbished playground had some quite modern features for the time, such as rubberised matting under the swings – and a ROLLER slide.

We could only look on in horror as he bumped down over the cold metal rollers on his bare bottom.

Frankly, it was some kind of miracle that his bits weren’t pinched between the rollers. I suspect he didn’t enjoy the experience, since he made no attempt to go back up.

We finally hustled him and the injured Nick back to the car (where this photo was taken) and agreed that we should get home as quickly as possible, what with Chris half naked and Nick moaning and groaning.

Nick: It's sore, It's sore.

Me from the drivers seat: All right, we know.

Nick in the back seat: It's sore, It's sore (and so on)

Me trying to keep calm: All right, keep quiet about it.

Nick: It's sore, It's sore ( etc)

Andrea in the middle row: Mum, he's not keeping quiet about it.

Nick: It's sore, It's sore.

Andrea (with some ire ) We know it's sore. Now shut up.

Which you have to admit is pretty funny coming from someone who's not quite three years old.

It's just as well we didn't have far to drive.

A brief story about Chris.

My son Chris attends Giant Steps Tasmania, an autism specific school located in Deloraine (a rural community 50 km away.) It was founded in 1995 by a small group of very dedicated and politically savvy parents of autistic children and Chris was an early enrolment, starting in its second year. It had a shaky start financially, but is now growing and extending its enrolment to adults and pre-school programmes. It will never be big, but it delivers a quality program and it came along at just the right time for us. I will always be grateful for that - and for the bus the school finally bought so we no longer had to car pool to get the children to and from school.

Chris was a full-time day student until he turned 19 (in 2007) and then was offered a place two days a week with the fledgling adult group.

This group has grown this year, and we were lucky to apply for and receive additional funding for him to attend three days a week. He spends the rest of the week at the Day support program his group home runs - and comes home for the weekends.

One of the many imaginative (through necessity ) fund raisers Giant Steps introduced was called Sponsor-a-Child and over the years it has brought in several thousand dollars.

Twice a year the students' parents are asked to write a short update about their child's progress and it is sent out to the sponsors in the form of an open letter (with an accompanying photo).

I usually find myself scratching my head to find something to write about, but inspiration came a little easier this time. Here it is - I hope you enjoy it and if it aids in your understanding about living with autism, that's a bonus.


Chris in 1998. A rare shot of him engaging with the camera

Chris in 2010. You can see his Lightwriter on his lap. It's a voice output device and he wears it on a strap around his waist.

_______________________________

Sponsor a child update May 2011

Chris spent the extended Easter break at home this year, and we took the opportunity to have his hair cut and to refresh his wardrobe.

His father took him for the haircut and I drew the short- ish straw: buying the clothes. Not my favourite job after we lost him in town when he was nine years old. But that’s another story.*

The haircut

When Chris was very young we used to put off cutting his hair until it was so long he could barely see through his fringe. Haircutting was such an ordeal for him – and us. He couldn’t stand being draped with the nylon gown, seeing his reflection in the mirror, hearing the sound of the scissors close to his ears or having to sit still while the hairdresser cut his hair. These are not sensations that bother a neurotypical person, but can be very distressing for the Autistic individual.

Inevitably there were some rather lop sided cuts over the years, but these are rare now. He tolerates being draped, so long as his hands are left free. He still looks away from the mirror to avoid his reflection but he finds the buzz of the hair clippers surprisingly soothing. Mind you, cutting around his ears is not for the faint hearted – but his hairdressers have learned to be quick.

This week’s haircut was happily quite painless. I’m told even the hairdresser was smiling at the end.

Clothes shopping

Chris came home with rips to two pairs of pants and his pyjamas, so all needed replacing. He and his brother were of a size not too long ago. But Nick is taller now and can no longer try things on for the both of them. As much as I would have preferred to shop without him, there was no avoiding it this time. I would have to take Chris shopping.

But where to go?

