

To Paris, Venice and Rome

Justene Musin

Copyright 2017 Justene Musin. All rights reserved.

Cover design by Jennifer Parker

Smashwords Edition

Table of Contents

NEW ZEALAND

DAY 0

PARIS

DAY 1

DAY 2

DAY 3

DAY 4

DAY 5

DAY 6

DAY 7

DAY 8

DAY 9

DAY 10

DAY 11

DAY 12

VENICE

DAY 13

DAY 14

ROME

DAY 15

DAY 16

DAY 17

DAY 18

DAY 19

DAY 20

DAY 21

DAY 22

NEW ZEALAND

DAY 23

#

#

New Zealand

DAY 0

I often heard time ticking away. My first instinct was to run.

I had to get out. Any way possible. I had become so used to the anxiety, that I couldn't remember when it truly started. It was constantly gnawing away. Quietly and cleverly, at most times barely perceptible. But always lingering. At my worst moments, it would make me completely powerless. Reminding me that for all the time that has passed, I had not yet defeated it. There was a chance I never would.

We've all had those times where we lose ourselves. Freefalling into the abyss. I was looking for an anchor, a purpose. Something. Frequently I felt like I was floating in space, no gravity. Drifting. I had to change things up. I had to get out.

That's how I found myself on a plane. Departing from New Zealand and arriving in Paris. Twenty-Six. On my own. People told me I was brave but I knew I had to go. In my mind, there was no choice. To me it required more bravery to stay. Do you ever get that feeling in the pit of your stomach? That feeling followed me everywhere for the last year and a half, an unwanted shadow. To me, it was my mind telling my body I needed a change.

No looking back. Only forward. The thing about fear is that the more time you give it, the bigger it grows. The less power it has, the less it can take you over.

It was the trip I had waited, dreamed and strived for, for such a long time. One I longed for in the toughest year of my life. And I've had a few. My father died when I was thirteen.

But now that it was finally here, my gusto had surreptitiously slipped out the back door. I've never been someone who likes flying, the best I can hope for is to tolerate it. I attempted to distract myself with a gossip magazine at the airport. Focussing on the disastrous love lives of celebrities.

When I thought of who I was and who I wanted to be, it was night and day. This was a large step in the right direction, a path to mend the ruins of the past year. A year of failed romance, of thwarted independence, uninspiring work and a soul-crushing person who had tormented me in so many ways.

The anxiety ruled me. Fear was my go-to emotion. My daily companion. I was in constant flight or flight mode, always fearful of a million ways life could go wrong. I just wanted a reset button.

I decided to get away from it all. Far away. This was the ultimate escape. To Paris, Venice and Rome. Never having set foot in Europe, I couldn't wait to see all the magic, life and history. To leave my world behind. For a month, at least. In less than thirty hours, I would be there.

Paris

DAY 1

##

Stepping off the plane in Paris was heavenly, like walking on clouds. Something I had imagined for so damn long was real and touchable. And the best part was that it was even better than I imagined. Ever feel like you're living in a movie? Every breath of Paris is cinematic. From the language to the culinary aromas to the captivating scenery. There truly is no place like Paris. Of course, you've probably heard this before, but as you and I know; clichés always materialise from the truth.

I hurried to the baggage claim, amongst repetitive speakerphones warning me not to take taxis from unregistered drivers - only at designed taxi stands. Nearby, Parisian twenty-something hipsters chatted in quick-paced pitter-patter, with those beautiful rhythmic sentences that sound like sonnets. A familiar word here and there jumped out at me, but for the most part it fluttered above my head.

As I entered the main airport, the song A Sky Full Of Stars by Coldplay was playing. I already loved that song, but now it reminds me of Paris and feeling on top of the world. I lingered around an airport patisserie, reluctant to test out French for the first time in France. Listening intuitively, I casually let others go before me in the line before my ravenous stomach got the best of me. The cabinet was stacked with delectable offerings - pain au chocolate, croissants and fresh baguettes.

"Bonjour, je voudrais un croissant, si'l vous plaît."

"Alors," the buxom lady gathered a croissant from the cabinet and popped it on the counter.

"Trois Euro, madame."

I passed over some coins a friend from work had bestowed me with and glided away. I was a madame now. That was something I enjoyed hearing.

I hovered around the airport, excited just to be standing in Paris. I checked out the tourist gifts at the stationery store, eavesdropping on the conversations and casual banter. I perused the French confectionary and magazines and all the parts of this antipodean universe.

Things got off to a dodgy start though. I headed towards the doors, labelled as a taxi stand, when an African man cornered me telling me that I would have to wait a long time and that I should come with him because it would be faster. I had a strange feeling, that intuition in your gut. I wasn't sure where this was going to go. Before I knew it, he was wheeling my suitcase towards a lift and taking me down to the basement. There was no choice but to follow him, my suitcase had become the hostage or perhaps the bait. Out of the lift, it was disconcertingly quiet in the basement, something was not right. There was hardly anyone in sight, no witnesses. I protested that I needed to go upstairs to call my friend and grasped my suitcase away from the man. He told me I could use his cellphone. This man had an answer for everything. Flustered, I tripped on my way back to the elevator and fell on my suitcase in a crumpled mess. The man was quickly at my side again to grab the suitcase but I flapped him away, telling him no, I didn't want his help. You know that feeling you get in your gut? Always right.

You can imagine I wasn't too keen to get into a taxi at that point after that debacle. The only thing pushing me on was my tiredness and eagerness to see Paris. I carefully avoided the taxi exit where I had encountered the predatory man and headed to an alternative exit, praying that the same thing couldn't happen twice.

A French-Algerian taxi driver offered his services, but not before I quizzed him on whether he knew where I was staying, how much it would cost and how long it would take to get there and was he sure about all these things. He assured me so I held my breath and jumped in.

We had a delightful conversation whilst we sat in traffic, while the windscreen wipers erased the raindrops. Half in French, half in English. His English was passable, though he didn't always understand what I was saying. He told me he arrived in Paris seven years ago, and three months in he was fluent in French. I gave it a go speaking French, explaining that I was from New Zealand, I worked in television, and I was staying in Paris for 12 days and meeting my friends there. At this point I realised that the phrases I knew were predominantly present tense and not always grammatically correct. It was limiting. But still, I felt French-ish and it was a nice way to pass the time, and keep my mind awake. Although I had to explain that Australia and New Zealand were not the same country and even though their accents can sound similar to some people, they are not the same. Meet any New Zealander and you'll know what I mean. I reminded him of the most iconic Kiwi items of popular culture, such as Lord of The Rings, The Hobbit and of course, Lorde.

Oddly, when I mentioned I was visiting in July to see Bastille Day, he had no idea what it was. I explained it was when the Bastille was stormed but all I got was a complete blank. It was only later I found out that the French don't call it Bastille Day, it's simply their national holiday.

It soon became apparent that this taxi driver was plain lost. He was relying on his GPS but whenever we got to the spot where my hotel should be, we couldn't find it. He slammed on the reverse and then back on the accelerator, back and forth, trying to decipher where this hotel was. Then he proceeded to drive around the block three times. If I hadn't been so completely jetlagged I would have gotten out myself and figured it out.

I had read somewhere that the hotel was down a driveway that was tricky to see from the road. It appeared that number 10 was some sort of phantom address, until I finally twigged it might be down an unlabelled lane off the main street we were on. The driver dismissed my theory and decided to drive around the block another two times, until the fifth time he decided I was right. He waved the fare for the time he took to drive around the block and finally I was on my way. I tugged my suitcase along the glistening cobblestones in the rain. There was my hotel, just as it looked on the website. Those adorable terrace windows with flower boxes look inviting even on a grey morning.

The main receptionist at the front desk was a complete sweetheart, a kind soul. Her French was impeccable, with all those wonderful accents and vowels. Her English was technically perfect, but the way she spoke it had the wrong emphasis on the wrong syllable. I found it curious, how this had come about. Did she know or had no one ever told her? She always remembered my room once I came in the door, and would repeat it back to me – 512.

There were two other people who worked at the front desk, an African man in his twenties whose average English gave me the opportunity to practice my French and an overly polite man in his early twenties. And then there was the cleaner who proceeded to wake me from a jetlagged nap to tell me she was testing the fire alarm.

Sleep. I don't travel well; I can never sleep properly on a plane no matter how many ways I try. I was in a zombie state and although all I wanted to do was step out into the city, my body was telling me rest was in premium demand. Jetlag had set in.

The hotel was a gorgeous building with delicate terraces on almost every room. Built in 1810, I had never stayed in such a historical building (most buildings in New Zealand are from the 20th century as Pakeha settlers arrived in the 1840s). Six floors, thirty rooms and one of the tiniest lifts I had seen. Although I had been told about the small rooms and the small showers, they didn't bother me (although to me they weren't that small), but this lift was something. It only held one regular size person and a suitcase if you were lucky. It was a comical goldmine to see visitors check into the hotel, see the lift and endeavour to fit into it.

My room was the backside of the building, overlooking a street where young French boys practised their soccer. I watched the boys cuss at each other in French before I unpacked and took a well-needed shower and nap. Later on, I ventured out to a supermarket and stocked up on a few things. I scanned the shelves, fascinated by what products are global (Coke, Snickers) and the European products I had never heard of.

Afterwards I took a stroll down the Grands Boulevards, just a two-minute walk from my hotel. The thing that hit me straight away as I turned onto Boulevard Haussmann was the energy. So much to see! So many people, everyone with their own narrative. The whole time I was walking down the street, all I could think was, "I'm in fucking Paris!"

If you look above eye level, there are layers and layers of Parisian apartments, with those ornamental terraces. I was sceptical about whether people lived in these apartments because often they seemed empty and lifeless, almost just for show.

I passed Musée Grévin, Paris' answer to Madame Tussauds, and continued past the touristy shops to the shopping mecca of the Opéra district. Lots of chain stores, and luxury malls like Printemps, patisserie shops, homeless people with animals, it was all there. And this was just the tip of the iceberg.

DAY 2

##

The next morning, I felt much more explorative with sleep on my side. So far I had only seen the rainy side of Paris, the warm heat rising from the streets. Not that Paris is a bad place to be in the rain, it's bittersweet and dreamy.

Firstly, I returned to explore the shopping mecca of Boulevard Haussmann, starting with Galleries Lafayette. The glass dome inside is truly amazing. The sunshine lights up the patterned glass with shades of red and blue as you look up from the bottom floor, amongst the makeup and wafting perfumeries. Level after level is as decorative as an opera house, with sculptural balcony after balcony. Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Fendi, Prada, Chanel – every glamorous luxury brand that exists. When you get right to the top you can visit the outside deck, which overlooks the Opéra district with the Eiffel tower in the distance.

Galleries Lafayette also has its own Angelina, which is a staple of the Parisian experience. With watercolour paintings on the walls and gold encrusted chairs and furniture, it's the perfect spot for a tea, or in my case, hot chocolate. Except the hot chocolate at Angelina is not just any hot chocolate. It is luxurious and delectable and utterly rich. You receive a small jug of African hot chocolate and a side of cream, which you then pour accordingly into your cup and mix to your liking. There are the most intricate pastries at the counter but after a hot chocolate like this, I couldn't do more sugar. I was there mid-morning, and soon found that Paris doesn't really wake until midday. There was one man rushed off his feet, going from the counter to the kitchen, clearing the tables and back again to the counter as the cycle repeats. He was flustered in that French way, getting a little angsty but completely harmless. He was like a cartoon character, muttering under his breath in French as he darted back and forth, trying to be everywhere at once in the large café.

The first truly historical building I visited was the Palais Garnier. Palais Garnier is where the novel of the Phantom of the Opera is set. It is incredibly decadent, chandeliers in every direction, painted ceilings, mirrors, not an inch of the room without glamour. As you enter, you walk up the marble staircase and look up at the rooftop above where light streams in. Famous opera costumes were housed in glass cases, worn by invisible mannequins. The elaborate rooms overlooked building after beautiful building on the street. Inside the theatre, workers were setting the stage for a dress rehearsal, pushing around sets and measuring the depth of the stage. I know I love a building when I take about a hundred photos of it like I did of this one. Afterwards I walked around outside in the bustling centre, gazing at it from every angle, seeing how it changed shaped and morphed as I moved to a different viewpoint. Of course, the best angle is from the pedestrian island in the middle of the Opéra roundabout. Outside, a talented busker sang romantic music as tourists hung out on the steps. Gypsies made their way around the crowd asking for spare change.

Afterwards, I strolled further down Boulevard Haussmann, past the wealthy shopping for Chanel in Printemps, and the homeless woman with two cats outside H&M. I stopped inside Printemps for a glance, picking up some macaroons from the renowned Ladurée. You haven't tasted macaroons until you've tasted them from Ladurée. They have the perfect texture, with the outside crisp and the inside a touch chewy and not too sweet. Pretty much like eating a cloud. I knew I had to go back.

Paris is definitely the place for those with a sweet tooth. From the macaroons at Ladurée and Pierre Hermé, to the patisseries at Angelina and Café Pouchkine, to the bakeries scattered around the city, there's far too much choice. And I love it.

DAY 3

##

My third day in Paris began with a Skype call back home with my mum. This was my first big trip to a place so far from home, so it was comforting to have a taste of the familiar. Jetlag was still very much present, and so I was a little tearful (as I am with little sleep) even though I was where I always wanted to be. Sometime the gravity of what you're doing, or what you've done abruptly hits you and next minute, your mood changes completely. Looking back, it was funny, me saying how great of a time I was having through my tears. Sometimes you have cry the fear out and carry on.

At this point I was so enamoured with Paris that I wanted to walk everywhere. This would soon lead to regret. The organised traveller, I mapped out my routes and had my days planned even before I had arrived. This made me feel sure and confident and excited about all the amazingness that was awaiting me. For the three months prior to my trip, I became a student of Paris. I memorised where each arrondissement was, the metro lines, what landmarks were on which rue. If you had given me a blank map of Paris and asked me to pinpoint the main landmarks, I'd have been spot on.

My first mission for today was to find Palais-Royal. Palais-Royal is located in the 1st arrondissement and was about a twenty-minute walk from my hotel in Opéra. The streets I walked down were eerily quiet; many shops were yet to open. Europe is often sleepy in the mornings due to night life, something I like but am not used to. In New Zealand, people get up early; shops open early and close early. Personally, I love a good sleep in. Except when I'm travelling, then I don't want to waste a moment, which is why I ran myself ragged tearing around Paris as if the world was ending and not wanting to miss a damn thing. There were a few people walking their dogs, a street cleaner and that was about it. What is so interesting about Paris is that there are all these little quiet side streets and then five minutes later you walk into a main public area and there's a whole crowd of people. Then everyone disperses and you're on your own again.

On my way to Palais-Royal I chanced upon Eglise Saint-Eustache, a piece of gothic architecture with a touch of renaissance. The church itself wasn't open, but the building is really what I came to see. Snuggled between Les Halles, Jardin Nelson Mandala and the streets of Paris. The unique combination of the classical renaissance style on one side and the dramatic gothic rear makes this church notably different.

As I felt my way around the first arrondissement, a tower of a building came into view. I wasn't sure what it was, but knew it had to be something big due to its size. It wasn't till later that I realised it was Perrault's Colonnade, the eastern façade of the Louvre. It has a different style of architecture than the main building, with Corinthian columns, central triangular peaks and pavilions on each end. Claude Perrault won a competition held by Louis XIV for his design. Later it was built and the rest is history.

Not long after, I meandered through the Tuileries gardens, endless gardens of magic. Nearby there were carnival rides, candyfloss stands, a horror house and a Ferris wheel. The Tuileries have many aspects - the fountains, the ponds, the cafes, and the quiet corners. At some angles, you can get a peak of the Eiffel Tower.

I walked towards the Louvre and took photographs with my Polaroid camera, managing to fit the French buildings, the Ferris wheel and the gardens all in one. There's something special about Polaroids, watching the photo develop in front of you, colouring itself in and coming into clarity right there and then. My love of Polaroids probably goes back to my darkroom days in high school, when I studied photography. I loved seeing how the photo turned out as you developed it in the chemicals. I had brought a few Polaroid films with me on my trip so I could take photos from each place I visited and then create a collage on my wall back home. But you have to pace yourself with Polaroids, because when they're gone, they're gone.

I spotted the Louvre and took it in, knowing I would be back another day to see everything inside. So majestic and unreal. I couldn't resist capturing quick shot with my Polaroid camera. I had forgotten to change the light settings from indoors to daylight, but it was a lucky mistake. The Polaroid was overexposed, making the grey sky look white, the Louvre pyramid almost transparent. Everything was in soft focus, the surreal pyramid rising out of the pale concrete. People become shadowy figures during a cold winter, ice-skating in the square.

The entrance to Palais-Royal was tricky to find, largely because the construction closed the main entrance. The Colonnes de Buren, which I had hoped to see, were also closed. The Colonnes de Buren are a piece of conceptual art - black and white vertically striped columns of various heights dotted in rows, chessboard-like. It's a similar relationship as the pyramid has to the Louvre, a modern juxtaposition to the historical building behind it.

After a curious walk around the block I found a discreet gate, which opened up into the Palais-Royal gardens. The palace itself is not open to the public; the main drawcard is the gardens. These gardens are tucked away, enclosed by the building itself, which also has a few restaurants, cafes and shops on ground level to modernise it. On either side of the gardens are long stretches of trees, all lined in parallel rows which you can walk through underneath or admire from below on a bench. In the centre is a large fountain with chairs surrounding it and bright flowers beside. The style of French gardens is geometry and symmetry and I imagined that if I looked down from a bird's eye view I would see that the gardens were perfectly aligned, equal lines of trees on either side, the fountain specifically centred. There's something reassuring about such symmetry, the feeling that everything has been meticulously mapped out in the pursuit of perfection. Much pride is taken with these gardens, impeccably cared for, not a leaf out of place.

After a number of wrong turns, getting lost and enjoying it, I found the Carrousel du Louvre, a mall which sits beneath the Louvre and is in fact another entrance to the Louvre itself. There is a wonderful feature, the downward-pointing La Pyramide Inversée which is a small Louvre-inspired triangle which points upside-down, letting in light from above and not quite touching the ground. People gathered around the triangle, taking photos and observing.

