MISUNDERSTOOD

I’m not who you think I am. And – quite possibly – you’re not who I think you are.

It’s a delusion to think anybody genuinely knows us, and when faced with evidence telling a tale different to the one we believe, the ramifications can be genuinely distressing.

In my recent overseas adventures we stayed in a large assortment of accommodations through airbnb and hotel sites. As is common practice, at the end of each stay, we left mutual reviews. In one such stay we were dreadfully misunderstood. False allegations were made, extra monies charged, and our characters denigrated in the process. It’s an ugly feeling. And it’s shocking. What do you do in that circumstance? The more you argue back, the worse you look. Once an allegation is made arguing the point seems to solidify the assumption. It’s impossible to defend yourself because your opinion is intrinsically biased and the accuser has made up their mind, not to be altered. In the end we made a collective decision to ignore the public rant vilifying our character – to take the high moral ground and let the ugly words speak for themselves and not engage in a tit-for-tat, she-said they-said scenario. It’s disappointing and hurtful to have your character maligned, but by ignoring the rant, the episode is history and we move on – hopefully forgetting all about it as time goes by.

A single moment of misunderstanding is so poisonous, that it makes us forget the hundred lovable moments spent together within a minute.

Anonymous

Being misunderstood and vilified by a complete stranger is one thing, but when it happens in a close relationship the distress is significantly worse. It’s rarely a case of right or wrong. Both sides of a debate can be deemed right – or wrong – at any given moment. Our world is not easily divided into two categories – it’s full of opinion. We’re all full of opinion. Ice cream is tastier than chocolate. Summer is better than winter. Cats are cuddlier than dogs. Opinions. All subjective, personal statements. But if we move to the big taboo topics of politics, religion and social issues, subjective personal statements become fodder for character maligning. We want our friends to share our major belief systems – it’s easier when we all agree on everything. But it also robs us of the opportunity to learn how alternate viewpoints are formed and maintained.

There are certain personal moral standards that are no-go areas in my friendships. I can’t in good conscience condone rape, murder, violence or pedophilia, and I expect my friendship groups to hold to those same standards. They’re not open to interpretation. I can look with empathy at forces that shape a rapist, but the crime will never be tolerable in my eyes. Most other topics however, I’m keen to know more about all aspects of the debate as it makes my own understanding of an issue more rounded. Robust debate is healthy and interesting if it remains devoid of personal jibes and mud slinging.

I have in the past, lost a good friend because I made one loose (inappropriate) comment, which she then used to make a string of false assumptions about me. After several years of friendship, she quite simply never spoke to me again, refusing to let me apologise or explain. I was devastated and so angry with myself. I was consumed with shame at my comment and the consequences it reaped, and I told no-one. I felt like a failure as a friend and a human. It consolidated my belief that socially I’m inept and not worthy of being a part of society. As time passed, I became more hurt than ashamed. Did our friendship mean so little that one mistake and I was out? Had I read our relationship so badly? Were we ever friends at all? As it was over a decade ago and she’s never spoken to me since, I don’t know the answers, but I eventually let it go.

Being misunderstood by people whose opinion you value is absolutely the most painful.

Gloria Steinham

As someone who wanders around with varying levels of anxiety at any given moment, feeling misunderstood, character maligned, or rejected is a really big deal. I am by nature an internaliser – meaning my response to any kind of conflict is to blame myself for everything that ensues. I take emotional pain inside and stash it away. I know it’s unhealthy, but I instinctively behave that way regardless. I learn time and again that to defend myself or viewpoint only ever leads to more hurt. It feels safer to stand frozen to the spot with accusations raining down around my ears, than to speak up and offer a tentative explanation.

I’m not all meek and mild mannered. I enter into discourse and offer my views – be they in agreeance or polar opposite. But the moment the air starts heating up, I look for an escape route. I lack the courage and fortitude to stay the distance. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in 50 years, it’s arguing with someone never – ever – changes their viewpoint. So why bother? Discussing differing views so both parties develop an understanding of the other is a wonderful experience. But entering into a discussion for the sole purpose of changing someone’s opinion is pointless, distressing, and damaging. Shoving my opinion down someone’s throat – with a few personal insults thrown in for good measure – is not robust debate. But the fine line can be difficult to tread and at the end of the day, one has to consider if opinion is worth more than friendship.