Chris finds going to large stores terribly exciting, but I don’t like taking him there for that very reason. He is distractible at the best of times, but department stores put him into sensory overload with their sheer size, massive displays, bright colours, noise levels and plain busy-ness.

We needed something quieter, less stimulating for this expedition to work, so I opted for a local men’s wear store, which we visited at a quiet time of day.

What a difference it made! Not only did I not have to search the racks for the right style and size, but the staff could not have been more helpful to us. When I explained that Chris cannot manage a zippered fly, they searched and found two elastic waisted trousers that turned out to be perfect for him.

So half an hour later we left the store with everything on our list. It might have cost a few dollars more than a chain store, but the experience was almost … dare I say it, a pleasant one.

When he returns to Giant Steps after Easter, he’ll look very sharp indeed.

* I'll tell that story one day.

Random notes for the New Year.

It's been a few weeks since my last post , so this is simply a catch-up blog.

Christmas was very quiet for me. Vaughan was in Queensland with his fiancee, Andrea spent the day with Rob's family, so it was just the boys and me. We did manage to get together for a meal - all of us- on New Year's Day. So that was quite nice.

I received a gift card for a new wallet, a baking dish, DVDs and some other gift vouchers for Christmas. The wallet matches my new red Italian handbag beautifully, so I'm very pleased with that.

I didn't have to work after Christmas, so I added another week of leave and had two weeks off in all. It was nice but in retrospect I should have taken three.

It took me all of the first week to wind down but I was starting to get into the groove by the end of the second week. By that last Friday I'd decided I could really get used to long sleep-ins, hours spent reading and lazily pottering about the house - but it was not to be and I had to front up to work on Monday.

Gahhh.

Chris has been home for the last three weeks and he returns to his group home tonight. Except for some minor obsessing over when he could open his Christmas presents and his desire to spend a LOT of internet time spent looking for and at YouTube clips, it has been nice having him around.

When I picked him up the day before Christmas Eve, his housemother mentioned that he's very independent there, often makes himself hot drinks and peeling potatoes for meals etc. Funny, when I suggested he do these things here, uh ... he wasn't the slightest bit interested. He ran a mile in fact. LOL Whatever he is, is not silly.

I received some good news about his special needs funding for when school resumes in February. We applied for and received an increase in funding and he will be able to attend Giant Steps Tasmania's Adult programme (It is an Autism specific School) three days a week instead of two. He will then have two rather than three days at St Michael's more generic Day Support programme. I think that it will be good for him.

Nick FINALLY got his licence and it is a huge load off everyone's mind. I've noticed a marked increase in his confidence and independence since that day. In fact, he offered to do the supermarket shopping for me this week - and I was happy to let him. He's going to receive a job seeking allowance too, which will put a few dollars into his pocket while he's looking for work. I hope that he will soon have a job in his chosen field of graphic design.

Andrea and Rob are now in their own unit. They moved in just before Christmas. She's on the lookout for an apprenticeship, but is swinging between becoming a chef or a baker. I wish she'd make up her mind. She needs to get her driver's licence too. I've offered to take her out on some drives, but she's not taken me up on that yet.

We've been watching TV coverage of the floods in Queensland over the last few days. It has been a terrible business, but whole communities are rallying behind the massive clean up efforts and that is quite heart warming to see.

Tasmania was also affected - but to a far lesser extent - and we appreciate that we have been very lucky. Coastal towns to the East, a few towns in the NW and one local suburb were flooded, but most of Launceston been left unscathed.

There are some changes at work coming. The upshot of it is that I could work shift work if I want. It would involve weekend work which is a minus, but there would be more annual leave, shift penalties and time in the day to do other things.

I don't know how it will shake down, but I'm going to try to keep my options open.

One last random note. I unexpectedly found out that my illness two years ago might be covered by an insurance policy I had for Death Disability or Trauma. I'm in the process of making a claim - and there may be some kind of pay out! Fingers crossed anyway. My mortgage waits with bated breath!

Things I learned...