After a touch of window-shopping, I stepped back outside and drifted down the road, past all the tourist shops. In the crowd, there was sudden movement and flutter, I soon spotted some teenage gypsies, a pack of girls in their mid-teens, hovering around with sly looks. They aren't too subtle, glancing at people's bags and judging which ones are worth the gamble. I had read they use all sorts of tricks and distractions, including fake babies. I moved away from them and across the street.

At this point I was craving a cheeseburger. Which is odd because I don't really eat cheeseburgers. Or meat. But today all I could think of was the soft bun, the slice of gherkin and the sweet tomato sauce. And that's how I ended up at the McDonalds on Rue de Rivoli. Yes, I also had McDonalds in Venice and Rome. I don't know why, but once I started on this track I had to complete the trinity.

On the perimeters of the Tuileries, you'll find twin art galleries, The Musée de Orangerie and the Jeu de Paume. The Jeu de Paume is a modern art gallery, situated in a building matching the Orangerie. These are long buildings but not wide, extending back into the gardens.

What can I say about the art at Jeu de Paume? It was intriguing, conceptual, and mostly above my head. It was definitely on the art house side of the spectrum, where you really need to read the explanation on the wall that goes with the art to truly understand it. Problem was, these explanations were only in French and my French wasn't fluent enough to decode paragraph upon paragraph. What I did appreciate was the ambition of the projects, they aren't afraid of what is odd or weird, they just go for it. I love that. There was some great video art, one that was projected on the floor of one room with hands rearranging items on a table. My favourite piece was the pixelated portrait that was created by using the tip of a cigarette to create holes in the canvas. It was only once you were up close that you could see the burnt holes, the brown edges created by the cigarettes.

Afterwards I queued for an ice cream in the Tuileries gardens. The girl at the stall happened to have my name. I took this as a sign that I was meant to be in Paris. When little signs like this happen in life, I like to notice them and believe they are happening for a reason, because it makes things a little sweeter. The French do ice cream by offering three flavours. I ordered chocolate, yoghurt and vanilla and attempted to do so in French. Afterwards I took myself to one of the lovelock bridges that adjoin the Tuileries to the Museé D'Orsay, Passerelle Léopold-Sédar-Senghor. As Pont des Arts is bursting at the seams with locks, this one had also become a lovelock bridge.

I spent a long time lingering over the Seine, perusing all the messages on the locks before attempting to take many a selfie on the bridge. I knew was in love with this bridge because I had taken endless photos of it from every angle.

On the way back to my hotel, I ventured through Place Vendôme, a square with an amazingly tall column, which unfortunately was surrounded by scaffolding except for the very top. With all the historical legacies in Paris, there were often landmarks that were restored even in peak tourist season. All the designer shops you could ask for were nearby, Gucci, Chanel, Cartier, Fendi, and plenty more. Cartier had an eye-catching shopfront, with the Cartier calligraphy at street level and twenty windows above dressed with luscious red blooms in the flower boxes beneath.

The contrast of wealth and poverty in Paris is astounding. One day I walked past a well-to-do woman who had just shopped at Gucci having a conversation with her friend on the sidewalk while a homeless beggar and his lethargic cat sat on the ground two feet away. That's Paris.

Later I did a little shopping near Place de la Madeleine and bought some comfy pants for the plane, which I later deemed my "plane pants." It was fun shopping in Paris and eavesdropping on conversations in the fitting rooms, then trying to adopt the French phrases afterwards. I got away with saying minimal French like "Bonjour," "Non, merci," and "C'est bon." The girl at the counter said the price in rapid French, but because I knew my numbers okay, I understood how much she was asking. I'd like to think that they thought I was French, but they probably saw through my accent and went along with it. Regardless, it was fun to try.

L'Église de la Madeleine is a colossal building that quite literally takes over the section where Boulevard Malesherbes and Boulevard De La Madeleine meet. It then stares down Rue Royale as the road continues to Place De La Concorde. It's size, height and thick Corinthian columns create its commanding presence. Its triangular peak features a sculpture of the Last Supper with Mary Magdalene at the feet of Jesus, and angel on either side. I made sure to take a Polaroid. Around the back I spied a bride and groom getting wedding shots taken. I was soon to find this a common occurrence in Paris.

This was the first church I entered in Europe, so it made quite an impression on me. Inside, a mass was taking place up the front of the church. I sat for 15 minutes, listening to the choir and hearing their notes echo into the high curves of the inner domes. Decadent lights hung from the ceiling and prayer candles glowed to the side. Right at the back of the church was a completely different story. Tourists taking photos, completely oblivious to the serenity that churches desire. They clicked away, yet I'm not sure they really lived in the moment. You can get caught up in capturing things when travelling, without really feeling and seeing them. It's something I always kept in mind, wanting to be present and remember the experience.

Near the exit was a small gift shop with postcards of the pope, rosary beads, petit sculptures and other knick-knacks. The store girl spoke in a hushed tone to the tourists, hoping to restore some sense of sanctity.

At one point during my extensive walk around Paris that day, I spotted Petit Palais and Place de la Concorde. I would see them all in good time. That's the thing about Paris, there is beauty and history around every corner and you want to see it all. At this point my feet had started blistering, due to the amount of walking I was doing and the incorrect footwear I was wearing. Note to self – forget vanity and bring proper walking shoes. Yes, they will be a tourist badge, but it beats the pain of bruised and blistered feet.

On my way back to my hotel, I revisited Boulevard Haussmann. Then I saw something that stopped me in my path. When I looked down one of the side streets, I could see Sacré Coeur, up on the hill, gleaming white in the distance. Only in Paris would a view down a side street be so rewarding. There are so many interesting buildings around every corner and down many streets but this view made my heart smile. I couldn't wait to get closer and see Sacré Coeur in the flesh. It wouldn't be for a few more days. I would just have to wait.

DAY 4

##

My fourth day in Paris was Pompidou time. It was another rainy day, perfect for art galleries. On my way to the Pompidou, I stumbled upon some markets in the middle of a quiet street. Fragrant flowers, fish freshly layered upon ice, every cheese you could imagine, meat, vegetables, and a scarf stall. The Parisians conversed, bartering over prices in that lovely pitter-patter of theirs. I wanted to see more, but art was beckoning. After wandering through a few more streets, the Pompidou appeared out of nowhere, nestled amongst traditional style buildings. The brilliant red of the tubes stood out, vibrant even on a grey day. I could see people inside the building, riding the escalator tube up to the top floor. The greatness of the Pompidou is that its unique architecture is functional and purposeful.

But first – time to take a selfie. I spent a bit of time making sure I had a good one before I went in. The lines were short and in about 10 minutes I was on my way up the escalator tube myself.

So much art. I lost track of time, there was simply so much to see and so many places to go. One of my favourite pieces was Café Little Boy by Jean-Luc Vilmouth. It was a large room that was essentially a massive chalkboard, floor to ceiling. Only a handful of people could enter at once, so there was a lengthy wait. The pastel chalk sketches, mostly in French, filled the room with hope and colour.

Another great piece was called Avalanche, made by Wilfredo Prieto. A huge line of spherical shaped items, ranging from a basketball to a beach ball to a fish bowl, to a juice bar in the shape of an orange. The spherical objects started small and then progressively larger in size. I loved the humour of this piece, as so often art is serious and political.

There was a French gallery assistant whose job was specifically to guard this rather large exhibition. He buzzed from end to end; persistent that no one touches anything, anywhere. To him, this was serious stuff.

The great thing about Pompidou is that there is something for everyone. There is such a range of modern art, you are bound to find something you like. And there is such a playful spirit to a lot of the work in the Pompidou, a spirit that holds onto the explorative nature of a child, with the clever intellect of an academic.

After spending a decent half hour in the gift shop, analysing everything inside, I decided on a pen. A cool pen which listed many of the famous artists that have been exhibited in the Pompidou, but a pen nonetheless. I made my way past a couple of homeless people camped right outside the Pompidou and headed off to find some food.

There's a wonderful area called Rue Rambuteau just by the Pompidou, which has great, unpretentious street food. It feels authentic and accessible; it's one of my favourite streets in Paris for food. Every window is full of colour and life. Beautiful cakes sit behind the windows at the bakeries, rich meat at the boucherie and fresh produce at the grocers. This street is what you think of when you think of Paris. Interestingly, I found some amazing pizza in Paris from Quartino. Cheese, onion and the richest olives you could eat. Crisp and sliced into three large bites on a wooden platter. I chomped through every inch as I sat on a delicate chair that looked out to the street. Stylish ladies passed by, lost tourists and confident locals. Even though I was in Paris, this was to be the best pizza I ate on this trip, even better than what I had in Venice and Rome. It was heaven. I had to stop myself from going back for more – after all my next venture was to find Éclair De Genie, a gorgeous shop full of sweetness.

On my way to Éclair de Genie, I spotted L'As du Fallafel, the most popular Falafel store in Paris. If you didn't know, Lenny Kravitz himself has been there. You can order the very same one he did if you like. Because I had researched before I left, and had absorbed pretty much everything I could about Paris, I knew the line would be long. And it was. It twisted down the block and then some. I knew I would go back before my trip was over. Just not today.

Éclair de Genie has every flavour of éclairs you can imagine. On Rue Pavée with a modest and simple storefront, I nearly missed it. Inside are rows and rows of exquisite éclairs, all lined up by type. Every colour imaginable, from green to red to purple, adorned with toppings from nuts to wafers to fruit. I ordered a hazelnut praline éclair, decorated with hazelnuts and flecked edible gold. The front of the éclair had a little chocolate label that read Éclair de Genie. I took it with me and headed back out into the rain.

Around the corner I ducked into an op shop crammed from floor to ceiling. Bags hung down from above, hats hovered in every conceivable corner and racks heaved with the weight of eclectic clothing. It was overwhelming with no real place to start. I ventured back out into the rain on lengthy Rue de Rivoli and decided I might as well eat my éclair in a doorway seeming as the raindrops were dampening the box. This éclair was one of the greatest things I have ever eaten. So creamy it practically melted in my mouth. I never made it back to Éclair de Genie but I hope someday I will.

After an epic walk down Rue di Rivoli (I hadn't mastered the metro yet, and was a little scared of taking the wrong line to be honest) I met up with my friend Janine, her sister Jodie and their parents. They had just visited the Orangerie so I met them at a staircase in the Tuileries Garden across from the Seine. This was after an hour of playing tag in Paris. I would text Janine and she would be at a café. When I said I would meet her there, she was then at the Batobus stop. So I said I would head there. But by then she was at the Orangerie. I told her to stay put.

As the group of us dashed across Paris in a sun shower, I took my first glimpse of Pont des Arts, glimmering even in the rain. Janine's family had been to Paris a few times so weren't enamoured like I was. The Institut de France is another stunning building, just across from the bridge. We zipped past so many wonderful buildings; we couldn't even name them all. That's the thing about Paris, magic around every corner.

Janine and I attended the same high school in New Zealand and she had recently transferred to Luxembourg for an accounting job. I've known her family for well over a decade, so it was like having a surrogate family for an afternoon. And we had found our destination as we settled on a crêperie. Situated in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, we sat in the upstairs area near a window that overlooked the narrow Parisian street with a teahouse across the road. The crêperie had black and white photographs of Hollywood celebrities covering every inch of the walls.

We ordered crêpes, salads and beautiful rosé to drink. The rosé in Paris is a pale orange colour, not like the pink or red ones you see in New Zealand. It's lovely and sweet and hits the spot on a warm summer day. I showed everyone the photos I had taken so far on my trip and told them the history of the buildings I had visited so far. I shared the story of the first twelve-hour leg of my plane trip over, which largely consisted of an eight-year-old Dutch boy alternating between staring at me over the top of his chair and turning my television on and off. Janine's dad told me I should have slapped him one, and I had to agree. Their family had plans for the evening and I wanted to get a head start on tomorrow so I left them to it. Janine was planning on catching the train back to Paris the following weekend to meet me so I would catch up with her then. I made my way back to my hotel on foot. I probably walked twenty kilometres that day and my feet were getting rather blistered at this point. Of course, I had the wrong shoes that only made things worse. I promised myself to brave the metro tomorrow and learn the ropes.

On the way back to my hotel in the Opéra district I walked past the Palais Garnier. This was a building I was to see many times and every time was just as beautiful as the last. I bought a large sized orange and chocolate macaroon at Pierre Hermé as a sweet treat after I booked a red bus tour to see the city. Two days of cruising past the main landmarks of Paris on a loop. I then found an adorable bakery near that made all flavours of pizza. I bought a piece for later. The evening ended with rain as I reached my hotel to rest my sore feet.

Every evening, for as much time I could spare, I wrote about my trip in a notebook. Writing had become my vice during the past few years. I wrote short stories, I wrote a screenplay and eventually this book. Words are my medium. Writing gives you time to be sure of what you're saying, take a look, and change it if you don't like it. To put what you've seen into words when travelling is a task in itself. With beauty of every variation, it pushes you to remember what you saw and see the detail. Some days I didn't write as much as others, but it was an easy way to unwind and appreciate the world around me.
DAY 5

As I got into the swing of life in Paris and became more at ease, the next few days were a blur. Today was Bastille Day, a national holiday in Paris and the day that I had moulded my whole trip around. French flags were on every lamppost down the Champs-Élysées, as if it wasn't already striking enough.

Today was the day I would see some more familiar faces. My friend Steph and her fiancé Vince were making their way around the world, from Tokyo to Istanbul to Paris and then some. They were staying near the Pompidou, in Le Marais, only a block away from my favourite food strip, Rue Rambuteau. They didn't even realise that it was nearby, or what a great area they were in. If I go back to Paris, I plan to stay in Le Marais.

To hang out in Paris with your friends is pretty awesome. Steph is one of those friends that gets me. I'm one of her people and she's one of mine. If you find someone like this, hold onto them. They are rare.

In many ways, we're similar. We've both had issues with anxiety and those types of fears. She's conquered hers, I'm still working through mine. We've both encountered dark shadows, people that terrorize you to your very core and highlight all your insecurities. People that continually chip away at you faster than you can build yourself up. As for Vince, he's a great listener and a wise one that's helped us both through it.

After an hour of trying to meet up, I finally saw Steph and Vince. We hadn't anticipated that so many streets would be closed for Bastille Day, which made our meeting spot impossible to get to. Some metro stations were closed so they found themselves two or three stops away and had to walk the rest. I kept texting them street names of where I was but they didn't know them. Heavy streams of people were wondering through the heavily policed city, trying to find their way to see the parade. I stood to the side near a bar and eventually Steph and Vince became part of the stream and reached me there. It was great to see some friends who I could easily converse with in English. I loved giving French a go, but had now realised that I had a lot to learn and that it didn't come as naturally as I wished it would. We soon noticed that the Parisians had red tickets that gave them exclusive entry to the seats that had been erected in the Place De La Concorde. As for us, we had to go somewhere else. We turned corner after corner, rushed down street after street, not wanting to miss a second of the parade.

After another thirty minutes, we found ourselves at a clearing. We were at a reserve just off the Champs-Élysées and it was as good as we were going to get. Everyone was excited; people were climbing trees, lampposts and anything they could to get a better view.

Steph, Vince and I squeezed into the packed crowd, all holding cameras above their heads to get a good shot. Soon we heard the clack of horses, and glimpsed men in uniform on the soldiers, walking military style. Shortly after, more soldiers marched down the road in practised unison. The tone was far more serious than I anticipated. I was expecting something more celebratory, but it was formal and reserved.

There was a little break in the parade at this point, by which a trio of French pranksters dressed as clowns jumped the barriers and danced around on the street. This got the crowd going, and all the cheering made me think that it was for the parade. But the crowd was just as excited to cheer on these silly clowns for their free-spiritedness. A few minutes later, the pranksters were roughly thrown back over the barrier and pulled away by police.

Just like that, a swoop over colour flew past our heads quickly. It was the first of the military jets, one that released a stream of colour behind – the traditional red, white and blue. It's one of those iconic moments that characterises the Bastille parade and it was unbelievably quick. The jets flew so fast that you only heard them a second before you saw them. I got a brief snap but almost wonder if it had been better to simply appreciate the moment rather than focus on capturing it. It is easy to get caught up in capturing the perfect shot and missing something happening around you. I guess it's the photographer in me (I used to do a lot of photography in high school). After the first jet, more and more flew past, mostly in trios. However, it was only that first one which streamed that distinctive red, white and blue trail.

Next up, rows of tanks drove down the Champs-Élysées, not something you see every day in Paris. We don't have tanks like that in New Zealand. For me it was something I had only ever seen in war movies.

At this point, we had become rather overheated and claustrophobic in the tightly packed crowd. We moved out and resorted to standing on a park bench, along with about seven other people. The view wasn't bad; it was good to get a clearer view without all the cameras obscuring it.

By this point, it was about lunchtime and the parade was winding down. We headed off to see what was open for lunch, wandering the back streets of the 8th arrondissement. Above our heads were streets and streets of Parisian apartments, with those typical wrought iron balconies with intricate swirls and curls. I liked looking up and seeing who is home and what is happening, wondering how many people live there.

We found a picturesque café and took a tiny table on the footpath. Our French contemporaries, men and women in their twenties, smoked stylishly with a coffee nearby. Coffee and cigarettes. The perfect French combination. I'm not a smoker myself, but there is something about the way the French do it with elegance that is incomparable to anywhere else.

When it came to ordering, we were faced with the quintessential blackboard with French scrawled across it. A few words jumped out here and there, but for the most part it was vague. Once I recognised the French word for chicken – poulet, along with salade, I was decided. I hadn't eaten too much fruit and vegetables since I had been in Paris, largely due to the ubiquity of pain – bread. I am a big fan of bread, most likely because I worked in a bakery for a couple of years while I was in high school. I used to get to take home all the sweet treats that were left over at the end of the day.

Speaking of bread, it is very endearing how the French serve a basket of bread no matter what you order. Even if it's just a drink, you will get complimentary bread. Or nuts. Or popcorn. Something to snack on for sure. Bread is the foodie currency of France and I liked it. A lot.