I’m not who you think I am. You’re not who I think you are. We are both so much more than perception and we are all misunderstood – sooner or later.

THEN & NOW

Before I had a complete nervous breakdown, I was a completely different person, and I realised recently, I keep waiting for that person to come back. For better or for worse, I don’t think she ever will.

There are moments – hours, days – when I feel overwhelmed with anxiety.

Over the past couple of years I’ve been stripping away maladaptive coping mechanisms – with many ups and downs, successes and slips – but slowly I find myself recovering. For the most part, I have more good days than bad. When I do sink low, I’ve learned to drag myself out more quickly. More willingly. But those destructive strategies I’d previously used to inadvertently numb every emotion on that pesky wheel, served a purpose. They hid the anxiety from me, and I hid it from the world. I didn’t even know it existed. Sure, my mother and sister were highly anxious, but not me. I was competent, capable, busy, optimistic, reliable, self-contained, practical, energetic, loyal, determined, efficient. I didn’t complain about stuff. I saw the bright side and the glass was half full. I looked forward to the future and all the exciting things it entailed. I had hopes and dreams and plans. When one thing crumbled to dust, I moved onto the next.

But I was also living a lie. So afraid of being sad or angry, afraid or regretful, and utterly terrified of any kind of conflict, that I didn’t know feelings had a place in my life. Instead I used an obsessive and compulsive nature to pour my energies into each new project that came along, and when I wasn’t knee-deep in projects, I ate. I ate and ate and ate. Because food is my addiction of choice.

When sadness, anger, fear and regrets finally overwhelmed me, the numbing effect of food was no longer enough, and I cracked.

Inside was a little girl filled with emotions, and no capacity to understand or process them. Depression reared its ugly head and I came tumbling down. Now I look back on my life and see signs of anxiety I never previously recognised. People pleasing, fear of conflict, social withdrawal, solitary tears, moving interstate when things got tough. Even panic attacks that didn’t register as such at the time. And the facade of perpetual happiness was my way of ignoring a constant low level of depression – of knowing I wasn’t good enough, but pretending otherwise.

Now the emotional armour I’d plastered around myself is gone, it’s difficult to accept that depression and anxiety will be with me forever. That they are intrinsically part of who I am – and who I have always been. Whether they’re there by nature or nurture is a moot point, they are part of who I am. Waiting for depression and anxiety to disappear from my life is just a way of putting my life on hold. Part of my continuing recovery means accepting some days I’ll shake like a leaf and my heart will pound – for no recognisable reason. Some days I’ll wake up and just feel sad – filled with melancholy and remorse and a sense the future holds nothing for me. But knowing the next day I will wake with the energy and will to keep searching for new tomorrows.

The girl who fearlessly filled her life with every opportunity that came her way is no longer here. The girl who effortlessly gave everything she had to teach and care for others to the detriment of her own wellbeing is no longer here. The girl who ate herself stupid when nobody was looking is no longer here. Instead, there’s a girl seeking to become the best version of herself, opening herself to emotions that terrify her, becoming vulnerable, and learning to become whole.

THE LONG ROAD HOME

The long road home started Tuesday afternoon in Portugal and finished Friday evening in Hobart.

It’s the unfun bit of travel – going home. And after three months, it’s the bit to look forward to – going home.

After an extended period of travel, thoughts of home kept teasing me. Tap water straight from the mountain, my comfy bed, silky soft linen, snuggling my cat, chai tea the way I like it, my friends, my children, a sense of purpose, routine, writing, vegemite, my car, driving on the correct side of the road, the rest of my wardrobe, reliable internet, the optometrist, going to the gym, gym buddies, my dad, health professionals, Australian money, and the beautiful place I live – Hobart. The lure of these things was enough to (almost) look forward to the long haul flight. But first… Porto to Paris.