This will be the last of my Italian blogs. I’ve been back over a month now – and as is the way with most holidays, the memories have started to recede already. It’s a bit sad really. I look back at some of my photos and wonder, was I really there?

I would go again in a heartbeat though– if someone could tell me a sure-fire way to avoid the ghastliness of long distance flying. I was still reeling two weeks later from that last Eastward leg, but more about that later.

Anyway, I learned a lot from this trip – not only about Italy and travelling alone, but also about myself.

1) I learned that I was not easily intimidated and was prepared to ‘have a go’ at most things.

I felt very safe in Italy and I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend it to other solo female travellers.

I may have acquired some survival Italian, but honestly, all I could have gotten by very easily with just Hello, Goodbye, Excuse me, Please and Thankyou – and a smile.

Only part of my time away was spent on my own though. The other part was with two organised tours. The longer, privately organised tour was with Father Joe and Michela and I’ve already talked about that, and the two-day trip to Pompeii, Sorrento and Capri was booked through a big travel company.

I think that the smaller, more customised groups are the way to go if you ever have a choice. The food will be better and the trip less … umm commercially driven. The Pompeii/ Sorrento trip, while having wonderful scenery, included two factory tours – one for cameo jewellery and the other for marquetry that were too opportunistic for my taste.

Travelling on your own can be a two edged sword however. If you travel on your own, you can do things on the spur of the moment far more readily than if you have to persuade your travelling companion/s to come along too. It’s fair to say that there were several things that I probably wouldn’t have done if I’d been with others. My climb to the top of the cupola of Il Duomo springs to mind, as does my pleasant hour or two spent wandering through the Florence leather markets, where I lingered where I chose and stopped for food when I fancied.

But on the other hand, when I witnessed a fireworks display over Vesuvius at midnight from my Sorrento hotel balcony, I would have loved to have been able to share that experience with a travelling companion.

2) I learned that digital photography fundamentally changes the holiday experience.

In the old days of proper film driven cameras, taking holiday snaps was very uncertain. You had to wait for the prints to come back from the chemist shop – then discovering that perhaps your exposure was off, or that your hand wobbled at a critical moment , or wondering where the Hell you’d taken that particular shot, or why you needed 15 shots of the same castle ruin (True story – Dover Castle 1984).

No, modern digital photography changes all of that.

With digital cameras, you can adjust and edit as you go. It's a case of ‘Nah no good, Ditch that. Yep keep this one.’

You can even show off your shots while they’re still in your camera, edit them waiting for a train (as I did in Corniglia),and later, quickly upload them to the net so you can share them with friends and family back home, so long as you can find an internet café.

One downside is that digital cameras can be energy hungry. On my first day in Venice, I discovered that my filming the bells chiming in San Marco square totally sucked my one and only battery dry within a minute or two. I resolved to limit myself to still photography from that point on and bought a new battery for emergencies. It sure came in handy. I had a tendency to run low on power while in inaccessible places. As you can imagine, needing a fresh battery on the top of a cathedral roof is not something you want to do without a fully charged spare in your pocket.

I also learned that I have a heavy right hand when it comes to grabbing a quick shot. I had SO many wonky horizons, it wasn’t funny. But thanks to a wonderful little computer programme called Rotation Pilot, I was able to salvage some very dodgy photos and ended up with mostly usable shots.

3) I learned to thank my lucky stars.

Australia is a fantastically lucky country. I was shocked at how many beggars there were on the streets. We'd been advised to walk past, but it made me uncomfortable for many reasons.

I had several near catastrophes – where things could have gone horribly wrong for me – but thankfully did not.

In that category were:

a) almost missing the train from Rome to Florence. (note to self – go by the train number, NOT the destination.).

b) stepping off a kerb into Roman traffic and looking right (instead of left) and feeling the whoosh of air on my stomach as a car whizzed past me with only millimetres to spare.