Accordingly, we were served a basket of chewy bread at our table as we waited for our meal. Vince had a cold beer in his hand and Steph and I had some rosé in one of the largest wine glasses I have ever seen. Turns out we didn't specify the size of the glass, so they gave us the largest one at 10 euros. Although it wasn't a bad mistake, as the wine was divine and it's quite fun to walk around Paris in a wine induced haze.

In Paris, there is no shame in cracking into a vino late morning or midday. That's just the culture. After all, why else would Paris have so many happy hours?

Once our food arrived it was an amusing challenge trying to make three plates, three sets of knives and forks and three glasses fit onto a tiny round table. The waitress had obviously honed this skill to a tee out of necessity. With a few shuffles here and there, voilà, she made it work. Steph and I both had the chicken salad in a modern white curved bowl that reminded me of an egg. Vince had an omelette with salad embellished with flair, a handful of fresh herbs on top.

We lingered long after our meal was finished – who wouldn't? We soaked in the sunlight that had finally broken through the cloudy morning and people-watched those walking up and down the rues beside us.

One of the things I loved in Paris was that gorgeous people always seemed to be lounging in bars overlooking the footpath, just people watching. Paris is the capital of people watching, hence all the cafés and bars that face the footpath. Although, not everyone gets this – when I was on a Hop-on Hop-off tour, I overheard one American woman asking her friend "Why on earth would you want to sit and look at the street?"

Europeans linger on the moment; they squeeze every last drop out of it. New Zealanders tend to rush around a lot, from here to there, doing this and that. Many people make a habit of saying they're "busy." I liked it this way. It took a few days to acclimatise to the French way of going with the flow, but once you were in it, it was gold.

We were off. Along the backstreets of Paris. The crowds had dispersed since the parade and the street we walked on was subdued. However, that all changed once we turned the corner. And there it was. The Arc de Triomphe. A large French flag flew underneath the arc, swaying in the light breeze, waving us to come closer.

Things were wrapping up after the Bastille Parade and the street we walked along was where the tanks had returned. After being quite distanced from the action during the parade, it was a welcome change to see these tanks up close. A few horses were at the same meeting point, looking rather uninterested.

The road closures from the parade were still in place as well as the Arc de Triomphe itself being closed. It was a rare thing to see only a handful of cars in the roundabout around the Arc de Triomphe. Normally it's complete chaos, cars every direction and no real rules from what I can tell. It's more of a place where people try not to crash or be crashed into and vocalise by beeping their horns. I heard somewhere that they don't insure crashes that happen on this roundabout for this very reason.

The trio of us took photos of the Arc de Triomphe behind us, swapping over in different combinations. Me on my own, me and Steph, Steph on her own, Steph and Vince, then finally Me Steph and Vince. It was virtually impossible to get a photo without a funny tourist in the background. Now that I look back, it kind of adds to the atmosphere of just how much everyone loves Paris.

We continued around the roundabout, admiring the Arc from all angles. The sunlight found its way into all the crevices, creating intriguing shapes and shadows. Like most buildings in Paris, this one didn't have a bad angle.

Our stroll continued down towards Trocadéro with a few wrong turns here and there. My feet were more swollen than yesterday (again, I should have brought proper walking shoes) but there was no stopping me from seeing Paris. On the way, we chanced upon a bakery with every sweet and savoury treat you could imagine. We chose one thing each and took it away to eat when we found a good spot.

The leafy streets of Trocadéro welcomed us, as did the many homeless people adorning the sidewalk. There were also the omnipresent African men who were selling Eiffel tower key rings. They had these large hoops, which were stacked full with cheap-looking gold and silver key rings – just like those sold at most tourist gift shops. You could find these men at the Louvre, Versailles, Sacré Coeur, and the Eiffel Tower. You knew you were in a touristy place when you heard that familiar rattle of key chains as they tried to drum up interest. What I found most fascinating was how quickly they covered up and fled when they glimpsed the police or an official heading their way. They did a good disappear and disperse act.

Palais de Chaillot is famous for its breathtaking view. Between the two symmetrical curved buildings is a wide marble plaza with tiles that are patterned with squares within squares within squares. And perfectly centred is the Eiffel Tower. Below lies the Jardins du Trocadéro. We didn't see them because the plaza was roped off right up to the street, due to Bastille Day preparations for the evening. As the other tourists did, we leaned right up against the ropes and took our photos. The sky was an incredible blue canvas. If I ever go back, I hope to walk upon that marble plaza and stand at the edge to look over the gardens and see the fountains in all their glory.

We wandered around the gardens behind the Palais de Chaillot, with a pond complete with a couple of curious turtles. People were lounging in the sunshine and we found a spot to eat our sweet treats. I had picked up some mille-feuille, which translates to "a thousand layers." Sheets of lightly crispy pastry were packed between oozing custard, which dripped down my wrist. You can't go to Paris and not get some mille-feuille, and I had chosen a good one. Vince and Steph were just as complimentary about their slices. I don't think there was anything in that bakery that wouldn't have tasted amazing.

At that point it was mid-afternoon, and we decided to go back to our respective accommodations for a nap and meet up later. I hadn't seen the Pont Alexandre Bridge and figured I could find it on my way back. This was the point where I should have started catching the metro, but I was now on my own again, I was a little scared of getting lost in big old Paris. Turns out, it was more of a walk than I planned.

Not that it wasn't a gorgeous one. I meandered past the modern art galleries Musée D'art Moderne and Palais de Tokyo that I would go back to see. My stroll past the Seine offered another amazing angle of the Eiffel Tower. Cue another photograph session.

Then there was Pont de L'Alma. The bridge here was nothing special, but the gold flame of liberty was. Only 3.5 metres high, it makes quite a statement. An exact sized copy of the torch from the Statue of Liberty. I took a few photos of the flame with the Eiffel in the background. It was also a quiet moment to remember the late Princess Diana, who died in the tunnel below. This flame, although erected to symbolise friendship between France and America, had become symbolic of Diana and an unofficial memorial. Some people think that it was built for her, but it had been there since 1989.

The Pont Alexandre III Bridge is incredibly lavish and decorative with a touch of fantasy. It is situated between Les Invalides on one side and Grand Palais and Petit Palais on the other. The Eiffel Tower sits behind in the distance, and of course, the Seine is below. Quite often in Paris you will find yourself in the middle of four or five significant landmarks, able to view them panoramically while standing on this one spot. To me, that is paradise.

Pont Alexandre stands out from the other bridges in Paris, which either have lovelocks or aren't as architecturally masterful. In my opinion, there are two ways to look at this bridge, one is close up and the other is from afar. When you are close, you can take in all the precise detail from the gold winged horses neighing on their back feet, about to run – to the ornamental lampposts to the steel cherubs and nymphs. Then there is the sweeping arc of the bridge itself, a white vision, embellished with sculptural garlands and gold flourishes. It's almost like a cake with the most masterful icing you have ever seen.

There is even a lion statue near the steps on the Grand Palais side of the bridge. I unwittingly walked past this statue as I approached the bridge. That's the thing about this Pont Alexandre; there is so much detail that if you don't really look, you could miss something wonderful.

Below there was a pop-up flea market, with all types of vintage furniture, books, bric-a-brac and eclectic bits and pieces. I had to summon a lot of will to head back to my hotel as I was rapidly running out of time. That's the overwhelming thing about Paris – so much to do, you have to focus on what you really want to see or you'll get pulled in another direction. I would love to live in this city; there are so many options it's virtually limitless. Paris is like a prism; it flashes many sides. All of them have their own dazzle.

I finally got back to my hotel, and it had been a pretty full on day. Due to my insatiable desire to see the city, I had sacrificed rest time and the jet lag was still lingering. My big toes were completely swollen and when I squeezed them pus came out. Needless to say, I needed to rest my feet.

I was meant to meet up with Steph and Vince to see the Bastille Day fireworks at the Eiffel Tower. Even after drinking some caffeine, I was lacklustre. Determined to see Paris at night, I made my aching body tread its way to Steph and Vince's air bnb spot. After a twenty-minute struggle trying to find each other, I finally spotted Steph on the street. We headed to a food store to buy some food for our picnic on the Champ de Mars. At the busy supermarket, we became indecisive about what to buy, and what to drink. Although the Parisian laws of drinking in public are far more relaxed than in New Zealand, I queried whether we would be allowed wine. We bought some anyway. Dragging my jetlagged self through the streets, the world felt blurry and distant. I kept telling myself that all I needed to do was make it to the Champ de Mars. Then everything would be all right.

The night ahead seemed so long. The fireworks wouldn't be till just before midnight, and that was five hours away. Then it would take some time to get back to my hotel in the busy dawn streets afterwards. It was all sounding like it would exceed my energy capacity.

We went to the metro, but something was tugging me back. I couldn't get on. I was simply too jetlagged and needed rest. But this was an experience of a lifetime that I couldn't miss. I hate regrets, and didn't want this to be one of them. I didn't want to get back to New Zealand and have to tell people I was too jetlagged to see the fireworks. I might never have another chance. My body and my mind were duelling it out, and it was an even match.

We bought our metro tickets and were about to enter the gates, but I had to leave. Tears fell down my cheeks and I looked like a mess. I hated friends seeing me this way. I pulled Steph aside and told her I couldn't believe it, but I wasn't up to it. I let them go and loathed myself for it.

Though the Nelson Mandela gardens I went, trying to pull myself together. I found a sunny spot and sat there for a while. Just breathing and trying to centre myself. Children were freely playing on their bicycles, circling around and giggling. I watched them, trying to absorb their energy and happiness. Soon after I returned to the hotel, my tired mind and body drifted to sleep.

DAY 6

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Today was a new day. I reminded myself to pace myself and not overdo it. I decided that today would be perfect to start day one of my two-day Hop-on Hop-off bus tour. The nearest pick up point was at the ticketing office, down the road from Palais Garnier. Today, my mission was clear - see the Eiffel Tower. Or Tour Eiffel as the French call it. Ambitiously I thought I could hit a few more landmarks but that was before I came face to face with the long queues.

The red tour buses of Paris had been omnipresent since I had first set foot in the city. They appeared around every corner, travelled down the main boulevards and stopped at all the big landmarks. I couldn't wait to view it all from the top deck of the bus. I had already seen some of the city, and this was a chance to revisit those spots and see new ones, or ones I had only seen from afar, like the Eiffel Tower.

We headed straight into the centre of the city – past the ritzy hotels like Hotel Du Louvre and through the narrow gates that lead to the Louvre. With the Louvre on your left and the Tuileries Gardens on your right, it's a tough choice to decide which way to look. And just like that we were back out the other side and onto Quai François Mitterrand overlooking the Seine. This stretch of road offers another opportunity to appreciate the intricate details within the architecture of the Louvre. And then there are the lions guarding the entrances, the gold tipped daggers on the iron fences, and those mysterious windows.

Soon after we passed Pont Neuf and went over the bridge. Underneath, tourists glided along the Seine on a Batobus in the striking sun. Then we cruised in the 5th arrondissement, with many more historical Parisian buildings in every direction. The next stop was outside the Notre Dame. I wasn't getting off here, but it was still a prime position to grab some photos of the unmistakable gothic cathedral. The line to see the Notre Dame trailed through the square, an endless snake.

We were off again, past the magnificent clock in front of Museé D'Orsay and through Place De La Concorde, the largest square in Paris located in the 8th arrondissement. Traffic central, vehicles moved from a dozen different directions. Cars, taxis, buses, bikes, scooters, motorbikes and trucks all vied for the green traffic lights. Although there was construction at the central fountain, the obelisk towered above it all, demanding attention. The gold Egyptian encryptions on its side gleamed, as did the triangular spire at the top. L'église de la Madeleine could be seen at the end of Rue Royale as the bus steered past onto the Champs-Élysées. Everyone was in snap mode, including me. On day two of this tour, I would learn to just sit and soak it all in, but today I couldn't contain my excitement. It was fascinating how far some people would lean over the side of the bus just to take a photo. A bit risky, but they wanted to risk it.  The Champs-Élysées was bustling as always, shop lights were flashing, people were tooting their horns. That's just your average day. I eyed up the shops, deciding which ones I would peruse when it was time for retail therapy.

The bus circled around the Arc De Triomphe, and I took photos from every angle as we passed it. Continuing back down the Champs-Élysées and then past Grand Palais and Petit Palais, which I would revisit later. We were now on the final stretch through Trocadéro, and I glimpsed a millisecond of the view through to the Eiffel Tower as the bus sped through the roundabout. Minutes later, the Eiffel Tower was right in front of me. In my excitement, I forgot to look back at the Trocadéro fountains, because I was so fixated on the Eiffel Tower. So much beauty in too many directions.

On my trip so far, I had spied the Eiffel Tower from many corners of Paris. From the deck of the Pompidou in the rain, to a peek from the Tuileries garden, to the overwhelming view at Trocadéro, to the Pont Alexandre Bridge just yesterday. And now, finally, up close. It felt like I had been waiting my whole life for this moment. And I would wait another two hours for it in line.

I had been hoping to see the Eiffel Tower with Steph and Vince, but they were following their own whim and had opted for a bike tour and a fancy lunch. I hoped I could meet them that evening but had to see whether our plans aligned.

Arriving at the Eiffel Tower, I decided to have a little wander around first. There's a whimsical carousel just across the road which I had seen photographs of before I had traveled to Paris. In real life, it's just as whimsical up close.

There was a cute ice cream stall at the foot of the Eiffel Tower, so I figured I should probably get a snack before I waited in line. I ordered a strawberry ice cream and it was a huge twirl upon twirl upon twirl of pink goodness. I licked on my ice cream as I waited in the winding line that grew by about twenty people a minute. There were literally two men that monitored the line, directing people and shaping it so that it wound back and forth like a snake's tail.

And so, the long two-hour wait began. It was a lonely two hours, but I knew if anything was worth it, this was. I enjoyed seeing the wonderment in people's faces as they arrived and looked up to the sky, as I had, to see the top of the tower. People were snapping pictures, even from the foot of the tower.

After a bag check, a group of us squished into the elevator that would take us to level two of the tower. The French teenager that operated it was completely over his job. He sighed theatrically as he pulled the gears to make the elevator rise and checked his cellphone. As the elevator rose into the sky, everyone gasped with utter joy. It may have been a squishy ride, but it was one with a view of a lifetime. Once we were on the viewing deck, everyone was going crazy with selfies, including me. I took a Polaroid selfie, and then turned the camera onto the glorious panorama below. Now that I knew a little more about the city, it was fun to map out where I had gone and where I wanted to go next. The Champ de Mars and its wonderful symmetry is a standout. Also, the glimmering gold dome of Napoleons tomb in Les Invalides pops out of the beige sea of Parisian buildings and apartments. Sacré Coeur perches on the hill, angelic and so very white. And of course, the Seine weaves its way throughout.

Then there was another queue and elevator ride to the very top. The deck was a lot narrower and crowded but the view was completely stunning. We were so far above, everything below was like a Monet painting, swirls and shapes, the detail too far away to see. Somehow they still managed to fit a champagne booth at the top, in case it took your fancy. I lingered for a long time, and who wouldn't? It's not every day you get to climb the Eiffel, and this might be the first and last time I see it. I walked around and around, absorbing the view at one angle, then another then back to where I was first. Have you ever wanted to photograph something with your mind? To etch the memory in your mind so you can access it at any moment? That's what I was trying to do. And that's how it came to be 4.30pm. There was so much more I wanted to see and I had just gotten started.

I hopped back on the red bus and cruised along the rest of the circuit. Next up was the Champs de Mars, which I had seen from the Tour Eiffel earlier that day. In the shape of a cross, it is a grand green space in Paris, with manicured hedges. Perfect for al fresco picnicking.

The way to Les Invalides was past Museé Rodin. I couldn't see much of the museum due to the impeccable high hedges and the back of Rodin's The Thinker. The bronze man sits with a curved spine, contemplative and deep in the recesses of his mind.

École Militaire was the next big landmark on the route, and first up was Napoleon's Tomb, Dôme des Invalides. Located within an unmissable gold plated dome, this spot is visible from many high points in Paris. The French Baroque architecture was inspired by St Peters in Rome. As you circle the building and find yourself at the entrance, which faces Place de la Concorde, you'll see the perfectly symmetrical gardens with trees evenly dotting the cobble stone path. Founded by King Louis XIV, Les Invalides once sheltered veterans of war. It was seen as a noble gesture at the time, but King Louis most likely had his own imperative, to keep these people out of sight, and to build a fancy building in doing so.

Winding back through the route where I ended back outside Palais Garnier. It was most certainly time for some rest and relaxation. But first – I had to get some jandals. Comfortable shoes. My feet were wrecked, bruised and swollen. I remembered seeing Havaianas in the bottom floor of Galleries Lafayette, the shoe floor. So many types of Havaianas. I was too indecisive to customise my own, although I loved the idea. I settled on some gold metallic ones and they were so comfortable my feet literally sighed in relief.

Steph and Vince had been in touch and were going for dinner in Montmartre. Because I had spent the most part of the day continuing on the tour bus I didn't get back to my hotel till after 7, only time for a shower and tidy up and then I would meet them at Sacré Coeur. I didn't have time or energy to walk or get lost on the bus, so I ordered a taxi.

It was the most amazing taxi I had ever been in. It was so nice I almost felt like a celebrity. It was a shiny black Mercedes Benz, so wide the driver had trouble manoeuvring it through the narrow driveway by my hotel, the tyres lightly scraping the sides as we made it through. The air conditioning in this taxi was to die for. It was humid in Paris and it was relaxing to have cold fresh air surrounding me. I didn't use it, but apparently, this taxi even had its own Wi-Fi. And the driver was wearing a black hat like they do in the movies. Classy piano music tinkled on the radio as we drove through the backstreets towards Sacré Coeur. He dropped me off right at the top, at the final stairway. And there it was, towering above me, right there. To me, the Sacré Coeur oozes a divine glow, radiating light and peace. It made me feel more calm and serene being there than I had felt my whole trip. The anxiety that often nestled next to me was stripped away and I felt powerful and strong.

