Oh holiday, you are a strange and unfamiliar thing. After realising on the way to the airport that I’d forgotten my Italian phrasebook, I spent the last 5 days trying to convince people that I spoke more Italian than I do, which led to embarrassing moments such as staring blankly at a woman who was asking me if I wanted pane (or bread), and holding up six fingers when I had to tell the man at the desk of the hotel we were staying at which room number we were in. I hate being one of those English people who just assume that everyone else speaks English. But I am. Sigh. This always leads to temporary resolutions to learn more of the language of whichever country I have most recently been to, which always get abandoned as soon as the trip gets distant enough in my memory and the embarrassment of staring blankly at people begins to fade.
The weather forecast lied horribly to me. It predicted an average of 26-29 degrees, which for my English constitution is just about bearable. However, that turned out to be more like the evening temperature, and so in the middle of the day it was nearer 40 degrees. My legs and hands are covered in heat rash. It is uncomfortable.
BUT. Despite the heat (and the waves of tourists - I will never visit Venice in August again - October seems a nicer month), Venice is incredibly beautiful, all of it, everywhere. It is like a maze, and you find yourself wandering down tiny alleys with not a particularly clear idea of whether you’re heading in the right direction. I didn’t count how many bridges I crossed, but it was a lot. As it was reclaimed from the sea, Venice isn’t a place with many green spaces, but it does have a lot of squares, normally next to churches, some big, some small. It’s so picturesque - even the buildings that have plaster peeling off their walls - and un-city-like, if you stay away from St Mark’s Square at least.
It reminds me a lot of Cambridge. My Canadian friend once asked me if growing up in a place like Cambridge makes you immune to how beautiful it is, because it becomes so familiar. And I suppose it does - I frequently walk down King’s Parade without thinking anything of a building that thousands of tourists come to see every year. During my time in Venice I wondered how anyone could ever become immune to the architecture there - but I suppose people who visit Cambridge might feel the same way.
I ate tiramisu gelato (best thing ever) and bruschetta and ravioli and pizza. All was good. The down side was that tap water isn’t drinkable, so you have to pay for water everywhere (I never realised that drinking from a tap was a novelty until now).
I saw a piece of art which was part of the Biennale that was great - a giant canvas with a year in historic events on it. The plaque next to it said which year each thing was from. But they were all written in the first person, as though all these events were experienced by the same person. 
It feels strange to be home now, like I’ve been away a lot longer than I actually have. It’s strange how you can feel the pressure as you drop back into your daily routines. For the first time in months I have no particular desire to go to work tomorrow. I just need a little bit longer.