Wrapping up our trip in Portugal felt like the end of the holiday. We’d toasted friendship and travels, packed our bags and flown to Paris. We had one night in a beautiful airport hotel – luxuriating in the swimming pool, spa and sauna facilities – and arranged a late checkout at 6pm to avoid wandering around for endless hours lugging suitcases. There was a sense of melancholy as we felt the holiday ending and the reality of long haul flights, husbands, houses, kids, work and real life just around the corner. We clinked glasses one last time then two friends headed to the business class lounge for their leisurely trip home, and my other friend and I headed to economy. Our flight left at 10:40pm.

Weeks of exhaustion, anxiety, envy at my friends’ business class status, resentment for my husband’s first class flights, fear of returning to reality, and chronic back pain the moment I sat in the seat, was overwhelming. I was firmly entrenched in my own little pity party. Too tired and miserable to concentrate on movies. Too sore to sit comfortably and listen to music. I was a big ball of misery for six solid hours. When the fasten seatbelt sign was off, I stood at the back of the plane to ease the pain. The rest of the time I sulked like a petulant tween.

We had 3.5 hours in Doha to search for food after the gluten free offerings on board proved to be unappetising and inedible. My back was aching and nerve pain was shooting through my hip and down my leg. I couldn’t tell which leg to limp with and it was hard to tell whether walking or sitting was the least offensive option.

Our second flight was 14 hours from Doha to Sydney and I decided once our meal was served (brunch? lunch? dinner? they all roll into one…) I’d take medication to ease the pain and help me sleep. Never one to do anything by halves, I took a concoction of various sleeping aids and pain killers. It did something, because I don’t remember the next 36 hours. I remember taking the tablets Thursday night then eating a meal. Followed by odd moments here and there and a vague recollection of seeing my husband at the airport Friday evening.

This is something I take no pride in.

I’ve made foolish decisions with medications in the past, but never have I lost time. My friend tells me I was off my face, the air hostess was concerned about me, I was saying weird stuff, I didn’t sleep, and she thinks I took more pain killers later on during the flight. Try as I might, I can’t remember any of it.

I’ve pondered this a lot the past few days. I discussed it with my psychologist and psychiatrist, and had an opportunity to ask my friend more details. I’m always terrified of not sleeping, and the worst possible scenario is taking medications that make me sleepy, and then still not sleeping. Coupled with a lot of pain, I made the decision to “be sure” I slept, so took the concoction. I’m not condoning my behaviour – I’d actively discourage anyone from doing the same. I’m not defending it – it isn’t okay, and I’m both embarrassed to have been out of control, and sad to have caused concern for my friend. I’m just trying to explain the (faulty) logic that leads me to over medicating.

Since arriving home I struggled with sleep for the first five nights – getting practically none and being upside down with sleep patterns. I saw my GP who prescribed melatonin – apparently very effective for jetlag – and started to get some sleep. I saw my psychiatrist to discuss sleep and anxiety (no word on chicken and egg, cause and causality at this stage) and trialed olanzapine. Between the melatonin and the olanzapine I’ve had a huge escalation in restless legs syndrome. Huge.

I’m now only on regular medication and spent the day researching restless legs. Apparently anxiety and depression are strong comorbidities. And a lot of medications used to treat anxiety and depression, exacerbate restless legs. A lot to think about. I emailed my psychiatrist with the information I googled and suggested I need to see a sleep specialist.

How incredible would it be, if the major spiral in mental health I experienced over the past three years, is connected to poorly managed restless legs syndrome? I’ve never seen a sleep specialist – and where I live, there aren’t any to visit. I feel it’s time for a complete review of my medications and how they interact with my restless legs and mood.

Now that I’ve had a week at home, I’m ready to start finding what to do with myself. Last week I was miserable. Utterly miserable. I was worn out, jetlagged, tired and readjusting to life at home. This week I’ve had some solid sleep, but apparently my legs are dancing all night long, so I’m not sure about the quality of sleep.

I’m ready to close the chapter on travel and start afresh with my writing.

To resurrect the memoir I’m desperate to delve into and the masterclass I’ve sorely missed. I’m ready to start doing the paid work I was offered and to look forward rather than staring at my feet all the time. I’m still tired – sleep disorders will do that. But this week, I have more functionality.