Steph and Vince were making their way up the stairs from the very bottom. I walked down to meet them halfway, right by the grassy knoll that is one of the most picturesque spots in Paris. People were laughing, picnicking, and just plain hanging out on that effervescent grass. Cue some more tourist snaps. We did the same thing we had the other day, taking photos in all combinations possible. I took a photo of Steph and Vince on my Polaroid camera and gave it to them to remember the experience. They watched as the photo came to life in front of us, the way only Polaroids can.

There were some dodgy African Parisian men who consistently trick tourists on the steps of the Sacré Coeur. I had seen videos on YouTube before I had left, and had been a bit worried about encountering them. They were there, but I made far too much fuss and trouble for them to bother trying to tie string around my finger and con me into giving them money. They had tried to get Vince though, Steph told me. Just before I had met up with them, one of the persistent African men had cornered Vince but Steph managed to distract them so they could get away. It really is sad how people like this ruin the experience, but there's not much you can do except be aware and do your best to avoid it. For a worrier like me, it's worse because it puts you off the experience due to the trepidation of what could happen. Once I get sucked into the state of fear and anxiety it's hard to get out. My stomach feels twisty and knotted, I feel sick and dizzy. It took a lot of work to get out of that dark place into the light.

People were drinking beer on the steps outside Sacré Coeur, trying to sell some to passers-by. Even though the Sacré Coeur looks very white and crisp from a distance, up close it has an aged look, and isn't as clean as you would think. But that doesn't take away from its divinity, it makes it more real.

We looked out at the skyline from the top steps of Sacré Coeur. The sun was setting and the sky was a blur of something between pink, orange and purple. There are so many amazing outlooks over Paris and they all offer their own point of view. To think that a few days ago I was looking at the Sacré Coeur from the Pompidou and now I was here looking back over the city from a new angle.

As dusk was approaching, the gates to the gardens at Sacré Coeur were closing. It was about 8.30 at night and people were moving on. We said goodbye to Sacré Coeur and wandered down the hill to explore Montmartre.

At night, Montmartre is an eclectic array of flashing lights and neon signs. It seemed that most shops were either a sex shop, strip clubs or bars but maybe that was just what I remember, or rather the area that we were in. It was fun to read all the signs so blatantly selling sex, it's not something you see every day.

We headed along to the famous Moulin Rouge. It was just like in the pictures. Larger than life and glowing a vibrant red, the legendary windmill turned while a lengthy queue as far as my eye could see lined the footpath. I instantly regretted not going to a show – the shows are rather pricy and were a little out of my budget for this trip. I wished I had gone anyway. When I go back, this is where I will head.

There was a large vent about a foot off the ground, and when you stood on it, air gushed out. There were several girls standing on it, having their Marilyn Monroe Seven Year Itch moment. We all snapped the Moulin Rouge with our phones and cameras before simply standing and gazing in awe of its magnificence. The brilliance of the windmill made me think back to the film Moulin Rouge! which perfectly captures and celebrates its extravagance and glamour.

Afterwards we turned the corner to visit Café Des Deux Moulins, which is the café where the French film Amelie was filmed. If you don't know the movie, you should watch it. It's a Parisian fairytale. The café was much smaller than I would have thought; I imagined it to have more tables and a wider sweeping space. That's the beauty and the trickery of long lenses in cinema, altering perception and creating a rose-tinted world. The red neon sign outside was so bright that even my camera had trouble capturing it, blurring brightly against the dark night sky.

After that we did some bar hopping. Steph envisioned what she called a "seedy jazz bar" as the quintessential Montmartre hangout. I'm not sure where she came up with this idea but we sure couldn't find it. The closest we got was a bar with singers performing covers of songs. But I'll come back to that.

First we headed to a cute little bar, with those tiny tables that overlook the footpath. I ordered a wine and Steph and Vince choose beers. I knew I had to get a cheese platter and once everything arrived we did the mandatory shifting to make it all fit on the little table. The cheese and the bread were nothing but delicious, with some grapes on the side for good measure. And like they do in Paris, once we had eaten the bread, they loaded us up with more. So much bread. It was hard to stop. We looked out onto the street and watched the passers by. We had a cute French waiter and so I asked him about the types of cheese on the platters and where they were from. He had absolutely no idea but it was adorable seeing him try to explain in English. We ordered another round of drinks before deciding to delve further into Montmartre to taste another bar.

We again searched for the mysterious "seedy jazz bar" of Steph's fantasy but were finding it tough. Before we had left our first bar, I had asked the cute waiter where the nearest jazz bar was. Steph and Vince laughed which confused the waiter even further, when he asked "jazz?" Even with the explanation of music he couldn't come up with anything for us.

As we walked along the footpath, mellowed by our alcoholic beverages, we heard the tinkle of a piano and figured we should follow it. It lead us to a bar called Le Chat Noir. Inside a couple of French men were covering popular ballads in English but heavily accented. We sat outside and became part of the night filled with neon signs. In traditional Montmartre style, the décor of the bar was exclusively red and black. The tables had the iconic chat noir cat, created by Théophile Steinlen back in the 1800s as poster art for the Le Chat Noir cabaret bar. You know the one, with long whiskers, yellow eyes and perched upon a red wall.

Here's what I know - Paris equals pure escapism. All the problems of your former life slip away and dissolve. Your surroundings absorb you. You become a new being. A new identity. Reborn in Paris.

That's one of my favourite things about travelling – the anonymity. To become invisible. As a person that overthinks and its over-aware, it's freeing to lose the trappings of bumping into someone you know. You can just be.

At half past midnight, we thought it was about time to catch some sleep. Steph and Vince saw me off in a taxi. In Paris, the taxi signs on the roof glow red when they are taken and green when they're free. It was only that night that I clicked as to what the colours meant. All the taxis we could see were red, so we hung around outside a sex shop before we flagged down a green one. I hopped in and Steph and Vince headed off to take the last metro back to the place they were staying.

This taxi ride was a complete one-eighty on the luxurious Mercedes from earlier that night. I was staying in a street called Cité Bergère, which is a little tricky to say in French because of the accented vowels, the slightly rolled r and the soft g, which requires a distinct pronunciation. I thought at this point that I had nailed it, but the taxi driver strongly disagreed. After repeating the street name half a dozen times, he was getting frustrated and not understanding what I was saying. At one point, he said "Champs Elysees?" to which I adamantly shook my head. I was not about to pay a lot of money only to be taken to the completely wrong side of town. I went to open to the door to get out, but he said "No, no, no." I whipped out a business card from the hotel, to which he dramatically sighed and fumbled around for his reading glasses.

He was a large African French man, in his early fifties and came off a bit aggressive for a woman on her own in Montmartre at night. Finally, he could read the name. He sighed again and lectured me on how to say the street name "Cité Bergère" with a stronger accent than I had. He then repeated the street name over and over on the way to my hotel, shaking his head in that "bloody tourist" kind of way the French do. He kept gesturing at me to keep repeating after him again and again in a ritualistic loop the whole way back. The only thing stopping me from getting out of the taxi was the concern that I wouldn't find another one.

Finally, I made it back to my hotel and I got out of the taxi as fast as I could. I wanted to shake off that experience and move on. Not a great end to the night, but an unforgettable trip.

DAY 7

##

Day 7 was a Wednesday. Today I would go to four art galleries and they would all stun me in their own ways.

It was the second day of my two-day pass on the red bus. From my hotel, I headed back down to the nearest stop, revisiting the lovely Opéra district and Palais Garnier. It was mid-morning, but the city was still waking, slightly sedated, adjusting to the new day.

People say Paris is dirty, but I didn't see it. As I walked down the street, cleaners were working hard to tidy the paths with their machines and hosing them down. From what I could tell, they took great pride in making their city look chic.

By now I was settling into Paris, and owning my independence of travelling on my own. The persistent knot in my stomach that often accompanies my ongoing anxiety has eased. I felt settled and free. Some people think the idea of seeing great things on their own and not having anyone to share them with is the hard part of travelling alone, but I disagree. I can deal with enjoying things on my own, in a quiet way at my own pace. What worries me is getting lost, getting sick and not having anyone watching your back. Those scenarios are the ones that cause me angst. But, if you think about "what could happen" too much, you might just talk yourself out of a trip. You've got to take the plunge anyway. I've found that all too often, the worst things happen when you least expect it. Plus, once you take out travel insurance, everything else is pretty much out of your hands. At some point, you have to accept that you can't control this world, you have to go with the ebb and flow and do the best you can with it. Of course, it takes time for someone with anxiety to accept this way of looking at the world. Like removing a tattoo – a painfully slow process. If you've spent the best part of the last two years getting wound up in a web of fear it takes time to recalibrate, shape new thought patterns and change your ways.

First up, was Museé D'Orsay. I had glanced at this building while I had stood on the same lovelock bridge I had been on a few days before, adjacent to the Tuileries Gardens.

I had expected the Museé D'Orsay line to be long like it was the last time I had passed it on the bus. Not today. After 10 minutes, I was in, with a combined pass to skip the line for their sister museum - The Orangerie.

Museé D'Orsay is a grand building, loyal to its roots as a train station. It has an elevated platform perched over the main gallery. Straight across at eye level is one of the many clocks you will see here. The architectural style is called Beaux-arts, which translates to fine arts or beautiful arts. It's a neoclassical style taught at École des Beaux-Arts in Paris. With an ostentatious look, it blends elements from classic Grecian and Roman architecture such as columns and arches, with Renaissance flourishes like lavish embellishments of flowers, swags and medallions. There are several Parisian buildings with this style from Palais Garnier to Grand and Petit Palais to Pont Alexandre Bridge at its most dramatic.

Saving the best for first, my main draw was to see their impressionist exhibition upstairs. On the way there, I passed the Ours Blanc, the polar bear sculpture by François Pompon. Made from cold hard stone, this bear is larger than life. It is also one of the iconic pieces housed in D'Orsay. It's a modernist interpretation of a polar bear with smooth, clean lines. Simplified. Minimalist. The bear is soft but not cute, curious but still regal.

As I entered the impressionist exhibition I was greeted by one of the large clock windows, which overlooks the city below. The clocks can be seen from the street outside, but it's the view from the inside that people go to see. The roman numerals on the clock go back to a different time, and retain the history of the building. Through the windows, you can view yet another angle of this picturesque city. All within view are the Sacré Coeur, the Tuileries and the Ferris wheel as well as the Louvre for good measure. It's no surprise that people gravitate to this spot for pictures.

On to the exhibition. Monet's great pieces were scattered amongst other impressionist greats, palettes of bright colours pattered by broad brush strokes. Impressionism also lends itself to the surreal, changing shapes and making scenes dreamy and fantastical. From gardens to snow covered hills to oceans, the impressionist lens makes these scenes into something unique.

Downstairs, there was more to see. There were architectural sketches of the Notre Dame and Palais Garnier before they were built. To envision such buildings is truly genius. Like in the Louvre, there were also paintings so large they comfortably owned a room, becoming a gallery of their own.

Downstairs, I came across Van Gough's Starry Night. The room was stuffy, with clusters of people crammed in, all jostling for a view. A couple of women behind me remarked on the way the painting really did look like it was sparkling, catching the light. Pictures in books do this painting no justice – the texture and depth needs to be seen by the eye.

Afterwards, I headed to the balcony that overlooks the atrium. This grand hall is the beating heart of Museé D'Orsay. The curved glass awning lets in natural light and lifts the space. From up here, you can see the detail in the ceiling, from wall to wall; every inch of this place had character. It's an open and airy space with depth. There are staggered levels, terraces that rise off the main floor without compartmentalising the space.

The Orangerie was a different story. The line was long and the wait was longer. Luckily my combination pass from D'Orsay let me skip the queue. Like the Jeu De Paume, these galleries are long buildings but not wide, they stretch back and fold out into different rooms. The Orangerie was all about Monet. His large panoramas of water lilies were featured in oval rooms. In the middle, hushed art-goers assembled on the couches and took it all in. I can still picture the lilies if I close my eyes, those swirling palettes of Monet.

The next stop was Grand Palais, a vast mountain of a building that is truly inescapable. Its large dome can be seen from many spots in the city, flying a French flag at the top. This large building has at least three entrances that I know of. The one I was looking for was right around the back, past the gardens, past the fountain. The line started at the foot of a grand exterior staircase that led to the building. I was there to see Bill Viola, a video artist whose posters has been everywhere in Paris. I hadn't seen much video art in Paris so far, and wanted to see what it was all about.

At first look, the line didn't seem too long. Thirty people or so. But it moved slowly. They only let about six people in at a time and about 15 minutes between each group. It was hot and we were sweltering to say the least. It must be worth it, I thought. If everyone was waiting so long. After an hour and a quarter, I had waited so long, there's no way I could leave now. I just missed on the last group but 15 minutes later it was my turn.

It was nice and cool in the building. We headed up escalators and stairs and entrances. It was an Alice in Wonderland-like journey to try and find this exclusive exhibition. We entered a dark room with a light projection which changed shape with every angle you viewed it. It was really creative and stimulating and got you thinking about the interpretation of time and space.

And then things got weird. Really weird. Room after dark room played these long videos (most were 30 minutes long) where nothing happens until the last minute. For example, one video depicted a man staring at the screen in black and white, in close-up. Just staring and breathing and hardly blinking. At first I didn't realise that anything was going to happen at the end so I just sort of walked off to the next room and as soon as I turned the corner I heard some noise. I went back and watched the whole thing again to see that at the end the man suddenly moved and made a "ah!" sound which was kind of like a "boo" when you're trying to surprise someone.

The rest of the exhibition displayed variants of this same idea. Two people walking across a desert for 30 minutes, starting far apart and then gradually walking next to each other. A person sitting in a room and moving from the bed back to their desk. No wonder the line was long, if people truly watched each piece for its entire duration, they would have been there for hours.

The final piece was huge, much larger than the rest. There were video projections on each of the four walls of the room. People sat on the floor and glanced from wall to wall, side-to-side, front to back. The main one was the one at the front, as it was the largest. Each wall had something casual going on – from people sitting on a boat, walking through the forest, walking down the street. It all seemed rather innocuous. Well, I sat there for 25 minutes and nothing happened. The characters didn't talk, barely breathed, and just repetitively did the same thing over and over again. It was truly a lesson in patience; it verged on hypnotic. Finally, I figured that maybe nothing was going to happen this time and got up and walked away. Well, as soon as I left the room something happened. I heard a scream and a crash and then a lot of running water. I went back in and the main video projection of people walking down the street in front of a red house had evolved into something else. Now, the house was gushing water and the actors screamed and ran away. Over the next ten minutes the steady gush of water intensified into a full-on waterfall coming out of the front door to a slow stream trickling down the stairs. It was unforgettable I will say, although I still don't quite get the intention. With art, there is always a message but for me, this one was lost in translation. For me, it was the kind of art that needed someone to explain it to you. Dazed and thoroughly confused, I meandered out of the exhibition in a post-haze, getting my mind around what I had just seen.

And then for something more traditional, I crossed the road to see the Petit Palais. In a similar style to Grand Palais, the Petit Palais is smaller, more detailed and intricate. It really isn't petit though; it is a generously large gallery over two levels with an idyllic courtyard with a garden café and peristyle columns for days. Of course, the classic Parisian lamp posts were at the street side, with those curled tendrils that create romantic shadows on the footpath.

With a decadent gold gate at top of the staircase, this entrance spared no detail. Inside, the ceilings were bordered with white frames that enclosed murals that were a murky blue and dusty grey with a touch of purple, featuring angels among other surreal imagery. I took a look at their Paris 1900 exhibition that was on at the time, a glimpse through art that defined a decade, from painting to sculpture to vases and other eclectic pieces. Although I appreciated the work, it was truly the building I loved.

I had hoped to catch Steph and Vince one more time before they left to go to London, but it was not to be. So, after a long hot day, I meandered back to my hotel, stopping at Exki on Boulevard des Italians to have a healthy fresh salad. Although I love the bread, the pastries and the charcuterie in Paris, I was craving fresh food, especially vegetables. I'm not a vegetarian, but most of the time I like to eat like one. Paris has some cute salad shops like Pret a Manger, where you can get wraps and fresh fruit salads. I ended up going there quite a bit.

Paris also confirmed what I had already thought – McDonalds and Starbucks rule the world. Especially McDonalds. Here, there were plenty. It seemed like there was one on each street. There was even one inside Galleries Lafayette. And yes, I did go there at some point or another, because sometimes you need that comfort food when you're in a foreign country on your own. That familiarity. Of course, there are certain items that change here and there, but the staples remain the same.

I took a different route to my hotel than I had prior, and on my way noticed a beautiful cinema, Gaumont Opéra, one of Paris' special treasures. With a bright red sign, this cinema sits on the corner of Boulevard des Capucines and Rue de la Chausseé d'Antin. Up top is a large green dome with a flagpole, and below, those little terraced windows. And the layer below that had large columns with film posters between each. I was incredibly tempted to go to a French film, but I wanted to have some chill out time.

I spent the evening journaling my day and going through my photos. I was slowly realising that my digital camera card was almost full – I had to start backing up so I could take more photos. Lesson learnt – don't take a million photos of the same thing. It will save you time in the long run.

DAY 8

##

Where time had once stood still and barely moved, now it flew past me so damn fast. Of my 12 days in Paris, I was already three quarters of the way through. And I still hadn't been to the Louvre yet. Today I would.

What I had realised so far was that Paris is truly a wonderland with all its architecture, gardens, cuisine and language. To me, Paris never disappoints. In fact, everything is even more special that you could imagine. And for a dreamer like me, I certainly know how to hype things up. Just when you think you've found your favourite building, or your favourite café or patisserie shop, you find something even better. That's Paris.

But first – photo session. I went from corner to corner of the courtyard, every angle to take photos of the Louvre. To think that the pyramid entrance was built only in 1989, and is now so iconic it's hard to imagine that it once didn't exist. There are also three smaller pyramids which are fun to use for photographing, playing with the proportions and visual planes. There really isn't a bad angle, or an original one either when photographing these pyramids and the historic building beyond.