On the clumsy ‘You -won’t-do-that-again’ category we had:

a) gashing my thumb tip with a razor in my toiletry bag while reaching for my makeup while hurrying to get ready for the opera at La Scala. Picture me - All dressed up in my best duds and with a sonking great bandaid on my finger. Uh - so not the way I wished to be seen that night.

b) And worse, I slipped over while stepping into a bath and was lucky not to do anything worse than bruise my ‘groinical’ region (which was still quite spectacularly colourful weeks later- but you'll have to take my word for that.)

4) I learned to appreciate the joys of the unexpected along the way.

I discovered that the more I anticipated a sight or event, the more likely I was to be disappointed by it. Conversely I found the greatest pleasures in the most unexpected things, such as: the fabulous Bronzino exhibition, the smell of freshly grated nutmeg during my pasta cookery class, and the taste of grapefruit gelato.

I had no expectations of Capri and many for Pompeii. Guess which turned out to be the better day for me?

I’d waited forty years to see Pompeii and unfortunately I think I lucked out on the tour guide, who somehow made the tour more about her – and not the poor folk whose lives we were examining. She neither captured my imagination nor stirred my soul – and I dearly wanted to be moved by the history of the place.

The truth was I was ready to leave well before our time was up; the heat and the boring tour did me in.

But the next day on Capri - with the fabulous Marco as our guide - was a pleasure from start to finish, because I went with absolutely no expectations. Even though we were not able to visit the Blue Grotto due to choppy weather conditions, we had a wonderful day. I was entranced by the views of the Bay of Naples from the chairlift at Anacapri, swept away by the smells that wafted up from the forest floor, as we skimmed the treetops with our feet, and was captivated by the bright blue of the water - so different from the inky blue black of Ligurian coast – or anywhere else for that matter.

5) I learned that it is a small, small world.

This is deadset true. It was our last day in Rome and I was walking across St Peter’s Square after leaving the Sistine chapel, when I spotted a familiar face queuing for the Vatican Post Office. It was a senior RN from work!

We were amazed at the coincidence. Neither of us knew each other well, certainly not well enough to know that the other was travelling, But there we were –10, 000 miles from home and literally passing within metres of each other. Freaky huh?

Folk were generally intrigued that I was from Tasmania – and my little Tassie Tiger cap was a hit until I lost it in a Rome restaurant. :( I was bemused and amused that some of Fr. Joe’s US tour group didn’t believe that the Tasmanian Devil really existed - not that he looks much like the cartoon character though - and took great pleasure in showing them actual photos of the creature. I didn't dare start about the fact that the Tasmanian Devil and the Tasmanian Tiger are not the same. Oh nooo. Way too complicated

I did meet one Italian at least who actually been to Tasmanial. Our cooking teacher in Florence had an offsider called Marco – and he’d visited Tasmania and sailed in the Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race some years before. I’ve told him he must stop by next time he’s Downunder.

6) I learned you REALLY need to keep your sense of humour front and centre when you’re in transit.

I think it helps if you can go with the flow. There is no point stressing out about things that are outside your control – such as public transport in all its forms and long waits spent queueing for tickets or even gelati – even if the pay off with the latter is oh-so-worth it.

That being said I was frustrated that I’d missed the train from Corniglia to Manarola by the length of a platform - and then found that the next train wouldn't be coming for another hour and a half (instead of the expected 10 minutes). Now since this particular railway platform was 300 steps below the town – and had a passably pretty view overlooking the Ligurian Sea and, I decided to sit tight. I figured that there were plenty of worse places I could be stuck.

I wish I could say that I brushed off the long eastward bound flight from Abu Dhabi to Sydney as easily as that wait in Corniglia. I’d done fine with the westward flights. But this one was gruelling with a capital GRU.

What I might do next time is arrange an overnight stopover somewhere in Asia to let my body clock adjust – or maybe I should simply get a hold of some drugs to knock me out.