So it’s farewell to London, Ross-on-Wye, Ambleside, Edinburgh, Jordan, Turkey, Sarajevo, Budapest, Krakow, Berlin, Dordogne, Paris, Tuscany, Lisbon, Porto, and Paris again. It’s hello to Hobart, my friends, family and future. I need to plant my feet firmly on the ground, seek solutions for problems that can be solved, and acceptance for those that cannot. And I sure as hell need some wisdom and guidance to tell the difference.

TRAVELS IN PORTUGAL

At last we arrive at the penultimate travel blog – Portugal.

A surprisingly fabulous week, in a surprisingly fabulous country. Confirming the theory that low expectations are almost always exceeded.

I arrived in Lisbon a mental mess. The two hour flight from Pisa airport, on our most budget airline, turned me into a blithering ball of batshit crazy. It was time to see a doctor before my oldest and dearest friends traded me in for a better model.

Our airbnb apartment was superb – spacious, comfortable, beautiful bedrooms, three full bathrooms, gorgeous little balconies, right in the heart of Lisbon. But my first impression was thick, humid air I couldn’t breathe. It felt like asthma (fires in Italy had caused me a little trouble), but it wasn’t asthma. And I knew it. So after unpacking my suitcase for me, handing me a non-optional tub of yoghurt, and ensuring all the windows and doors were wide open with a lovely breeze flowing through, my three friends headed out for dinner while I patiently awaited a home visit from a very nice Portugese doctor. An hour later he confirmed what I already knew – my anxiety was through the roof, with matching blood pressure and respiratory rate. He organised scripts to help me calm down, sleep, breathe, and rest. A few hours later I was curled up in the beautifully comfy bed with the crisp white sheets, and had my first solid night’s sleep in a couple of weeks. I spent the rest of my week in Portugal keeping an eye on my anxiety, and medicating as necessary – what a difference it made.

We spent five delightful nights in Lisbon – a colourful, vibrant city, full of young people, and narrow streets, eclectic architecture, and hills. Lots and lots of hills.

And the beauty of hills is once you get to the top, there’s always a fabulous view. The four of us had no idea what to expect from Portugese food, except it features a lot of cod, sardines and portugese tarts. We were – for the most part – very pleasantly surprised at the delicious food we encountered. There is indeed an awful lot of seafood on a typical Portugese menu – not the best locale for anyone with catastrophic seafood allergies. Our first lunch I tested a traditional Bacalhau à Brás – aka salted cod, onions & potatoes, shredded and mixed through scrambled eggs. Not only does it sound dreadful, it really doesn’t look pretty either. I’m here to say, it’s delicious. Very filling. Very delicious. Evenings we spent at the Time Out Market – a giant food court where great restaurants and bars serve up quick meals. The atmosphere is young and festive, and cocktails abound. I eschewed the sardines in favour of less fishy looking fish (croquettes), and rocket salad.

We made a concerted effort to taste test Pastéis de Nata (Portugese tarts) on a daily basis – despite the fact one of us is gluten and dairy free (she ate none), and another has a strong dislike of “eggy” things (she tried them all, but handed over the too “eggy” tarts). No visit to Lisbon is complete without queuing at Pastéis de Belém, purportedly home to the worlds’ best eggy tarts. It was certainly an experience – the giddy experience of rampant excitement for a bit of custard in pastry. The tarts were good – but I was a bit tarted out to have an opinion on how they rank on a global scale. The cappuccino was a sight to behold – half a mug of coffee, with sugary whipped cream piped on top. And a sprinkle of chocolate powder for good measure. To be honest, it’s not how we generally have our coffee, and is not likely to become a preferred option.