My Instax camera was my daytime companion, taking Polaroids here, there and everywhere. And Instagramming too. I remembered how much I used to love photography, especially that black and white style. I had taken photography in high school, even won the trophy in my final year but since then left on the backburner. Let's face it – photography is not an easy career path to take.

I think what you photograph says a lot about who you are. What you focus on, what's important to you. Those who take lots of photos of themselves are obviously a touch narcissistic; people who take photos of their friends and family are invested in their relationships. I tend to take photos of culture, architecture, and pastries, but the thing I take photos of most are the little beautiful things or moments that accent my day and make it something special. That's what I like.

I had been warned about the queues for the Louvre and how there was an underground entrance at the mall nearby. But I just couldn't bring myself to go in that way and miss the fun of entering that prismatic wonder, the large triangle that dominated the square outside. To me, that was part of the adventure.

And after all of that, the line was a breeze. It wasn't that long, whizzed through like clockwork. Another small line at the ticket desk and I was in. What I didn't expect was the heat inside the prism entrance; like being inside a greenhouse. The temperature must have gone up five degrees as we slid our bags through the security check. The view of the world outside through the prism became slightly distorted and ethereal.

There was once piece I wasn't going to miss. So, I headed straight there. There were signs but once you saw the room with a huge mosh pit of people, you knew you had made it. It took about 10 minutes to get to the front, and even then it was hard to get a clear shot without a hand, a shoulder or a cellphone in the way. It took several tries but I got a good one. People were angling themselves in all directions, trying to get a selfie with Mona Lisa, despite her being safely behind a wooden barrier. And all the while, amused, she smiled amidst the chaos.

The Louvre is full of levels and passageways and corners beyond corners beyond corners. Every room and every hallway is the epitome of luxury, once the royal palace before Versailles was built. The art is grand, so large that some oil paintings monopolise an entire wall, or even an entire room. The variety is overwhelming. It pays to see what you want to see and skip the parts that don't grab you. Besides the exquisite Mona, I enjoyed the Greek and Roman sculpture gallery. The space was perfect for sculpture, with endless light streaming through the glass ceiling into an indoor plaza. There were several levels and staircases, which separated the art into different segments. The sculptures were of a variety of things – from gods to monsters, to cherubs and flying horses, women and children, warriors and goddesses. Each piece was stunning in its own right. But the collection as a whole, in such an airy space was what made it stand out from the other galleries for me.

Here and there, you would find an open window overlooking the courtyard below. The triangular fountains below could be appreciated better for their shape and geometric form. People were just tiny ants compared to this goliath of a building.

Galerie d'Apollon was also something to behold. A gallery of portraits, it spared no detail and every inch of the room was covered. It was simply a tunnel of gold and paintings, from floor to ceiling. Completely captivating. It was a model for the hall of mirrors in Versailles, which explains the similarities in its resemblance.

Art after art after art. You truly have to pick your favourite parts and take your time with them, rather than try to cover a lot of ground. When you visit the Louvre, you must accept the fact that you will never see it all in one visit. Even though every fibre of you wants to. All the more reason to return to Paris. I will say that the Louvre is intense, both for the amount of people and the amount of art. It's almost like a portal to another universe, you get enveloped in it all and time doesn't exist. At some point, you have to wrap it up. I grabbed a late lunch in the Louvre café and left.

After passing it the other day, it was now time to see the Notre Dame in the flesh. It was a hot day with little shade and in peak tourist season, the line was long. Before joining, I took some photos from the front, straight on looking at its western façade, dominated by a central rose window. I couldn't wait to be on the other side of the window and enter through those doors.

The gothic roots of this Notre Dame are dramatic and daring, but what I admired was the way the shape of the cathedral changes as you view it from different sides. It could almost be a different building when you see it from the back. With the flying buttresses that jut out, versus the flat, square shape of the entrance is a vast contrast. Those flying buttresses are an architectural feat, being both structural and ornamental. Completed in 1345, the Notre Dame has lived in Paris for decades while the city continuously evolved around it. The serpent line wriggled its way through the square, almost to the back. Nearby, buskers were putting on a show, pigeons digging for scraps and tourists figuring out the best angle for their photos.

This line moved quick and hardly paused for breath. A scrawny woman cloaked in black with a worn face begged in French for money as each person moved past. A troupe of girls asked for money for a deaf society, which seemed like a scam, although one couldn't be sure.

Past all the commotion, I entered the double doors. It was calmer and more ordered inside. From every direction, I heard shushing to respect the sanctity of the space. Those rayonnant rose windows were what everyone came to see. They were like large flowers, with petals upon petals surrounding the centre point. Partitioned into hundreds of fragments. Appearing to glow, capturing the natural light and spinning it into a kaleidoscope of blues, reds, greens and yellows. Far more detail was present than you can see with the eye. On the south rose window, under the rosette, I could make out the sixteen prophets. Each with their own segment, a heavenly court in its entirety.

I continued the lap around and completed a second one to see it all again. This time without taking photos. The whispers echoed in all directions, bouncing back and forth due to the enviable acoustics the high ceilings and wide domes offered.

Afterwards, I eyed up the line for the rooftop. It went on and on like the never-ending story. Because only a handful of people could go at once, and probably spent quite a bit of time up there, the line multiplied by the minute. Just when I thought it had ended, it continued. Wise tourists had bought a sandwich to scoff while they waited in line. Although I had dreamed of seeing those gargoyles and that view, I could tell it might be hours before I got there. You can't do it all.

Instead I did a loop around the back of the Notre Dame. It was much more subdued, with only a few people here and there on the footpath. Below, people lounged in the warm day with a front row seat at the Seine. From Pont de la Tournelle, I took photos of the back half of the Notre Dame, with that elevated spire and the Seine in the foreground. And a Polaroid for good measure. I leaned against the bridge and saw my photo come to life. The sky coloured itself the brightest blue against the steely grey Notre Dame. I tucked it safely inside my bag.

By late afternoon, the Seine stalls were all go. Old books and knick-knacks, vintage goods and touristy junk were on show. Stallholders flittered around making adjustments, or simply sat on a chair and flicked through a book. What I had seen in so many watercolour paintings had come to life and was just as much a reverie.

Like a mirage, I could see Pont de l'Archevêché shimmering in the distance. Another romantic lovelock bridge, I had long admired it before I arrived in Paris. To me, this bridge was more spectacular than Pont des Arts because of its view of the Notre Dame in the same eyeful. Yet when I got there, not many tourists were around, making it a bit of a secret.

I had yet to board a Batobus and could wait no longer. There was a stop across the Seine from the Notre Dame. This side view encompassed the entire length of the Notre Dame, from the belltowers at the front to the spire in the middle. The western façade below, to the back with those flamboyant buttresses. Lush green trees guarded the church and climbing fronds graced the brick walls of the Seine.

The Batobus was another lens, another view of the city. From below, I looked up at the Parisian world surrounding me. The boat started by circling Île Saint-Louis before heading back towards the Louvre. People sunbathed on the steaming hot banks of the Seine. Some children waved, some people waved back. I saw buildings I had not yet set eyes on, like the Hôtel De Ville, a Renaissance style building which was a site of historical events such as the French Revolution. Later I remembered I had quickly passed the building when dashing down Rue de Rivoli a week ago. But this angle was far superior to what I had seen that grey day. These grand buildings are often better appreciated from a distance, so you can see them in their entirety. Then back past Notre Dame, under the bridges, past the bustling streets and endless magic. It was a moving panorama, a recap of Paris' best.

I didn't do the whole circuit, opting to get off at the Louvre. I climbed the steps onto the banks overlooking the Seine. An artist leaned on the wall, crafting a sketch of Paris. He pictured the city in stark black and white, with a dozen pieces propped up, of all the landmarks. The Tour Eiffel, The Louvre, Notre Dame and L'Arc De Triomphe with bright red trees on either side. He also had a sketch of that street I had encountered which offered a peak at Sacré Coeur between Parisian buildings.

I stopped off at a ticketing office and bought a day pass to Versailles. Tomorrow. Couldn't wait.

One more thing to sort on the way back. By this point my poor feet were very blistered, which I can deal with. But the swelling, bruising and pus needed some attention. I had now figured out that chemists were beneath the large neon green crosses. One was two streets away from my hotel.

I had a quick look around the shop; on the off chance I could spot something on my own. No way.

"Parlez -vous anglais?" I asked.

The girl shook her head and pointed to her colleague at the counter.

"Savlon, s'il vous plaît?"

"Non." She replied.

"Antiseptic cream?" I ventured.

"No cream. Only spray. Here." I had never heard of a spray, but figured that anything would help so I bought it and prayed it would.
DAY 9

By now, my sun-kissed skin had become light olive, courtesy of my Croatian heritage. My shoulder length dark hair had glimmers of gold. My legs were more toned from all the walking. Most importantly, I had decided that I wanted to stay forever.

Versailles. Even the word lends itself to a dreamy whisper. I had to see it for myself, see the impeccable gardens, the gold gates and the decadent palace.

Our tour bus was air-conditioned which was a gift in the sizzling thirty-four-degree summer weather. There were only about a dozen in our group, so we all stretched out in the bus as we rode out of the city. The Parisian apartments became houses, the streets more suburban, less glamorous, more real.

The tour guide was a girl in her early twenties, who had perhaps done a few too many bus tours. She was effortlessly cool, a little cynical and very blasé. This was by no means a guided tour, but rather an easy way to get to and from your location rather than figuring your way with public transport. Her goal was to get in and out as fast as possible. As we walked up the cobblestones towards the golden gates, she herded us to walk faster. Of course, everyone ignored her and snapped photos, pointed at the building and chatted away. Luckily, we got to skip the epic line, trailing far into the distance. We went in the side entrance for groups, waited five minutes for our audio guides and we were off. Our tour guide repeated the instructions to meet later, fielded the usual questions and took off. Now we could go at our own pace.

It was busy inside the Château de Versailles, everyone wandering in different directions, with their audio guides to their ears like cellphones, trying not to bump into anyone else.

The altar was gold on gold on gold. Skies with cherubs were pictured on the vaulted ceiling. Everyone crowded around the doorway, after which we could go no further. Everyone jostled for photos, and I had a sense of déjà vu, like in front of Mona Lisa. The chapel was tall, about two stories high. It was long, but not wide, almost an oval shape. Long columns held up the painted ceiling, beside that it was white and gold. The organ was so well restored it looked new.

Opposite the chapel was a merchandise stand, a bizarre juxtaposition of history and consumerism. It sold books, stationery, toys, postcards and pocket mirrors all styled with French Baroque flair of Versailles. A cluster of silver glittering pens called my name. Called Swarovski pens, they have a sparkly diamond like tip, catching any thread of light available. This was the first of these pens I had seen, but later on my trip I would realise that they were the latest pen-trend for tourist memorabilia, seeing similar styles in Venice and Rome.

Then I moved onto the grand hallway with its checkerboard floors and statues of historical heads. This was the hallway featured in Marie Antoinette, a film directed Sophia Coppola. With a modern twist, this film followed the queen through her historical years and had exclusive access to film at Versailles. Kirsten Dunst had dashed down that hallway as Marie in an amazing turquoise gown sealed with a maroon belt at the waist.

The Hall of Mirrors. Sheer opulence. Deep purple murals and chandeliers with gilded bronze trimmings. So many reflective surfaces it felt like the room was twice its actual size. The mirrors had slight signs of aging, the glass foggy and distressed in patches. The hall was bustling and full, and I felt myself swept along with the current of the crowd. I managed to extract myself and wandered back and viewed it all again. In the 17th century, mirrors were an expensive item to possess and symbolized opulence at its finest. In that vein, it makes perfect sense that Versailles would have a hall dedicated to mirrors.

Before I went outside, I had to make a stop at Angelina. Versailles had its own Angelina tearoom, but I didn't go for tea. As usual, I went for the sweet stuff. I went for a French classic, mille feuille. This was my second mille feuille in Paris, after the one I had from a bakery on Bastille Day. This one had vanilla custard with fragments of vanilla pod speckled through it. On the top was a thin piece of chocolate with Angelina in edible gold. It was richer and more generous in size than the other piece of mille feuille I had eaten, so much so I couldn't finish it. I took my final bite as I looked over my shoulder to the Versailles grounds outside.

A few minutes later I was on those grounds, the sun so strong I could feel it radiating into my soul. It was a panorama of pure bliss. From Versailles Palace, to the gardens, to the ponds, to the statues. The Grand Canal, like a sheet of glass or a mirror of water sat at the end in the distance.

The Orangerie is a hidden garden in the Versailles manor, revealed when you step up to the edge of a balcony on the side of the palace. I had seen images of it before, of the sculptured grass, of the pond in the centre. The curled patterns in the grass were dotted with orange trees, offering symmetry of complete precision. At the time, it was built, oranges were an expensive luxury. They soon became symbolic of nobility.

In the distance was a huge pond named Pièce d'eau des Suisses, named after the Swiss guards who excavated it between 1679 and 1682. At 15 hectares, it is second in size only to the Grand Canal, which is 1,500 metres long and 62 wide.

It was time to grab some lunch. Around a few corners in some groves I found a café that sold sandwiches and snacks. Feeling vegetarian, I ordered a cheese sandwich. Which was literally a piece of fresh baguette with large slices of cheese in it. That's it. But the bread was nice and fresh and the cheese tasty, so it was all good. The sandwiches in Paris are very simple, to the point. In NZ, there are far more options, with salads, dressings and garnishes.

I snacked and walked towards the Grand Canal. Even up close, it went on forever, endless waters. Like something out of a fairy-tale. People were in sailboats rowing along, making it more picturesque. I looked back at the palace in the distance, a character in its own right, royally overlooking us all below.

Besides the Orangerie, my other must-see was Petit Trianon. Marie Antoinette's getaway from the formality of the palace, tucked far away in the gardens, safely behind the gold gates. I was not the only one excited for Petit Trianon. Opening at midday, I joined the line that trailed past the garden café, back towards Grand Trianon. We were kindly shaded by tall trees that lined the footpaths. As I presented my ticket at the door, a charming French ticketer, a guy in his early twenties said "Bon journée," with a smile, meaning "have a nice day."

In Marie Antoinette, Petit Trianon was depicted as a sunny hideaway with quiet gardens and a relaxed atmosphere. To see the spot where Marie Antoinette had felt most at home, the place where she had sat, where she had climbed the stairs and played pool was something of a living museum. The black and gold staircase is another great feature, the bannister striking against the subdued beige hues. Beneath, the floor was tiled in green marble to reflect the colour of the gardens outside. The kitchen was simple and basic, far more so than the formality of the palace.

Petit Trianon was not large but it was filled with light and air. You could feel the relaxed atmosphere. Even the gardens weren't so ordered, the plants more floral and bright. It felt more organic and natural. Not many people ventured into the gardens. With petit flowerbeds, it was a subtle, feminine garden. There was a small pavilion at the end of the gardens, which could be seen from the tall windows of Petit Trianon. Tucked away was an even smaller green pavilion, perhaps only as large as one room. This is the Pavilion Frais, which was used as a dining room, where vegetables from the garden would be stored and eaten. I sat on a cement bench in the shade and listened to the birdsong. I could see the allure of this private getaway; it was idyllic in all the right ways.

Behind some trees, I noticed a building. It was a small theatre only to be seen through glass. It was a mini theatre, seating just under 100 people. Marie Antoinette was known for her love of opera so had her own stage. Legend says that Marie herself performed on that stage. I peaked through the glass to see the theatre. It seemed no one else knew of this little treasure hidden in the bushes as I was the only one there. I strolled beneath some tall trees that rustled beside me and back out into a clearing from where I could see Petit Trianon again.

The gardens of Petit Trianon are like a maze; structures appear from the bushes only when you turn a corner. I followed a path through the grass, not knowing where I was going, but sensing that there was something to see. Again, through the trees I saw the Belvedere Pavilion. A circular drawing room with eight sides, it perches above a pond below. The perfect spot, the sun flocks to the windows. It was empty and unfurnished, which made you imagine what had happened there. Did Marie Antoinette sit in the sun here? Play with her children? Host tea parties? It was a blank canvas for the imagination. The Belvedere was created in the neoclassical style, a more refined take on architecture, without all the bells and whistles of the Palace. The walls were gold and white patterned, the floor marble mosaic.

There weren't many people around in the grassy knolls and it in a way it felt like how it might have been back in the day without all the tourists. I wandered through warm grass to the outlook of The Queen's Hamlet. With a large pond at the centre, The Queen's Hamlet is a country style collection of houses. The houses have sloping roofs and rustic tones of browns and beige. Of the eleven houses surrounding the lake, five were for the use of the Queen and her guests. There were little gardens by each house with vegetables patches. On the edge of the lake was the Marlborough Tower, a beacon with a winding staircase to the top. Legend says that this is where the queen and her companions departed for rides or fishing outings. There were certainly a lot of fish in the pond. When I approached a bridge, I could see them writhing underneath, right by the surface in large groups.

I continued to follow the dirt path, hoping it would lead me back to Petit Trianon. Across from a small twisting river was what I came to know as the Temple of Love. In pure neo-classical style, it was a marble rotunda with a circular top and columns. In the distance I could see Petit Trianon. The spot of the Temple of Love was built so Marie could see it from her window. As I raised my camera to take a photo, a single white swan glided past. It was a lucky shot which captures the essence of Petit Trianon. A few other tourists noticed and started snapping, but by then the nonchalant swan was off into its own universe, down the stream and far away. Like it was never really there at all.

Afterwards I went back to Grand Trianon for a look. It was thirst-quenching weather, so hot I could see the heat rising into the sky. The gardens in the distance rippled in the waves of heat, a visual illusion. Outside, there were juice carts in the shape of giant oranges. I bought one and it was the best fresh orange juice I've tasted. Refreshingly cold with ice cubes. It gave me the energy to walk back into the sunshine.

Grand Trianon was a long one-story building of soft pink marble flowing throughout the building, a visual leitmotif. A bride and groom were having photos taken near the entrance. The black of the groom's suit and the white of bride's dress matched the black and white diamond tiles at their feet.