I have one particularly vivid memory of that horrendous flight. We entered Australian airspace over the NW coast of Western Australia in the middle of the night – two am of thereabouts – and the personal entertainment console on the headrest in front of me was keeping me up to date, telling me things like:

a) how fast we were travelling (not fast enough),

b) how cold it was outside ( bloody freezing). But it was hot and stuffy inside.

c) where we were relative to Mecca (WTF – oh wait, this is a Middle Eastern airline) and

d) how many hours to our destination (sob… Five. More. Freaking. Hours!)

I was close to despair, being unable to

a) escape the dry and stale atmosphere,

b) unpuff my ankles or de-vein my red eyes,

c) maintain my fluids without gulping down three or four of the piddly little drinks at a time, IF an attendant was passing by.

d) stretch my legs without having to clamber over my seat mates,

e) ease my backside or unwedge my knees from the back of the seat in front of me.

Right at that moment, I was convinced that this flight would never end – and then I had two domestic flights to look forward to. I would have wept, but I was so dry I don’t think my eyelids could make tears any more.

My long journey home had started at 9.30 am on Tuesday, with me lugging my suitcase ON MY BACK down three flights of a skinny circular staircase (rope handrail if you please) in a house high in Vernazza, then by train to Milan, bus to the Airport, then planes times two, bus in Sydney, two domestic planes and finally – unwilling to wait for a shuttle bus, a cab from the airport to my front door at 2 pm on Thursday.

I have NEVER been so glad to see my house as when I opened the door after 40 something hours of solid travelling.

And what greeted me?

Nick saying with genuine surprise ‘Oh you’re back today!’ and a very strong mildewy smell hitting me between the eyes right at the front door. How could he have not noticed this? The first thing I did was track down the week-old damp towel hiding in the laundry and shoved it into the washing machine. Ughhh

Not surprisingly – even though I was desperately tired, I was not about to sit down. I prowled around the house for hours, feeling vaguely unsettled.

7) Lastly I learned ( well reminded, really ) that Jetlag is a funny thing.

I’d truly be fine one minute, then be suddenly overcome with a wave of fatigue mid- morning or mid afternoon – and then I’d be wide awake at midnight- and again at four am.

My sleep patterns took some time to recover. I was waking at 4 am all through that first week, usually waking feeling very disoriented

The first night I woke, utterly convinced that I’d been left behind somewhere on some form of public transport. It took me several minutes of heart-pounding panic before I worked out I was in my own bedroom and that the inky blackness and lack of engine or people noises were actually OK.

A few more WTFery moments.

1 )The opera I saw at La Scala used the ‘old switching identities’ plot device, not once but twice. One of the mixed-up pairs was a lady and her maid. Pretty standard fare for opera really - except that in this production the lady was black – and her ‘doppelganger’ maid was not! I guess that folk in ‘opera land’ are either colour-blind or not very observant. Lol.

I have to confess I am not a huge fan of opera. The plots are SO slow and the characters seem to repeat themselves an awful lot. There was one duet towards the end of the play where the characters told us they were feeling confused - over and over again - for at least ten minutes. It was all I could do not to yell. ‘All right We get it. Just get on with it, will ya!’ But you’ll be pleased to know that I maintained my ladylike decorum.

2) I’d never seen a three-way beer/wine spigot before.. Beer came out of the central spigot, white wine came from the spigot on the left and red from the right. That was pretty darn nifty I thought.

3) None of the hotel rooms had tea or coffee making facilities. As great as Italian coffee is, there were some times when I just wanted something hot and wet to drink in my room. Instant would have been fine ( but is probably anathema to the Italians)

4) While queuing at the check- in counter to return to Oz, there, was a lady ahead of me who was sent away with a suitcase that weighed about 35 kg ( 77lb) She was only a little thing too. I don’t know how she even carried it. Unless she was able to divest herself of about a third of her load, she was going to be facing a massive excess baggage bill.

5) I was disconcerted to find that video cameras were mounted on the underside of our aircraft, presumably so that the passengers could all watch the landing - and admire the pilot’s skill –or simply watch the ground rushing up to meet us. Uh … no thanks. Looking out the window will do me just fine. I might even keep my eyes shut during the landing thankyou.