We spent one day in Sintra, exploring fairytale castles and magical gardens. The weather was grey and drizzly, lending an eerie effect to the gardens, and a slippery effect to the cobblestones. Sintra cannot be fully explored in a single day, so we opted to visit only two locations, but enjoy them thoroughly. First stop was Quinta da Regaleira – fabulous buildings, but more importantly, the mysterious initiation well was on my to-do list and the gardens were a must-see for my friends. Our second – and final – stop in Sintra was the Pena Palace. The iconic fairytale castles, with all their splendid colours and turrets and archways and gargoyles. We explored the outside, in the soggy mist, but didn’t join the crowds queuing to go inside. Instead we roamed the gardens and took lovely photos of misty ponds and quirky trees.

The rest of our time in Lisbon was spent eating and exploring the city on foot – from the Belem Tower to the Alfama District. Wandering around and discovering quaint little corners and magnificent monuments. Enjoying the street life of busy trams and funiculars, arts and musicians, and just a general funky vibe to the whole city. It turns out, Lisbon is really cool.

Our last two nights in Portugal we headed north to Porto. We had splurged on a whole day trip to the Douro Valley, with a very exclusive little tour of wineries and the valley, and a magnificent lunch on the waterfront. Our final day in Portugal we were blessed with a return to the hot sunny days that followed me around most of my travels. We popped into the Sao Bento train station to see the famous tiled walls. Bypassed the Livraria Lello which now has massive queues and a 5 euro charge to get in. Explored the waterfront. Ate more cod. And caught an Uber back to our magnificent little hotel when we learned the funicular wasn’t working.

Two luxurious nights in Porto was a beautiful, and peaceful way to finish the official part of our holidays together. We clinked our glasses of port together and reflected on the highlights of three distinctly different holiday experiences, in the space of three weeks. It was time to start the long trek home.

TRAVELS IN TUSCANY

After the bright lights and busy streets of Paris, it was time to venture into the Italian countryside and a gorgeous little villa just outside Lucca – a medieval town I’ve been desperate to return to for three years.

It was everything I remembered it to be, and a whole lot more.

Italy is fabulous. France is awesome – the cities and the countryside – but Italy is fabulous and cheaper. We flew into Pisa and grabbed a hire car, before venturing off into the big unknown. Siri guided us with the most appalling and entertaining Italian accent. The drive to our villa was just over 30 minutes and we’d been warned about the last section of road. European country roads seem to be universally narrow, but this particular stretch of road was the trickiest I saw in three months of travel. We’d read about the hairpin bends on the road to the villa – 96 of them one Airbnb reviewer claimed. Turns out there were nine and they really weren’t a big problem. Lots of horn tooting to let oncoming traffic know there’s something around the corner, but otherwise it was all navigable. Until the last 200 meters. Now 200 meters of road might not sound like much – but this particular stretch was very stressful. High stone walls on both sides, and a road barely two meters wide in places. Essential to fold in the side mirrors of the car and hope like crazy there’s no oncoming traffic. The drive is quite the adventure – once you get used to it!

Our little group of four had three drivers – including myself. I promised many moons ago to assist with driving and navigation. Little did I know that by the time I arrived in Italy I’d be physically and mentally exhausted, and developing escalating anxiety. I didn’t sit in the driver’s seat once – I let the team down and feel really bad about it. I felt fine to drive, but my friends weren’t keen on me being behind the wheel when sleep deprived, constantly shaking, and stressed. So I navigated when I could and worried the rest of the time.

It’s hard to put anxiety into words.

The paranoia – nobody loves me, everybody hates me. I’m a burden. If only I could do X, Y, Z. The lack of sleep. Incessant fear. Constantly jumping at noises. A heart rate that won’t slow down. The internal monologue of self-criticism. The constant assumption I’m doing the wrong thing and everyone is annoyed. Knowing my thought patterns can’t be trusted, yet can’t be changed on a whim. Knowing I’m having the holiday of a lifetime, but feeling miserable and afraid for no apparent reason. Fear the anxiety will never go away.

Seeing a doctor in Italy was too complicated – we were staying in the countryside. I had no medication left. My eating deteriorated – I didn’t want to eat but couldn’t be seen not eating. The week we spent in Italy was amazing – I loved it. But it was a rapid decline mentally and I’m sure my spiral down spoiled things for my friends.

We visited Lucca’s old town three times. And I could visit it a hundred more.