A blend of Italian and French architecture, Grand Trianon has those tall French doors that characterise Versailles. The marble patterns on the floors are what I loved the most. Especially the round room. With a black and white sixteen-point star made of marble in its centre, this room commanded attention. Around it was the red Languedoc marble, specific to Grand Trianon.

Inside were more well-preserved rooms, each with their own look and colour scheme. My favourite was the Louis-Phillipe family room, a nest of yellow. Yellow wallpaper, yellow chairs, yellow sofas and curtains. The brightness filled the room with a welcome spirit. It was a room where I could visualise the family gathering in the evening after dinner perhaps, to wind down before sleep.

Outside, the gardens were lush with the brightest colours. I wanted to take photos, but my digital camera was nearly full so a couple would have to do. I took a Polaroid of the building and gardens and watched it develop in the 34-degree sunshine. I could feel myself getting more tanned by the minute. Not a cloud in the sky.

The vastness of Versailles is incredible. There's no way to see it all in one visit. So much space it's easy to get lost. Especially in the groves. On my own I explored the groves of Grand Trianon, aiming to find a couple of spots on the map. I turned corners and threaded my way through openings, searching. Voices in the distance quietened and soon disappeared completely. I continued past a gardener a couple of groves away. The groves stood tall above me. They seemed to have enveloped me in its labyrinth. Now it was me, the groves and the sky. I retraced my steps to find the gardener but could not remember. I wandered whether Marie Antoinette had ever been lost in these groves, intentionally or unintentionally. And at dusk? It would be hard to find your way out. A plane flew over ahead. I must have been quite far out by now. I decided to abandon plans to find obscure structures on the map and find the masses. It took another ten minutes to hear faint voices return and another ten to find my way out of the grove maze.

It was now time for a trip on the Versailles train. My feet were begging for a rest and with such vast grounds you need another mode of transport to get around. The Versailles train was like a toy train come to life, with several carts and a driver wedged in behind the wheel. The little train looked adorable but was stifling hot. But when you looked around at this paradise, it was easy to forgive. A bunch of teenagers chattered animatedly, making everyone laugh at their jokes. The train dropped us off back outside the palace. I bought another water, priced like gold, and took another sweep of the Orangerie, the Grand Canal and the palace from the outside. Some stunning fountains by the Orangerie spread their cool mist.

There were some gardens on the opposite side of the Orangerie that I hadn't yet seen. With tall, cone-shaped trees and feminine sculptures, I had to take a Polaroid. I was sure getting through my Polaroids! Now it was the middle of the afternoon and time to unwind, having hit all the prime spots I wanted to see. I sat on the steps outside Versailles in a sliver of a shadow (they were hard to come by that day) and just gazed at the view in front of me that went on for hundreds of metres. I still had an hour or so before the bus arrived to drop us back to the Opéra district.

Soon it was time to go. I looked around one more time and said goodbye to Versailles. I went left the palace and was back onto the cobblestones that lead up to it. Now I had more time to appreciate the gold gates in all their opulent glory. It was almost like Charlie And The Chocolate Factory, those gates. They were like fantasy come to life. Behind them, a large clock presided over us all, lathered in gold like the palace.

A seat in the shade and a bottle of water while I took in the last view of Versailles from the outside. There were all sorts of people trying to sell you things at the entrance. There were about five African men selling the Eiffel Tower key rings, but with little luck. There were also two men selling scarves, one selling children's toys that flew in the air and about eight men selling water. They would holler "Aqua, aqua, aqua," at anyone going past. None of these people had permits, so when they caught sight of police, or thought guards or police were coming, they quickly covered their commodities and played nonchalant. About three times the water sellers put everything away and set it up again as soon as the coast was clear. It seemed like some kind of cult or something, the way the operation was run.

Our group just about collapsed when get got in the bus. The air conditioning was truly worth it on the hottest day I had encountered in Paris. This time we had a different tour guide, a guy in his thirties. On the way back, he introduced us to a few places round the city as we passed them. We saw the Paris replica of the Statue of Liberty. The original was a gift from France to America, in 1886. It sits on an artificial island called Île aux Cygnes on the Seine. One-Fourth the size of the original, its only 22 metres high. It faces west in the direction of NYC.

DAY 10

##

Today was the day I finally learnt the metro and in doing so, understood the simplicity of such a complex system. It takes time to get used to fast pace of the tunnels, where most people seem to know exactly where they are going.

I got off at Museé D'Armée. I looked back to the gold pegasus at Pont Alexandre and beyond that, I could see the dome of Grand Palais cushioned amongst the green trees. So often I had seen the view from the other side but now I was looking back from Les Invalides. On my way down Avenue du Maréchal-Gallieni, I spotted a Paris skyline that was postcard perfect. It had the tip of the Eiffel tower, a Parisian lamppost, an old apartment building and a leafy tree.

The streets were quieter on this side of the bridge. So much so, that I could briefly stand in the middle of the street to get a shot of the entrance to Museé D'Armee. After crossing the road, I walked up the askew cobblestone path to Museé D'Armee, The National Military Museum of France. Originally a hospital and retirement for war veterans, it took them off the streets and cleaned up Paris. Now it is a museum dedicated to the military history of France, a history filled with countless wars and conflicts.

This museum was not especially busy; I can only assume that perhaps people aren't as interested in the military history as they are the art and food of Paris. Inside, it was quiet, almost haunted with the presence of so much history. My footsteps echoed on the cobblestones in the inner courtyard decorated with bronze cannons.

I entered the armoury rooms. They were morbid and unsettling for me. This was historical stuff, dating back from the 13th to 17th century. Every type of armour you could imagine, armour for horses and children. There were large rooms behind glass which had a dozen uniforms staring back, frozen in time before charging at their enemies. Completely stoic. There were also swords, fighting tools, and weaponry of every type. The time it must have taken to make all this gear was mind numbing. The craftsmanship was unparalleled; no detail went unnoticed.

There were also collections of armoury from Chinese, Mongolian, Indonesian and Japanese civilisations. It was intriguing to see the difference in the type of materials and the designs, which reflected their culture. And then for the "contemporary" section, which was from 1871-1945. There were rooms and rooms of uniforms, badges, camping gear, rifles and every other military accessory you can think of. Red, white and blue were the main colour themes, of course. The museum had done a remarkable job preserving it all. Many of the rooms had mannequins wearing the uniforms, serious in the face of duty. The uniforms had such attention to detail; it was not just about practicality. You could see how military style coats spoke to the fashion industry; because of the clean-cut silhouettes, the buttons, and the geometry. In the more modern section of the 1900s, there were women's uniforms, a touch of femininity to a very masculine history. It is not as if there weren't women there during the wars, but in the documentation of such, they seemed to have become invisible and forgotten.

Now for the pièce de résistance - Dôme des Invalides. Tomb of Napoleon. My friend Georgia had told me it was a must-see in Paris. She was completely right. Like a beacon, I had spotted the gold dome shining from corners of Paris, from the Eiffel Tower to Pont Alexandre Bridge. Now I was right in front of it and could see all the detail up close.

Everything was quiet and echoed in the royal chapel. Continuing the theme of gold, a huge gold altar rose out of the marble floor. Decorated with gold cherubs and candelabras and marble pillars, it dominated the space. It was roped off so you couldn't get too close, but still close enough. Below were the cold tombs. The staircase behind the royal chapel lead to the tombs below. Napoleons tomb was a large wooden coffin; many times the size of a normal coffin. Like Russian dolls, there were coffins nested inside coffins inside coffins. A range of materials from mahogany, lead and ebony were used.

Up above Napoleons tomb, the dome was decorated with a fresco. The colour palette featured pale blue and soft pink hues. A gold gilded circle went around it and the windows below added light. This fresco was painted by Frenchman Charles de La Fosse in 1705 using the Baroque illusion of space - sotto in su, "seen from below." This uses a forced perspective that makes the flat ceiling look three-dimensional. I wished I could lie down and look at the ceiling, to look at it for longer.

Now for something lighter - shopping. I jumped back on the metro to go to the Champs-Élysées, all glamorous and flashy. The stores are large and have intricate window displays and bright lighting. The Champs-Élysées is a mixture of global chain stores, expensive luxury brands, fancy cafés, fast food, and cinema. The Louis Vuitton store on the corner had prime position for its spellbinding window display.

My first stop was Banana Republic. Then GAP, and some window shopping. H&M was so busy I didn't even try it. There were other cutesy stores with tea party dresses and floral tops. Every shop was so busy it was a question of whether it was worth the wait to even try the clothing on. Happy with having bought a few things, I perused a few more shops before taking a seat on the sidewalk for some rest. Although I do love shopping and clothes, when I travel I prefer to be see the buildings rather than shop. So many brands these days are global that I prefer to seek out things are unique to the place, like the architecture.

While I wandered through the hallways of the metro, a French woman stopped me, asking about which stop to take. I loved being mistaken for a Parisian. Unfortunately, my comprehension wasn't quite there so I replied, "je ne sais pas, désolé," "I don't know, sorry." A couple of times this happened to me at the metro on the street, people approaching me speaking rapid French. I liked to think that perhaps my Croatian features allowed me to blend in a little.

At the metro waiting area, I spied a small pack of gypsy girls eyeing up an Asian couple carrying Chanel bags. They meant trouble. It's disheartening to see the start of what is likely to be pickpocketing right in front of your eyes, but there's not much you can do. Unfortunately, carrying a prized Chanel shopping bag with you makes you an easy target. Couple that with catching the metro and you become gypsy prey. I had seen YouTube videos where girls use the busy metro to bump into people and steal their bags. I was constantly worried about this happening to me but luckily it never did.

To continue the shopping spirit of the day, I went in a shop I had passed many times on Boulevard Haussmann. La Halle. They had tall black mannequins in the window, dressed in fluoro clothing. The music pumped like a nightclub all day long, even at 10am in the morning. I was looking for a travel bag. The leather satchel I had with me was days away from breaking. I settled on a black bag that was a little larger and had some patent leather detail on it. It would be a good travel bag where I could now fit everything in without playing a real-life version of Tetris every morning.
DAY 11

Although I was feeling like I was coming into my own in Paris, finding my way and being an explorer, I did feel like some company. It had been a few days since Vince and Steph had left and a week since I had seen Janine. I knew soon I would be taking on Venice alone and it would be a week until I met Lucy in Rome. Today Janine was returning to Paris to catch up properly, as last weekend was more of a family trip.

I strolled out to grab a pastry and when I returned she has just arrived in the reception. She checked in her bag and then we were off. Janine wasn't much of a planner, so she was happy for me to decide on places to go. For me, the avid planner, I had plans and back up plans of places we could go. In Paris, you will never run out of things to do and see.

We jumped on the metro and found our way back to the lovely Rue Rambuteau. I told her about how I had found this street after visiting the Pompidou and pointed out the bakeries, cakeries and butcheries. There were a few fashion shops nearby so we had a browse around. One quirky shop girl was the delightful Parisian, full of energy and eager to please. She reminded me of the reception girl at my hotel, they both had that upbeat energy.

I told Janine I hadn't yet eaten at L'As du Falafel. The line was an easy forty people deep when I had first been past. We were so used to people coming up to us on the street asking for money and such, that we didn't realise that the man making his way down the line worked for L'As du Falafel. After saying no to him, he asked us why we were in the line if we didn't want to order. After the initial confusion, we ordered vegetarian falafels and chips. We paid and showed our ticket to the window to collect once we were at the front. The kitchen was full of people cutting vegetables, wrapping falafels and cooking the meat. It was a slick operation.

The tradition is to eat in the cobblestone street, holding your falafel like an ice cream, digging in with a plastic fork. We ate half on the street and found a small park a few streets over. We sat and digested while listening to birdsong.

We had a look at a few more adorable shops nearby, and afterwards found a street full of cards and crafts. Each shop had made their own journals or designed their own stationery. My favourite was a little shop called Pli Hop! run by a subdued man in his early thirties, tinkering away at the counter. Every pop-up card you could imagine was here. And they were all handmade and designed. There were also notebooks and bookmarks and other bits and pieces. There was a shelf with all the cards folded out. They pictured the Parisian landmarks mini-size - the Eiffel Tower, Sacré Coeur, Arc de Triomphe, Moulin Rouge. I spent ages perusing them all, trying to decide. I settled on a gold card that read "Paris" at the front. There were five layers that folded out. First, the "Paris" layer that had a couple kissing on a park bench with a dog beside them and the light of a lamppost above them. Behind was the Notre Dame with another lamppost. Beyond that layer was the Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower and Sacré Coeur in the hills. It was boxed in by a starry night sky with a crescent moon. I packed the card carefully in my bag, and would not open it and unfold it until I returned home to New Zealand.

It was time for some modern art. It had been wonderful to see all the historical art in the Louvre, D'Orsay, Versailles, The Orangerie and Petit Palais but now we would see the contemporary side of the Paris art scene. I had a taste at Jeu de Palme, Pompidou and Grand Palais but wanted to see more. There are many great spots for contemporary art in Paris, but we had to be selective. We decided on Palais de Tokyo and Musée d'Art Moderne – two sister galleries right next to each other. The east wing was Musée d'Art Moderne and the west wing was Palais de Tokyo. They were across from the Seine with a great view of the Tour Eiffel, a view I had first seen on Bastille Day. A couple of metro rides later and we were there. Nearly. We got a little lost; trying to figure out which direction we needed to go in. We saw some interesting buildings and climbed a mountain of steps, then descended those steps because it was the wrong way. Then it was suddenly in front of us. A wide plaza with a water feature in front, the building is Art Deco style, with large columns joining the two wings. A double staircase runs down to the water feature. On the sides are reliefs, sculptured murals with images of goddesses. On the fringes, homeless people camped outside in tents. It was a brutal reminder of the poverty in the world's most glamorous city.

Because we found the entrance first, we decided to start with Musée d'Art Moderne. One of the first exhibits we saw was the most memorable. It was called Sans Titre, which translates to "without title" \- untitled sounds so much better in French! By Philippe Parreno, it was about fifteen giant candles leaned against a wall. Like the candles you would use on a birthday cake, they were striped gold and white. At 5'4, I was only a few inches taller than the candles.

Then we walked into a weird and wonderful section with sculptures made from chairs, art house videos with screaming and distorted shadows and a shelf that looked like part of the wall but was actually art. As modern art does, it was the kind of work that tests your understanding and challenges your perception.

Musée d'Art Moderne has an extensive collection of cubism. Rooms and rooms of surreal paintings with distorted faces and places. This museum was the kind of space you can get lost in. Every room tends to look the same – white on white – so you can get a little lost if you're not concentrating.

Now for Palais de Tokyo. This place had a lot of personality and style. The ground level looked polished and fresh, but once you visited the exhibitions you saw another side. Downstairs was like a New York underground carpark. It was an adventurous, raw and industrial space that was dark and expansive. A true trendsetter in the art world, Palais de Tokyo is a renowned venue in the fashion industry, having hosted a number of runway shows.

I had often wondered how the name Palais de Tokyo came about. Tokyo is far from Paris, and I couldn't quite understand the connection. After delving deeper, I found that Avenue de New York was named Avenue de Tokio at the time it was being built. The street was renamed after the end of the Second World War.

On our way to the downstairs level, we were greeted by the sardonic message Life is a Killer by New York Artist John Giorno. It was a large yellow wall with white printed text on black. It was a simple piece but unforgettable. It makes perfect sense that John was a friend of Andy Warhol. He was the man who Warhol filmed sleeping in his famous short film Sleep, from 1963.

At the bottom of the stairs was a piece by Sheila Hicks called "Baôli" which was a playground of giant balls of coloured twine. People reclined on the bundles as if they were beanbags. Above, a lampshade of red and orange twine was the centerpiece. On the side was a large tapestry of white rope-like pieces that hung from the roof like curtains. It captured the essence of Palais De Tokyo – playful, bold and fearless.

Around some corners we found even more art, hidden down hallways that opened up to large rooms. There was a cluster of pieces by artist Charbel Joseph that operated as found art, art derived from aspects of reality. Untitled was a piece with men's black dress shoes with a thermometer in one of them. The laces were untied, styled just so. Also by Charbel Joseph was Drink Europa. What appeared to simply be a glass of water on a miniature shelf was in fact equal parts of 28 mixed mineral waters from 28 European countries. A glass of water that at first seemed so simple was actually a complex piece that would have taken much time and precision to create. And although I do believe that it is comprised of 28 types of water, there is no real way of knowing if this is true. The thought of doing such a thing definitely takes a unique perspective. That's the charm of Charbel Joseph. Taking instances of daily life and spinning them into delicate poetry.

More found objects rounded out the wing. A large mound of sugar slumped on the floor in a corner. Above it was a framed receipt from many years ago. We then entered an installation where all the floors and walls were white patterned with black shaped strips. The pattern was repetitive, yet random. This was Dual Air by Michael Riedel. I read later that it was an art bar, where people gather for lectures about art and such. He created the pattern from a voice recognition program. It was science meets art.

Down the spiral staircase we went to discover the depths of the basement. At the bottom of the stairs was a chandelier that made you look twice. It hung upside-down, yet the crystals managed to defy gravity. They hung upwards, straight as an arrow. Even when I looked closely, I couldn't tell how it was done. It was a clever mystery. We later visited to the bookshop upstairs, but not before passing by another eye-catching sculpture. Out of the ceiling were pieces of wood that morphed into an intertwining mass of brown roots. I had seen this picture while researching Palais de Tokyo, and it was just the same in real life. It was the size of a huge room, dominating the space. Called Baitogogo by Hernrique Oliveira, it was a permanent part of the building.

The restaurant inside, Tokyo Eat is also worth seeing. Decorated with spacey orange egg shaped lamps, it has an artistic edge. We hung out there for a while as we decided what our plans were for the evening.

We tidied up at the hotel and ventured out. I wore my favourite dress, ruby red with a pleated skirt. Janine wore a blue and white nautical dress. We did a stroll around the blocks assessing the bars and the food – it was hard to find salads, which I was craving. Of course, we ended up eating meat and bread. At Café Limonade on Boulevard Poissonniere, just around the corner. They had adorable coloured lamps and chairs set back from the sidewalk. The inside had a modern chandelier made from fairy lights. We ordered a charcuterie platter and a bottomless basket of bread.

