Dolce Vita

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En route to Florence's main bus station, we were, as was becoming customary, fined again. What was particularly annoying about this fine was, moments before the straw-haired transit officer approached us, when Satie had asked whether or not we should validate our tickets, I had said confidently (pinned to my seat by my 30kg of luggage)'don't worry about it, we will just fall over lurching to the front of the bus, we only have one more stop anyway.' Yep. One stop too many in the world of super keen ticket checkers whose version of being kind is splitting the fine between the three of us, as opposed to fining us all individually. So kind. Thank you.

In bitter moods, we then proceeded to trawl the station four times in some sort of farce movie sequence, no one providing any sort of definitive directions as to where the bus station actually was - Italy is wonderful in many, many respects ... food, wine, leering men ... it's just that directions is not one of these. Helpful customer service is another. We found our Siena bound bus with 5 minutes to spare, Dee had a tussle with the ticket seller (the roots of which are still inexplicable) and we boarded ... and slowly departed civilisation.

Siena itself is, after the big cities of Italy, wonderfully quiet and quaint and probably sick of people writing books about being beneath its sun. Half an hour south of Siena lies Tocchi, the four house town we were staying in which boasts a greater geese population than it does human. It is, however, one of the most beautiful places in the world and had I been beneath its rays for longer than a week (and with my laptop) I can guarantee I would have bashed out a similarly saccharine novella.

Our farmhouse stood atop rolling olive green acreage at the end of a long, narrow and very dusty road (which we walked a total of two times and complained of the heat every inch of the way). We had a pet horse (Mari Lou) a dog (Mose) some chickens and 2 ducks to call our own, and feed the scraps of our attempted Tuscan cooking to. Our first introduction to the region's food came from a bona fide Tuscan, Costanza whose parents owned the place we were staying in, and she fuelled us onto incredible culinary feats, as outlined in various journal entries ...

Saturday, 11th August: Hurrah! Am chef, Italian chef, with natural hold on tastes and flavours. Have just cooked delicious scrambled eggs.

Sunday, 12th August: Domestic goddess streak continues - just prepared fresh bruschetta mix for tonight's dinner. Perhaps should do recipe book.

Ultimately, we became recluses. Rotund recluses at that. Our days were spent eating and reading in the baking sun (then running inside from swarms of bees that I assume thought my hair was a beehive) and our nights whiled away beneath the setting Tuscan sun, red wine in hand (cheap and delicious in the land of plenty). Our anti social tendencies were revealed when we did venture into the city, once for a grocery shop and once for Palio, and this dislike of crowds and humanity in general was probably not the best state of mind to be in considering our next stop was Rome.

Rome was, accordingly, a shock to the system. Gone was our charmed existence, in its place was a campsite, crowds, and Indian men shoving roses in your face then demanding fiscal compensation. However, nothing beats the thrill of a new city and so our hermit shells had to be shaken off (if nothing else, I needed to be as small as possible to wedge myself into my bunk which was nailed precariously to the cabin wall and resembled a bizarre nest-bed more than it did an actual place of slumber) and our inner tourists embraced. I fear that if I wax lyrical about Rome I will do it a major disservice because Rome, like Paris, has to be seen to be believed. You cannot read about Rome (unless you are reading someone with far greater literary skill than me) and get everything it is about. I could tell you that the massive Pantheon rises out of the middle of nowhere, nonchalantly heralded only by Rameses' obelisk. That we came ambling out of an alley shoving gelato in our faces, and there it was, this extraordinary relic of one of the greatest civilisations to ever exist. I could tell you the sight of the Colosseum nearly brought me to my (nerdily shaking) knees, that the Roman Forum that precedes it, and Constantine's Arch that neighbours it, exist alongside modernity as if it is the most natural thing in the world. The Trevi Fountain, you could stare at for hours and never tire of it and the Spanish Steps are the best place to sit with thousands of other foreigners and attempt to comprehend it all. But I cannot possibly do any of it justice. It is a city you just have to see.

We channelled our inner demure ladies when we visited the Vatican City, no one likes to stick out, particularly when God is watching. And needn't have bothered (or at least tried so hard ... I wore the equivalent of a body suit and a sign on my head saying 'non revealing clothing' even though it was about 35 degrees). Short shorts, skirts, midriffs, plunging necklines - everything one's Nana would rather die than see you in - were out in force and turned away with equal force.

Our last night in Rome involved some Australians who, when not shrieking out 'who wants a Vaginamite sandwich tomorrow morning' and loudly proclaiming how arrogant Americans are and how loved Australians are in comparison (the irony was astounding) were pleasant company. We did, however, take our leave when she of the Vaginamite began hooting about how much French people love Australians (a love I was not privy to) and then demanded to know if those who didn't want Vaginamite tomorrow would prefer Penis Butter. Yessss. Vaginamite and Penis Butter. Can. You. Fathom.

And so it came to be that the next morning, hungover as it seems to be the custom on Travel Days, we began the trip from hell to get to Santorini. It would be 20 hours, 3 airports, and a large amount of time getting intimate with Athens airport later, that we would touch down on the sunny shores of Santorini. For now, the Dolce Vita was over.