Well, that is about it for this blog. I adored my trip even with the harrowing return flight. It was worth it to be visiting new places, eating new foods and seeing some of the world's richest history, art and architecture first hand.

I want to visit Europe again, if not next year, then certainly the year after. I’m currently very taken with the idea of a leisurely European river cruise. Up the Rhine, down the Seine or along the Danube anyone?

A little bit of Culture...

...goes a long way.

View from the Tivoli Gardens

If you like architecture dating back hundreds if not thousands of years, mega big sculpture and five hundred year old paintings, Italy is the place to go. It is everywhere. You can't escape it, even if you try.

I first noticed this on the train from Milan to Venice, only a few hours after touching down at Malpensa airport. I might have been tired, but I noticed that the scenery wasn't greatly different from what I was used to here in rural Tasmania. The trees were just as green, the hills as gently rolling, suburban houses - albeit in the warm browns and yellows I will forever associate with Tuscany - lined unremarkable roads. But then I would see a

monastery clinging to a distant hillside, or spot a country church (complete with bells in the belfry) and I knew I was no longer in Oz, where something is regarded as really old if it dates back to the 19th Century.

I guess it's a matter of scale.

If I might digress a moment. I showed our tour guide Michela and her husband the two booklets on Tasmania that I'd brought with me- and she was entranced by its natural beauty. When she returned the booklets, she told me. 'We've decided. We're coming.'

I told her I'd put the kettle on for them.

As a further digression, Michela was a wonderful guide. She shared her knowledge of Italian history - and there is a lot of it - plus geography and art, with a lot of patience and and a heap of passion. Which is what you want in a guide.

Some of our other guides ranged from extremely humorous (in Pisa) , super cute and charming (in Sorrento) to downright fed up(in Pompeii).

Here's a picture of the cute one, Marco. Well I'm not going to bother with the grumpy one, am I?

Our guide, Marco, on the way to Capri.

But back to Michela. She was our personal guide in Rome and we went to places that all had some artistic or historical (and religious ) significance. Here are just a few:

The Tivoli Gardens. This is full of terraces, fountains and lots of steps. It seemed to be a popular destination for Italian families on a Sunday afternoon. I felt a bit sorry for the folk bringing children in strollers.

The Catacombs. 2000 year old tombs (thankfully empty these days) of the early Christians. There was an underground chapel - and not surprisingly, the acoustics were superb. There was a beautiful fresco of two saints praying together in one tomb. It was very simple and rather touching.

St Peters. The immensity of this place has to be seen to be believed. But everything is to scale - which is why it is such a shock when you walk in. Let me see if I can explain.

What appears to be a normal sized statue of Mary has a cherub at her feet that is over 6 feet tall. Which must make her about 30 feet tall. But the crazy thing is that a 30 foot statue doesn't look out of place in the basilica - because the whole building is in proportion to that.

Check out this photo http://www.flickr.com/photos/79925372@N00/392987253/ It will give you an idea.

Even when we were on our own in Rome, we found the most amazing sights on our own. We'd opted for a hop-on hop-off bus to save our feet.

It was mind blowing to have the the Piazza del Popoli, the Spanish Steps and the Trevi fountain all within one bus stop of each other. Then even better, just a few stops on, we were in the ancient part of Rome and ... bang there was the Collosseum right in front of us. You couldn't miss it. We had lunch in a cute little cafe virtually in its shadow.

See you can't get away from it. In Rome, history is all around you.

The Collosseum. The holes you can see are where the marble cladding was secured to the stone.

The Trevi Fountain. It's completely OTT

The Spanish Steps. No, I wasn't tempted to climb them.

Piazza del Popoli. I loved the symmetry of these paired churches. We saw two men on Segway scooters zipping up and down the road between them. I don't think that Romans are intimidated in the least by the history of their city.