We started with "Bonsoir," and attempted to order our wine in French, but the waiter didn't understand us. We had to fall back on our English, of which his wasn't too polished. Eventually we resorted to pointing at things and got there in the end. We wound down with some cheese and more wine and seeked out our hotel at dusk. Knowing that tomorrow was my last day in Paris was making me nostalgic, wishing I could stay for at least another month, if not a year. But Venice was awaiting me, and further ahead, Rome.
DAY 12

Today was a day for gardens. I would be spending the next day on planes and in airports, so I wanted to take a final breath of fresh Parisian air and make it last. We had a lot on our list for today. Now that we were better at using the metro, we could get more out of the day. Today, we were going to spend most of our time in the 5th and 6th arrondissements, across the Seine.

But first; Poilâne bakery. Janine was a big fan of this bakery, so much so that she visits it multiple times whenever she's in Paris. I've got a lot of love for bread, so it didn't take much convincing to get me on board. Out the metro and Janine was off, leading the way from backstreet to backstreet, easy. With pastries set against the window, Poilâne was warm and inviting. Its name was written on both sides of the entrance, in gold calligraphy with curls and swirls. I bought two mini croissants that melted in my mouth. Janine bought a pomme tart, with sliced apple at its centre. Embracing ourselves as tourists, we took photos outside the store window.

From there we frolicked down the streets, looking at all the gorgeous clothes inside the shop windows. Most shops wouldn't open till 11 or midday. We walked down a few wrong streets before we found Bon Marché. Hidden behind lofty trees in Square Boucicaut, we saw the top of the building peeking through the gaps. Bon Marché is a grand magasin, a large mall with all the designer clothes you can imagine.

Of course, we couldn't afford anything. But that wasn't what we were there for. We came first and foremost, to see the escalators. The French love a good mise en scène, which is why a mall in Paris is so much more than a mall. It's an opportunity to create architecture. The escalator in Bon Marché was designed by Andrée Putman. It's the soul of the building, the point where all other points meet. The escalator has four different levels passing each other, set underneath a large dome. The escalators crisscross, creating a large hollow diamond in its centre. The sides have white square tiles, which are lit bright from an unseen source. Behind are the designer shops, gleaming and sparkling.

We strolled through the designer lingerie, the shoes, past Miu Miu, Chanel and Prada. This place was in a three-way tie with Galleries Lafayette and Printemps for luxury goods. We ended up downstairs at La Grande Epicerie that was, in two words: foodie heaven. Gourmet food at its finest. In one corner, there was a sushi chef, making the most intricate sushi I had ever seen. Then there was the bakery, with every type of pastry you can imagine.

Around the corner there was a charcuterie and a delicatessen. And a mini café. We looked around at all the goodness of international quality – food from every country. Everything was delectable and I wished I had time to eat it all. We ordered coffee from the café before continuing down the streets outside. The coffee in Paris is not renowned, but for me it does just fine. New Zealand is all about coffee culture, and many Kiwis can't tolerate bad coffee. The Parisians didn't seem to mind, perhaps they aren't so caffeine-addicted.

After an unintentional tour around the back streets of the 6th arondissement, we found a way into the Luxembourg gardens. Past the Musée du Luxembourg and the Angelina café, we crunched along the footpaths, past a few sculptures. After appreciating the tiers upon tiers of greenery, we headed back near the Luxembourg Palace flowerbeds. Along the way, we found quiet areas where retirees chatted in French about their lives, where children danced around the statues and where fit men played tennis.

Soon enough we found the main stage of the Luxembourg gardens, where the main pond lies, surrounded by those classic green chairs. Layered behind were vibrant flowerbeds with lush pinks, whites, oranges and reds. I thought I loved the Tuileries but the Luxembourg gardens were stunning too. Janine and I took a seat and watched children with their sailboats puttering round the pond. As I looked on, it reminded me of how Paris is dripping with culture and characters – a story around every corner. Incredibly cinematic.

Janine and I took a few selfies, taking several tries to get one where we both looked good. I did look a little tired in the photos, after going hard every day in Paris, never letting up. I couldn't with so much to see.

There were a lot of guards around the Luxembourg Palace, patrolling alongside the flowers in their state uniforms. Navy pants, sky blue shirt and red-rimmed hat. The Luxembourg Palace is a Parliamentary building. Three stories high, this building takes over block after block of Paris streets.

These gardens had colour themes in different areas. The flowers by the front of Luxembourg Palace were canary yellow and blood orange, with a touch of indigo. Around the side of Luxembourg Palace were violet, white and mustard. The main flowerbeds in front of the sailboat pond had the most variety. Bright fuchsia was the star player, surrounded by maroon, soft yellow and white with sprinklings of apricot orange here and there.

Janine was settled in her chair, so I went off to explore the gardens a little more. I took photos with my cellphone, looking at the light, the shadows and different angles. Sculptures dotted each garden, often the centre point. My favourite angle was where I had Luxembourg Palace, the pond and the pink gardens all in one shot. In gardens like this, it was almost impossible to take a bad photo. All you had to do was focus, point and shoot and you'd have something special.

If you wanted to picnic on the grass, you weren't in the right place. Luxembourg gardens are all about the chairs. The gardens have subtle barriers, discouraging people from standing or sitting on the grass. However, it didn't stop some Asian tourists nearby, who has stepped on the grass for a quick photo. In a flash, a small guard got them off the grass, pointing energetically to the "don't stand on the grass" sign on their right. Parisians takes their gardens seriously.

Further beyond, there was a thirty-piece band tucked into a rotunda playing American bandstand music. After a listen, we continued around the gardens and found the Medici Fountain, built in 1630. A long basin with a sculptured platform at the end, it sat back in the shadows, under the thick trees. There was a large crowd and a big attraction to the fountain, so it was hard to get a proper look. There were so many sculptures in this garden; you could get lost trying to find them all.

After having seen people eating McDonalds in Luxembourg gardens, I was craving some of that naughty stuff. It wasn't hard to find a McDonalds in Paris so that's where we went. Sometimes you just gotta do it. McDonalds was always busy in Paris, so I guess they like it too. Or maybe Paris is always busy, everywhere. Janine and I took our cheeseburgers and fries and sat at the window, looking at the passers-by on the street. Soon, I whipped out my map to figure out how far we were from the Panthéon. By now my map was soft paper with creases in several directions, threatening to tear apart.

Next to us, a voice piped up. "You need any help with directions?"

Her accent was American. She was perhaps a couple of years younger than us. She was book smart, with straight blond hair and glasses.

"Do you know how to get to the Panthéon from here?" I asked.

Turns out, she didn't know how to get there. She hadn't been. But it was refreshing to chat to someone in fluent English. From Minnesota, Alison was an American in Paris, studying for a year. She told us how it was the best decision she ever made coming here. And that she had a lot more French to learn. Unlike some of the more brash Americans I had encountered on the bus tours, she was an intellectual, witty and clever. We told her we were both originally from New Zealand. We got the reaction you usually get – it was an epic journey to come from the bottom of the globe to Paris. We were a long way from home. At this point though, I was beginning to feel at home in Paris. Knowing my way around, feeling surer about myself. Isn't that the way, you find your groove just as you're about to leave.

We parted ways with Alison and wished her the best with her time in Paris. Turns out, the Panthéon was even closer than we thought. About two minutes away. Sitting at the end of Rue Soufflot, there it was. We were now truly in the Latin Quarter of Paris. The banner outside read Bienvenue – welcome.

Like so many historical buildings in Paris, this one was having a facelift. The dome was covered in scaffolding, wrapped in white. A large crane was at its side. At the base of the dome were black and white images of faces, courtesy of a street artist called JR. These prints were also found inside the Panthéon, both on the floor and the cupola, inside of the dome. Although I do love modern art, it was odd to find it at the Panthéon.

The Panthéon is all about open space, greatness and circularity. The floors had their own patterns, with black and white marble turning into squares, circles and diamonds. Huge murals covered the walls, visualisations of the lives of great French icons. There were historical figures flighting battles like true warriors, or symbolically standing at prestigious events. The paintings were full of royal blues and regal reds that popped out from the background. The walls were incredibly high; the Corinthian columns towered far above.

Joan of Arc, real name Jeanne D'Arc, became a heroine of France at only 19. There were four paintings, surmising her life in images. The first was Joan, a peasant girl at 16, presented with a sword by an angel. The next moves on in time, with Joan dressed in full body armour, waving a flag with an army at her feet and a castle in the background. The next shows Joan at the coronation of King Charles VII, again holding the flag in one arm and a sword in the other. The final painting depicts Joan tied to a stake, holding a cross and looking up to the heavens.

The domes also had exquisite detail. Inside one I took a photo of an angel kneeling in the centre. Then back out into the centre of the Pantheon were large white statues. Francois Léon Sicard named them La Convention Nationale. Arguably, the main work of sculpture in the Pantheon, it features soldiers on one side and the National Convention on the other. In the middle is Marianne, symbol of France. Marianne is a symbol of freedom, liberty and democracy and is embedded in French history and symbolism.

Soon we found ourselves in the mausoleum, the burial site of many famous Frenchmen and one French woman – Marie Curie. Voltaire, Rousseau and Rene Descartes were in the crypt and tombs beneath. There were a number of shadowy openings that delved deep underground. Cold and eerie, I didn't stay too long. I'm not into crypts and catacombs.

Back above ground, the Jardin des Plantes was our next destination. They weren't as artistic and pruned as the Tuileries or Luxembourg, but rather more natural and horticultural. These gardens were scientific, a preservation of different types of plants. Not that they weren't beautiful, but more an understated beauty.

Although I had considered going to the Ménagerie du Jardin des Plantes – an urban zoo in the middle of Paris – I thought I probably wouldn't have time. But Janine and I found ourselves drawn to the menagerie.

It wasn't a large zoo, but still it had quite a range of animals. A lot of the animals were shy today, hiding away. But one cat did not disappoint. It put on quite the show. A North Chinese Leopard, or in French – Panthière De Chine Du Nord – paced back and forth in front of the glass. It was in anger mode, with teeth bared. For about ten minutes it paced from one end of the enclosure to the other, right up against the glass. A group of school children couldn't contain themselves. The crowd grew larger and larger, until the leopard had enough. It disappeared back into its enclosure. Just like that. The crowd dispersed quicker than wind.

There was a small group of school children on a trip to the zoo. Trying to gather the children together to enter the snake enclosure, the teachers called "On y va, on y va," meaning "let's go." This phrase took me back to my fifth form French class. Our teacher used to call the same phrase to get us to quiet down each morning.

The other animal out in full force were the flamingos. The group of twenty-five strong clustered together in the middle of their grassy enclosure and stood on one leg with their head tucked in. They were a softer pink than I would have thought. And more delicate and fragile too.

Gathered together on a large piece of wood were the most adorable furry animals I had seen in Paris. Renard des steppes. Also known as a Corsac fox. Unlike the well-known red fox, these ones are much smaller in size, with finer features. Their fur was a sandy brown. Foxes are my favourite animal, so to find a new kind of fox was a welcome discovery. They intently gazed off to the side, never looking my way. They knew I was there, but they didn't mind, notice or care. They were agile and swift, but once they were in a spot, they didn't move.

Further on, there were some daim – deer. They were far in the distance, gathered together. But even from the distance you could see their dainty whimsical beauty. They were real life bambi with those spotted patterns on their fur and those great brown eyes.

Approaching evening, it was time for some food. To Rue Rambuteau we went for pizza. I was our gps, guiding Janine. I had this instinct, remembering the little details of the streets. A crossing, a shop, a statue. And there we were. Back at Quartino. We ordered a couple of different flavours of pizza to share. This time, I had a friend to sit and share the experience with as we sat in looking out onto the street. Janine agreed it was definitely the best pizza in Paris.

We caught the metro back to Les Grands Boulevards for some cocktails at happy hour. We sat in the lively red chairs of Café Grévin – a place I had walked past, day after day and wanted to go to. The cocktails were très grande, far larger than I've ever seen. With fresh mint and lime green straws. We watched people along the street, the way Parisians do.

It was triste – sad – to see the sun set on my last night in Paris. But I had ticked something huge off my bucket list. Before this trip I knew that as long as I saw Paris in my lifetime then I would die content. Of course, there are other goals on there, like publishing my own novel, but Paris has forever been number one.

Back in my hotel room, I ritualistically packed up my things. After 12 days in Paris, I had certainly spread my belongings around the hotel room. My metro map was crumpled in a way that made me feel proud that I now knew my way around Paris, a total difference from how I was when I arrived on that rainy morning.

Tomorrow would be a 4am start with an early morning flight at the airport to catch. I had organised my taxi with the reception at the hotel and hoped I would be ready in time. I'm no morning person, and not a great flyer, so I prayed that everything went to plan. Checking I had my money, wallet, passport and tickets, I was as ready as I could be. Goodbye Paris, city of light. À bientôt, j'espère. Venice here I come.

Venice

DAY 13

I left Paris in the shadowy dark of the morning. Groggy, I told the taxi driver I was going to Orly airport. To which he replied, "Which terminal? West or South?"

Crap. I hadn't checked that part. I told him I was flying with Air Berlin, did he know which terminal they fly from? "No problem," he told me. It would be the West Terminal. And so we were off. Me feeling confident that I didn't need to comb through my bag to check my ticket.

I got out of the taxi and asked him again if this was the correct terminal. He assured me it was. Through the glass doors I went. With a weird feeling of distrust, I wheeled my suitcase from end to end, not seeing any Air Berlin signs. Eventually I found a helpdesk. The French woman was warm and kind, telling me I was at the wrong terminal. Then I swore and told her about my taxi driver. She pointed to the shuttle. It leaves every 10 minutes, she told me.

Up the ramp, round the corner, up the stairs. I just missed a shuttle so would have to wait for the next one. It was a free train that travelled above ground between the terminals. Clocks on the walls counted down the time till the next one arrived. It was fully automated, no driver, doors opening electronically. It felt spacey and futuristic. Only about four other people went on the shuttle, leaving the long carriage mostly empty. You had to move quickly to get your luggage through the doors before the zapped shut and moved on.

Having wasted nearly an hour already, I found another desk to point me in the right direction for check in. The rest of the check in went by in a blur. Passing by the shops, I just wanted to find a quiet spot to sit and feel calm before the flight. Back on track. It was only a short trip to Berlin. I love short flights, they are brief and to the point. It's the long-haul ones that get me. But either way, I always get concerned I might miss the plane. Today I was going from Paris to Berlin, then Berlin to Venice. To fly direct from Paris to Venice was about five times the price, so I went for the Paris-Berlin-Venice option.

The sweetest thing about Air Berlin is that when you get off the plane they hand out red heart-shaped chocolates. When you're flying, a little chocolate goes a long way.

I spent a bit of time perusing the shops in the Berlin airport, debating whether to buy a watch I didn't really need. I wanted to buy a little something from Berlin, but nothing was really catching my eye. Instead, I sat listening to my iPod and sipping diet coke and eating more chocolate for the next two hours. I really wanted to go see the city. The world outside the airport was a crisp, radiant day, and incredibly inviting. It's a destination I would add to my bucket list.

The fun thing about boarding planes at Berlin airport is that you have to jump on the shuttle bus first. If doesn't take you far, but of course with your luggage, it's best not to walk. We drove for a couple of minutes to our tiny plane on the tarmac. While the plane to Berlin had been smaller than international flights, this one was miniature. Only four seats across on each side, we were a light load. I could barely fit my cabin bag under the seat in front of me. Only an hour till we would be in Venice.

We touched down in Venice on a hot, humid afternoon. After picking up my suitcase, I knew I needed to find somewhere that sold bus tickets into Venice. Soon I found the queue. The next bus was leaving in 5 minutes so I rushed to locate it amongst the rows and rows of buses outside the airport. The one I was after was full up, but I managed to squeeze in. There was a scanner in the bus for tickets. Most passengers didn't realise how to use it. We only figured out half way through the ride thanks to a teen boy listening to his iPod. The bus took us from the airport through the bare-necked town, through to Venice as we know it.

As I stepped off the bus, I had no idea where I was. After all my planning for Paris, I hadn't even picked up a map for Venice at the airport. I quizzed a Parisian woman and her daughter as we all stood around looking in every direction, trying to figure out the way. Turns out, they didn't know much either, including how to read English. I read their English instructions out loud (their verbal comprehension was much better) as to how they could get to their hotel. They told me which number ferry to catch and soon enough I was on my own again. I hadn't really understood their instructions; I was still a bit disorientated with the mass of tourists at the bustling port. But I didn't want to hold them up so I nodded and waved them goodbye.

I stopped by a store a bought a good quality map of Venice. Now I had a map, I was feeling better about getting around. I still had no idea how to get to my hotel. All I could see was the huge mass of water, boats and historical buildings in front of me. It's a weird feeling not having roads and cars but instead boats, water taxis and waterways.

Before I made a move, I took some photos from the dock across the water and all the colourfully aged buildings that seem to hover on it. I then noticed a water taxi stand, looking sublime and glamorous. Water taxis are known as the limousines of Venice. I gave in. Fuck it, I thought. Let's do this.

Before I jumped in the taxi, I told the driver my hotel and asked how much to get there. I wasn't going through the Paris debacle again. I had to say the name a couple of times before he twigged where it was. My pronunciation was a little off, my rolled r's not quite up to scratch. I sure hoped he knew where he was going. He was a tanned European in his mid-forties, with aviator style sunglasses. Like all the water taxi drivers, he wore their informal uniform – a white shirt and navy shorts.

I felt like Angelina Jolie in The Tourist, as I leaned against the hood of the boat and looked out at the turquoise channel surrounding me. We were travelling at 60 miles an hour, heading to Canerggio. The driver went full throttle and started racing his water taxi opponents, easily leading the pack. It was one of the best decisions I made. Yes, it was pricey but it was completely worth it to have your own private tour of Venice

All the gorgeous orange, yellow and green buildings passed me by. I snapped about forty photos in the fifteen-minute taxi ride. There was so much to see, the Grand Canal being the epicentre of Venice. Venice is one of those places that has a picturesque look, so definitive and unique. It is a city that refuses modernisation, that relishes in its history and remaining true to it.