It’s only a little village, but it’s so easy to wander the ancient streets and get lost. Discover a cute little archway, or beautiful little dress shop. Eat lovely fresh food and drink lots of wine. And the wall. I love the wall. We walked along the top of the wall several times. It’s very wide with a road and parks and lots of foot traffic and bicycles.

We hired bicycles one day to ride around. I did one lap before having a little tantrum and sitting on the side by myself. I couldn’t cope with the pedestrians walking the entire width of the path, or the big four-wheeled carriage things that won’t take into consideration anything else on the walkways. So I got off my bike while my friends did another lap. They loved it – the fresh air and beautiful views. I wish I could have loved it, but the crowds and anxiety were a terrible mix so I was stressed instead. My big dream of cycling around the bottom of the walls didn’t come to pass. Time ran out and we weren’t sure if there was a path. I regret not having the time to explore the walls at ground level – all the little tunnels and gateways. The walls of Lucca are a sight to behold, and I need to return to behold them properly.

We spent two days around the Cinque Terre. One day on a yacht, sailing around Portovenere, swimming in the Mediterranean Sea, soaking in the sun and the wind. Then a second day catching the ferry up the coast to the five towns. The weather was appalling. My dreams of sharing the fabulous experience I’d had were quickly shattered. Everyone crowded into the inside of the ferry, desperate to stay dry and warm. The first town we visited was awash with ponchos and umbrellas. There was a short respite from the rain where we quickly wandered the streets, then the rain returned and all the tourists sought refuge by searching for an indoor lunch – something in high demand in Vernazza. Outdoor seating was in abundance, but nobody wanted to sit in the rain for pizza and pasta. After much searching and waiting, we found a table to have lunch and stay dry. Then it was time to move to the next town – Riomaggiore. The sun came out on the ride back and stayed out for the next few hours.

At last we got to experience the spectacular coastline from the top deck of the ferry, then wander the steep streets of the colourful village, soaking in the full Cinque Terre vibe.

Then we headed back to Portovenere to explore the township and St Peters church on the promontory. In 2015 my experiences of yachting around Portovenere, and exploring the Cinque Terre were truly magical. The sun was out and the wind was in my hair and I hugged every moment to my chest, desperate to hold onto the precious memories. Returning with my friends three years later, I wanted them to have the magical experience I’d had, but it wasn’t to be. It was a stark reminder that special times are impossible to repeat. No matter how much I would have liked to. On the day we visited the Cinque Terre, the weather gods were not in a good mood – so that was that.

My fondest memories are sitting at our villa, eating dinners outside and toasting the magic view of Lucca in the distance. The evenings were warm, the food spectacular, the drinks convivial, and the company exquisite. These are the precious memories I cling to.

TRAVELS IN PARIS

After the quiet and peace of a medieval cottage in the French countryside, Paris was big, beautiful and bold.

It’s ten days since my ten days in Paris came to an end. It’s also the city where I farewelled my husband and welcomed friends for the final leg of my epic adventure.

We arrived at our luxurious boutique hotel mid-afternoon. Plenty of time to wander down for our first views of the Arc de Triomphe, on our way to cruise the River Seine. Despite the thick forest of tourists, clad in cameras and selfie sticks, Paris is breathtakingly beautiful, with a unique character and essence. The repeated claims of being the most beautiful city in the world could very well be true. Although beauty competitions are not something I’m fond of.

The Arc de Triomphe was within spitting distance of our hotel (we elected not to spit on it).

Of all the iconic Parisienne landmarks, this was our favourite. It’s enormous – towering in the center of the Place Charles de Gaulle, with 12 streets radiating out in all directions. We explored Paris on foot, meandering almost all 12 at one time or another.

