Friday, July 22, 2011
Tights I bought in Denmark. I prefer to call them my 'Danish Rouge.'
The Brit wasn't keen to walk with me to the station this morning, as he said everyone will think I'm part of the circus.
While that may be true, who gives a fuck right?
Because tonight we're flying to Venice for the weekend.
Venice! Filled with gondolas, cheese, pasta, olive bread and pigeons.
Dude. Venice is one of the most romantic places in the world.
Except, not always.
When I was 18, had short platinum blonde hair (that's when I belonged to the circus), my mate and I stopped in Venice while backpacking on our gap yah.
It was hot as hell - probably exactly this time 12 years ago.
I could afford two things: batteries for my Walkman; and a piece of fresh olive bread.
We spend the afternoon lying topless on the beach of Lido, an island just off Venice.
All you can hear in Venice is the squawking of pigeons at San Marco square and the pitter patter of feet.
One greasy Italian guy put his hand up my mate's skirt and she burst into tears.
This time we might even be able to take a gondola and eat bruschetta drizzled with lashings of olive oil.
Jesus I'm excited. The Brit knows the way to my heart - take me on dirty weekends away to places on the Continent.