Now for a bit of a whinge. I have to confess that the Sistine chapel left me a bit cold. There were several reasons for that. One was that it was a grey overcast day and the chapel relies largely on natural light to illuminate the ceiling. Since the ceiling is very high, it was difficult to see much detail.

The second reason was that you have to go through the entire Vatican Museum to reach the chapel. Now we were lucky, we'd pre-booked and didn't have to stand in line to get into the museum - and that line was already several hours long at ten o'clock in the morning on a Tuesday. But even so, my back was killing me by the time we'd walked through all of the various exhibits.

I defy anyone to maintain a proper appreciation of someone's life's work, when you're in pain - or to go off topic for a moment, busting to go to the loo.

All I'll say about that though, is that I spent two hours in Venice trying to locate St Pantalon's church which is famous for its painted ceiling, only to find it was closed on a Sunday! I ended up dashing into the Academy of Art - ostensibly to view room after room of medieval Altar pieces - but far more interested in the bathroom at the back of room 21.

I know I appreciated it a lot more after I came out of that room.

But back to the Sistine Chapel.

I could have overlooked my discomfort if I hadn't become totally numb to the opulence of the rooms we had to go through before we reached the chapel. There is only so much culture I can take in in one go.

The final straw was the last of the Raphael rooms. There are four, each more overblown than the one before. This will give you some idea of the magnitude.

http://www.google.com.au/images?hl=en&q=raphael%20room%20vatican%20museum&um=1&ie=UTF-8&source=og&sa=N&tab=wi&biw=1024&bih=673

So, while I was standing in that last room, simply boggling, it struck me that this room didn't have a single unadorned inch. Every section of wall, floor or ceiling was either carved, gilded, painted, or mosaic'd. I found it quite overwhelming - and not in a good way.

I actually felt myself go numb.

And so, by the time we finally reached the Sistine chapel doors- where we were reduced to shuffling forward along with 500 or so other visitors and listening to the guards loudly 'sshhing' us, clapping for our attention and hissing loudly 'no photos' - I'd had quite enough.

That said, I was still sufficiently impressed to buy myself a postcard of the ceiling. I mean, you have to, don't you?

Now, culture in Florence was very different. It's a lovely city, but not quite so over the top as Rome. I really liked it, except that I kept on getting lost. I have a permanent reminder of my wanderings, buying a lovely red leather handbag that I stumbled across at a market stall.

I loved my tour of Florence's Uffizi gallery - and our guide there gave us a wonderful run down on the development of Renaissance Art. She was able to show us paintings I'd only ever seen in books. For my money, The Birth of Venus and Primavera by Botticelli were worth the price of admission alone.

I also took a tour that walked the length of the Uffizi's famous Vasari Corridor. It served two functions. One was as an escape route for the Medici family across the river over to the Pitti Palace. But it was also used as a loooong art gallery, and contains a kilometre's worth of self portraits of some of the most famous artists who ever lived. Portraits are still being added to this day.

While I expected to be impressed by Michelangelo's David at the Academia del Arte - and I was, there was another sculpture of his that I thought was even more remarkable, especially considering it is unfinished.

It was quite near David, and I thought it looked like a man of stone trying to pull himself out of the marble. I loved it.

I wish the photo was better, but I took it before I realised that cameras were banned (whoops) and didn't get a chance to get a better one.

Another unexpected highlight was the opportunity to see a collection of Bronzino painting in the Strozzi Palace across town. This was a fixed period exhibition that had been curated from museums around the world.

This is one picture from that collection and I bought a postcard of it. I think it is simply gorgeous - and I had to stop myself from reaching out to touch the fabric of her dress, simply because it looked so real.

Bronzino was the court artist for the Medici family. He was a busy chap - judging from the size of the collection.

I know I've only touched the surface of what is there to see - or even what I managed to take in. I haven't even mentioned the glorious mosaics and the sculptures in the Medici chapel, or the amazing statue of a flayed alive St Bartholomew in the Duomo in Milan.

They might have to wait until next time.

My three top WTFery moments.