Day two, we slept in because we could, then did a half day small group tour, taking in the main sites, another Seine River cruise, and ending with tickets for the second level of the Eiffel Tower. Our tour group had a young american couple who  accidentally booked themselves onto the wrong tour and had a domestic before deciding not to go ahead with it – What the fuck? being the last we heard of them, as the wife glared at her husband. The other four members of our group had inadvertently booked an English speaking tour, but none of them spoke a word of English. I spent an hour on the bus google translating key facts into Spanish. It was an interesting whirlwind. After the bus and river tours, we ended up at the gates to the Eiffel Tower where we dutifully queued with the rest of the tourists – the good, the bad and the ugly. And to be brutally honest, there are more ugly tourists than good. Not ugly to look at (usually), but ugly to be around. Obnoxious, self-important, loud, discourteous, disrespectful, ignorant tourists, giving their homelands a really bad reputation.

I fear I’m becoming racist in my dotage. The people from all walks of life I know in real life are lovely, so I’m not sure if selfie stick in hand and dangling camera around the neck brings out the worst of humanity, but I can say with utter certainty, I don’t want to see any more Asian tourists and their endless posing, or hear privileged Americans complaining about steps, service and swimming pools. To admire the breathtaking views from the Eiffel Tower, find the perfect camera angle at The Louvre, and watch a spectacular sunset on the River Seine, we had to claim our space, and return rudeness with rudeness. Push in front and saying nothing – just do it. I will be glad to return to a civilised society where common decency and situational awareness once again exist.

The Eiffel Tower is one of those extraordinary yet underwhelming experiences.

It’s certainly unique and iconic and offers really fabulous views. It’s also not particularly attractive (in my opinion). One of those experiences you have to have if you’re there, and one you wouldn’t repeat – much like the Vatican.

The rest of our Paris experience was spent wandering the streets, admiring wrought iron balconies, stunning 17th century architecture, the beautiful Seine River and iconic landmarks. Eating croissants and snails, cheese and nectarines. Resting in our hotel room and soaking in the hot tub. We made an effort to be together – to try and feel the essence of the city of love, despite 26 years of the realities of married life. At the crack of dawn on the 66th day of our big European adventure, we headed to the airport and said our farewells – one of us all teary and sad, the other excitedly awaiting the arrival of friends and a whole new holiday.

An hour later and my second holiday began. I met my friends then traveled to our apartment to settle in and let them recover from the shock of travelling nearly two days to get there.

First port of call when traveling with my friends is food.

It’s all about the food everywhere we travel. We visit supermarkets, fresh food shops, organic shops, and the wine, the wine, the wine, and stock the kitchen so there’s no chance of starvation. We went for our first of many coffees. Followed later in the day by the first of many aperol spritz. Dinner the first night was a simple affair, but by the second night we’d found a veritable feast of fresh produce.

During the course of the week we did a cooking class, mastering the art of croissants and viennoiserie, then caught the train for some scenic vistas on the way to Monet’s gardens in Giverny. Spectacular – despite the 1000+ tourists incessantly queuing. Then of course there was lots of eating and drinking and walking from A to B and back to A again. Saturday night I fell ill, despite the fact I never get sick. No idea what was wrong, but I started feeling overwhelmingly nauseous. Sunday I don’t remember. Apparently I popped out of my room looking green every now and then. I started getting really dehydrated. Monday wasn’t a lot better. My friends went off to tour the Opera Garnier – something I’m very sad to have missed. I was still hideously nauseous and not eating or drinking anything, but overall starting to feel a tad better. I begrudgingly drank water so I could turn my urine back from a nasty maroon to a pure clear colour. Sunday afternoon I took myself off to the hospital just to be sure. I was worried about a kidney infection and long term consequences.

The doctor at the hospital made me feel like a complete idiot, and I vowed never to voluntarily go to A&E again.

I spent four hours there, sobbing my little heart out, freezing to death on the hospital bed without a sheet, awaiting the results of blood tests and CT scans. I was eventually cleared of any major problems and sent on my merry way. Why are you still crying? said the mystified doctor. I had no idea. I was just tired and exhausted and had no idea how to get home.

By the end of my ten days in Paris I was dripping tiredness. The host of our Airbnb apartment caused much stress and angst, and hit us with three extra charges which was very unpleasant. I was physically and mentally tired and could feel anxiety spiraling out of control. I was looking forward to getting out of the city – even if it is the most beautiful city in the world – and finding a little bit of serenity in the Tuscan countryside. Italy turned out to be quite the challenge