It doesn't matter how worldly we think we are when we travel, there will always be things that make our jaws drop.

Here are my top three.

1 Landing in Abu Dhabi

Our Airbus landed in Abu Dhabi (UAE) just before dawn and I was glad to get off the plane after being cooped up in the dry and airless cabin for about six hours. This time there was no air bridge to the terminus, so we were taken out via the the rear exit down the stairs, and stepped straight into a wave of absolute heat and humidity. I swear my knees were buckling - and the sun hadn't even risen yet.

We were quickly ushered onto a flat based bus and once on board, lined up like 80 or so vertical sardines - all strap hanging. (I can safely say that NO ONE wanted to sit at this point) However, the biggest thing I noticed was the powerful air conditioning forcing down a blanket of cold air over us. That was the good bit.

Suddenly, while we're driving from the plane to the terminus, I noticed condensation trickle down the window - on the outside.

Woahhh, now that's not something you see every day.

2 Parking Italian style.

I was on a bus in Milan and this very creative style of parking caught my eye.

Yes you're right. There is angle parking on the grass AND parallel parking together.

And no, I have NO idea how the cars on the grass can possibly get out first.

This is what else I saw in one bus trip: cars parked nose to nose on the same side of the street - that is unless one of those teensy Smart cars is backed in between them.

Double parking occurred pretty much everywhere and angle parking seemed to be up to individual preference of L-R or R-L. It looked like herring bone stitch in some streets. One of the oddest things was two cars parked T- bone style on a small painted traffic island while cars drove around them.

An Aussie parking inspector would have a field day over here. His ticket book would be empty in minutes.

I've reckon if you give the Italian motorist an inch, he'll try to park a car in it.

Having said all that, I think the Smart cars were incredibly cute, as are the Vespas that zip through the traffic.

I would love either, but there is no way I would try to drive in Italy; it is just way too scary for li'l ole me.

3 Italian live TV.

I'm not sure what cracked me up more: the show that was a bizarre cross between 'What's my Line and Deal or No Deal', or the talent show for little kids where the leggy female backup dancers came out prancing and gyrating in numbers that seemed to be in inverse proportion to the talent of the child.

Let me tell you about the second one first. You need to imagine a precocious 5 year old warbling an off-key-version of the old( ancient ) standard 'Cheek to Cheek' in the centre of the stage while an absolute flock of be-feathered dancers cavorted and wriggled behind her.

No wonder the audience applauded like mad. I couldn't watch more than ten minutes of this one. It was far too distracting.

The other show had the fascination of a slow motion train wreck. The premise is that the contestant has to match up a list of 10 professions with a group of 10 random individuals (from the studio audience I suspect) who are standing in a row - police line up style - one at a time and in a some kind of prearranged order.

While the contestant deliberated the match, he or she was encouraged to do so aloud and to examine the matchee's clothing, hands for calluses and or jewellery, arm muscles and/ or shoes or whatever - and to give their reasoning why they think ( for example) that the buff young man from Naples might be the airport luggage handler.

Once they've locked in the answer, the matchee hands over a sealed envelope to the host, and a value in Euros is revealed. I'm guessing that the less obvious the match, the more money it was worth. But I might just be cynical.

So when we found out that the potential baggage handler's envelope contained a very large amount, we knew it was not a good sign.

Because, if the contestant got it wrong, he or she lost everything that had been won to that point and would have rebuild the total from the money left in the pool.

Once that was done we were given the big reveal and Boy, do they milk it for every moment of suspense. The matchee stands in the spotlight and the camera circles him/her for a good minute to the sound of a ticking clock. I didn't dare look away for fear of missing a twitch or a smile or some kind of clue as to the answer. It seems to go on forever and I swear no one is breathing when the matchee finally announces: No, I am not the Baggage Handler.'

Even though I was appalled by its superficiality, I was fascinated by this show. I admit that I really did want to find out what this young studly fellow really did for a living. And guess what? He was the baby sitter. . Who'd have thought?