We turned down a side canal, getting closer. Off the main route, the pace was softer, quieter. It's amazing just how much quieter it was off the tourist trail. The canals were increasingly narrow, the buildings closer and closer together. We were now on Rio di Ca' Dolce. The canal could now only fit two small boats across or one large one. Small boats were docked on either side of the canal, narrower still. Accordingly, the driver dropped the pace and we chug along gently. A large yellow building was on our left. He pointed up at the sign. This was it.

I carefully stepped up off the boat and onto the dock. The driver lifted my 20kg suitcase and passed it over. Imagine if it had dropped into the water – I'm sure that must have happened to someone, somewhere, sometime. But in this case, it was no problem.

I had to remember I was now in Venice. I was so used to speaking French here and there, I almost said "Bonjour" when I arrived at my hotel. I checked in with the slightly grumpy hotel owner, and caught the lift to the same level as an American woman and her two teens. In the lift, she noticed the address on my bag.

"New Zealand, you've come a long way, haven't you?" she said in her Texan drawl.

"Yeah, it was 24 hours of flying to get to Europe." I told her.

"Goodness me, you must be tired," she sympathised. "Let me know if you need anything. We're just down the hall. And tell us if our kids are too loud," she joked.

My room was smaller than the one in Paris, a single bed instead of the comfy double I had slept in for the past 12 days. Still, it was a pretty room. In the favourite colour of decadent Venice, there were lashings of gold throughout and period-style furnishings. Gold walls, gold curtains, gold lampshades, gold duvet. The bathroom was huge, almost as big as the room itself. Maybe Italians like spacious bathrooms.

Like most people do when they check into their hotel room, I flicked on the television to get a sense of Italian culture. A black and white detective film played, with two men in suits rapidly speaking to each other, a dual of words. My Italian is weaker than my French, although I did study it at university. That was about five years ago now.

I set my things down and sorted out the essentials. I was only staying two nights so I didn't want to unpack more than I needed to. I had improved at the art of strategic unpacking so I took out the things I knew I would use and left the ones I wouldn't. I don't know why I had packed a leather jacket. It was far too hot for that, even at night.

I was itching to see Venice. I whipped my map out and figured out how to get to Rialto Bridge. The advantage of my hotel is that it was only a five-minute walk to Rialto; it was just a matter of how to get there. I drew my way on the map, and attempted to remember it so I didn't have to get it back out and look like a tourist.

I needn't have looked up the route. There are great signs around Venice for the main attractions like Rialto and San Marco. They are big black arrows directing you which way to go. I never used my map during the time I was there. I followed the signs and there I was.

You couldn't miss Rialto Bridge. Bustling with tourists, all vying for a good spot for a photo. I climbed the stairs to the top and looked over. The canal below was dark turquoise, the sky turning to dusk. The restaurants next to the river were starting to fill up, boats were coming and going from both directions. I took a Polaroid and let it develop while I continued to look at the view.

Now for some gelato to welcome myself to Venezia. I didn't have to go far. There was a place just by Rialto Bridge. Of course, there was a bit of a wait. The girl in front of me ordered a double sundae with two sauces, extra wafers and nuts. It was a monster.

I ordered a mint chocolate gelato and took a quick photo with Rialto Bridge in the background. The weather was so warm the gelato melted faster than I could eat it. I couldn't wait to go back and try some more.

Through the slim walkways, onto the cobblestone squares and past the lively shops I went. There were pizzerias, clothing shops, sweet shops, bags shops, scarf shops, mask shops and glassware shops aplenty. The windows were vibrant rainbows, full of glitter and sparkle. Then back over a bridge and another until I was near my hotel. I then headed in the other direction, towards the Cannaregio area.

There was a vast area of street stalls. With so much stacked and crammed together, it was hard to focus on one thing. It was all sort of twinkling at me at once. There were so many exquisitely crafted leather bags. Every shape, style and colour. I wanted to get one, but then I wanted to get another and another. I had to walk away and decide later. Tomorrow. Today's taste of Venice had me eager for more.

DAY 14

It was a bit of a jolt waking up in a different bed, having made Paris my home over the last 12 days. Then I realised I was in Venice, the floating city. What better place to be!

But first – breakfast. The breakfast in Italian hotels is recommended. With their own coffee machines that make every type of coffee you could desire, any kind of cereal or fresh fruit, yoghurt, pastries and snacks, they had it covered. The eating room was intimate, but most people didn't stay long, wanting to hit the town as soon as they ate their last bite. Soon I was off.

After my introduction last night, I had a better idea of my way around. I knew I wanted to see some markets. Past the Rialto Bridge and further onto San Polo for Campo Erberia, the produce market in Venice. As soon as I saw the fresh fruit stalls, I knew I was in the right place. Food became an art form in Venice, with all the appetizing displays. I wished I hadn't eaten breakfast so that I had room for the fresh produce. There will never be enough room in your stomach to eat all the beautiful food in Venice.

Campo della Pescaria. Scampi, prawns, eel, octopus. The seafood stall in the dark tent was buzzing. Money swapped hands and bags were passed on quicker than you could blink. These Venetians moved fast to make a sale. The fresh fish glistened while the people bartered over the goods.

This was all metres away from the Grand Canal. Across the river was Ca'D'Oro, house of gold or "golden house," as the translation goes. It's a tricky name to pronounce, you have to make sure you roll the r otherwise the Venetians will look at you blankly with no idea of what you're talking about. Once a palace from the early 1400s, it looks good for being a few decades shy of 600 years. In true Venetian style, it was built with gold on the walls. With what looks like a line of crosses on the rooftop and a similar pattern on the windows, the palace is a floral gothic style.

Across the canal was a traghetto stop. The traghetto is the cheapest way to get across Venice, besides walking. The word traghetto means "ferry" in Italian. These are large retired gondolas, ones without the luxurious trimmings. They are wood and wood only. The oarsmen are often a little more mature, one at the front of the gondola and the other at the back. They wear the traditional blue and white striped shirts. If you stand at the pier, you'll often only have to pay a couple of euro to get rowed to the other side. It's quite a feat, because usually passengers are asked to stand, and it's all an act of balance. First to assure that no one falls over, and secondly to navigate between the current, the boats, water taxis and general riff raff.

From where I stood, I could see a group of about a dozen tourists, lead by a ballsy blond woman. After a touch of convincing, they tentatively got in the gondola. Crowded in together, they swayed here and there with the currents of the canal. It was quite comedic, as you could tell they were a little concerned. They managed to make it safely to the other side.

Back towards Rialto, I spied more of the black arrows pointing to San Marco. Here and there I would go the wrong way, and would know I had, because the walkways would be quiet and tourist free. Then back on the trail and seeing another arrow spurred me further. I carefully took notice and memorized the places around me so I could easily find my way back.

As the bridges became prettier and busier, I had a good feeling that San Marco wasn't far. On the way was a shopping area and a busy canal with a lot of thoroughfare. Bacino Orseolo it was called. This opened up into a wide pool at the end, beneath the hotel Best Western Hotel Cavalletto spelled out in gold letters. The hotel was mustard coloured, with ruby shades on the windows and violet flowers in the window boxes.

Tourists flocked to the gondolas, the queue stretching long. Others, like me, watched from the sidelines as the gondoliers navigated the heavy water traffic. A lot of Asian tourists were reveling at the gondola experience, with big groups sightseeing together.

Then there were the masquerade shops. Some of the most beautiful masks I had ever seen. I wished I had a masquerade ball to go to in order to justify buying one. A lot of shops had signs discouraging tourists from taking photos. Of course, they usually did anyway. There are three main commodities of Venice: the fantastical masks, the succulent pizza, and the art of glassblowing.

Then around the corner and out in the open. Piazza San Marco. It felt like the world exploded in the best way possible. San Marco square is vast and staggering. The long buildings have a unique historical white-washed look, and each window looks identical to the next. The hundreds of windows stretch on into infinity, and are almost entrancing in their repetition. Then there is San Marco basilica itself in the beating heart of Venice. Although undergoing restoration, with scaffolding across the front, you could still see the majestic building beneath.

Into San Marco I went. Starting with the rooftop, a large group of us went up and up the steep, narrow staircases. At the top level, you paid a fee to visit the rooftop before going outside. It was completely worth it. The rooftop at San Marco is to be savoured. So many good angles. Firstly, there was looking out into the square itself. Then to the side there was the Campidoglio, and further still to the left was the azure ocean and San Giorgio Maggiore Island. And furthermost left was Doge's Palace. A view like this made me appreciate how huge the square was. People below were distant figures in the vast universe of San Marco.

Back inside, there were the Horses of Saint Mark, also known as the Triumphal Quadriga. A set of four bronze horses, they date back to the 1200s. Once outside San Marco, they now are inside for conservation purposes. All four horses have one foot lifted, ready to charge. Although bronze, they had turquoise patches, presumably a sign of the aging copper.

A contrast to the churches in Paris, this one was full of mosaics. Gold mosaics were the background for images of religious iconography, the architecture in Italo-Byzantine style. In Venice, gold is a symbol of wealth and power. Because of this, from the 11th century, San Marco has had the fitting nickname Chiesa d'Oro, "Church of gold." It was truly a sea of gold, a manifestation of gold. The mosaic walls shimmered like waves.

I knew I had to take something special away from San Marco. It would be rosary beads. I was raised as a Catholic, and so there's something beautiful and precious about rosary beads that I love. The accessibility to God, their simplicity. I deliberated for a good twenty minutes, going back and forth. Should I get a simple style, or a sparkly one? Or something different again? In the end, I went for white beads decorated with miniscule pink flowers. The amount of detail in each bead was extraordinary. Above the silver crucifix on the chain was an inscription of the phrase "Inri." In English, the acronym translates as "Jesus the Nazarene, King of the Jews." When I turned over the cross, the back simply had the word "ITALY." Made in Italy, that's something I'd like to see more of.

As I walked around, absorbing all the history, I thought about how it was interesting to see the way words morphed and changed from French to Italian. Many words had similar roots and you can easily see their similarities. For instance, a church is an Eglise in France, a Basilica in Italy. A Musée becomes Museo and Parc is Parco. Then there was the food. Paris was all about the patisseries, Italy favoured gelato as a sweet treat. Cheese as fromage changed into formaggio. Bread was pain then pane. Du vin to vino for a glass of wine.

After a wander behind San Marco I found a great pizza place. Rossopomodoro. It was just opposite a glass blowing shop and not far from a bridge. There were two parts – a formal restaurant and a casual style pizza place. This is where I went. They had simple tasty pizza that moved quicker than they could refill it. In fact, the one I wanted to order was gone by the time I got to the front of the line. No matter, every flavour was good. And it was still warm, fresh from the oven. I sat outside and munched away at the pizza while the Venetian world swished by. Overhead, at the doorway there were puffs of water that sprayed at regular intervals to keep patrons cool. I watched families and friends at the restaurant dig into huge pizzas. One family were so enthusiastic they ordered a huge pizza per person, struggling to fit it all on the table. I would have been surprised if they finished it all. But that's Italy. You just want to eat it all.

Then back through Piazza San Marco to see Doge's Palace. or in Italian, Palazzo Ducale. Created in Venetian Gothic style, it is one of the most visited landmarks of Venice. Venetian Gothic is nothing like medieval gothic – which is characteristically dark and brooding. Venetian Gothic is known for its lightness and grace in structure. The Gothic element is generally the shape of the windows, which are lancet arch windows, long windows with a pointed arch at the peak. Doge's Palace is a cream-coloured building with a rose tint, created by the diamond pattern of white stone and rose-coloured marble. This pattern draws on the eastern and oriental influences, which lend the building a more exotic Arab style. There are also Byzantine influences, which create this unique architecture.

This palace had many rooms and hallways; it was tricky to remember where you had been and where you wanted to go. There were many pieces of artwork in large, ornate rooms, decorated from floor to ceiling. Many of them were dark auburn shades and deep maroons. The inside had a heaviness that contrasted with the light and effortlessness of the exterior. There were many detailed oil paintings in those dark colours, with embellished gold frames. Then, on to more wings and chambers, with more exquisite art, I soon lost direction and hoped at some point I would find my way out. Here's what I learned it France and Italy – you can have too much art. To process all of the imagery and to truly take it in is overwhelming.

On the highest level of the building, there were windows with an even better view across the water and out to San Giorgio Maggiore Island. It sat on the serene water, the sun coating it in gold rays. No doubt it would have been featured in many pieces of art over the centuries. Out to the side of the building the windows opened onto orange brick rooftops, all sloping at different angles. If you leaned out the window, you could see the Bridge of Sighs.

But there is a darker side to Palazzo Ducale. One of the most gripping aspects of the palace was the prison. It was strange for such decadence to be upstairs and such a dismal place below. The cells were dark and shadowy and damp, truly uninviting. Some children jumped in the cells and pretended they were trapped, with a macabre sense of humour.

The tour ended with a walk through the inside of the Bridge of Sighs. Since the 16th century, the Bridge of Sighs has acted as a corridor between the two buildings – the prison and the palace. Legend decrees that it was the last view prisoners had, and thus they sighed as they faced imprisonment. I took a photo through the gaps in the concrete. Tourists on the bridge had their cameras aimed back at us, clicking and flashing.

Afterwards, I saw the exterior of Bridge of Sighs. From where I stood I could see the aged limestone in all its ethereal glory, as it had been since the 1600s. I walked along further; it was quite a touristy area with lots of street stalls. Gondola after gondola passed underneath the Bridge of Sighs. I took some photos of the gondoliers in their blue and white striped t-shirts, steering the boats under the bridge. There was no shade to be seen, everyone was perspiring in this hot quarter.

Let's not forget that Venice is a playground to the rich and famous. They gravitate towards the dazzling five-star hotels with views of the canals. Designer stores like Chanel were there for special clientele. It seemed like these impressive designer stores didn't really fit with the historical quality of this city built on water. It was very old world meets new world.

Soon I was off to see Pont Accademia – another well-known bridge in Venice with an unforgettable view. This bridge is made from wood, and one of only four bridges than span the Grand Canal. Originally made of steel, this was demolished and replaced. Then replaced again as the wooden bridge was in poor condition. Like in Paris, there were some lovelocks attached here and there.

I preferred the Accademia bridge view over Rialto. Maybe it was the calm of the area, maybe it was the candy cane poles at the side of the water, or maybe it was the colourful buildings and the brilliant sunshine.

Now that I had seen the main attractions, it was visit one of the more obscure treasures of this floating city. The opera house – Teatro La Fenice. I had seen a sign near San Marco Piazza that had piqued my interest. I went back to find it and see where it tookme. Winding alleyways ensued. A few wrong steps lead to quiet restaurants, private courtyards and children playing in alleyways. Then back on track and with another sign assuring me I was in the right direction. A little further and then I was there. Although I didn't realise I was there at first. For Venice, Teatro La Fenice is a subtle building – there is no gold decadence or opulent architecture. It is a square two-story building, a pale hue of pink, nestled closely with other buildings. There are four pillars and four flags above them.

This building has a tumultuous history, having gone up in flames three times. No doubt, that's why the translation of La Fenice is The Phoenix, as the theatre had to rebuild and rise from the ashes three times. John Berendt explores the second fire in his book The City of Falling Angels. His book describes the visuals and the lifestyle of Venice with such poeticism it makes me jealous.

It was quiet inside La Fenice, with only a couple of other tourists around. Perhaps it simply wasn't as accessible as the other attractions, being off the main trail. The interior was full of soft pinks and chandeliers that sparkled bright. Then there was the theatre itself. It was full of lush red and gold seats, endless detail and enviable acoustics. Pure luxury.

In a stroke of chance, there was a rehearsal taking place. There was a booth where tourists could sit and watch – no photos – for how long they liked. The rehearsal was for Bundes Jugend Ballett, a National Youth Ballet from Hamburg. I tried to read the poster, but it was in Italian, so there were only glimpses of phrases that I understood.

The dancers were dressed in white, simple clothing. The style was contemporary choreography somewhere between ballet and modern dance. To the side, a cellist and a couple of violinists played live. A surreal video played behind the dancers, projected onto the back of the stage. For some reason, it featured Tilda Swinton being Swintoneque as always.

The dancers took a break, with the director and the technical team talking vigorously in Italian about the lighting. It seemed like they were having "artistic differences." There was an English translator who was translated phrases like "We can't do that," "It's not possible to light the show that way." It seemed like their conversation was going to go on for quite some time so I headed off.

Back through the winding alleyways and back on familiar ground. Travel often tests your memory, trying to remember where you came from and the path you want to follow. Luckily for me, once I went somewhere, I almost always knew how to find my way back.

I took a traghetto crossing back across the river. Unlike the tourist group from that morning, I didn't have to stand in the gondola. There were only three of us, so there was plenty of room to sit.

Back to the hotel for some chill time. For dinner, I decided to return to Rossopomodoro. It wasn't particularly close, but I figured I could find my way back there. And it would be worth it. And it was. They had all new flavours of pizza that weren't there at lunchtime, so I grabbed a mushroom one. The streets were now a little quieter than before, the pace had shifted slightly and it was more relaxing.

My favourite thing to do when travelling is to meander. By that, I mean take off and not have a plan. To follow your desire and instinct, and explore what takes your interest. Understandably, some people like having a plan, and I usually do, but not this evening. That's the thing about travelling on your own, you can change course at a second's notice. No need to check in with anyone, or be anywhere by any time. Take it as fast or slow as you want. See something interesting? Go there. It was a great thing being a free agent. Although, there are days when I wonder if I'm too good at being independent, at going at it alone.
Rome

DAY 15

I woke to rain. The Venice I saw yesterday was wiped from the slate. The sky was dark and grey and felt like dusk.

Before my last breakfast in Venice, I visited the hotel rooftop deck. Although it was one of the perks of this hotel, I had been consumed with the magic of Venice and had forgotten to take a look. It wasn't a large deck, with only one table. It was mainly an area for smokers. But that wasn't what I came for. After spending most of my time on ground level, it was stunning to see the orange rooftops. Of varying levels, the rooftops were stacked in all directions like packs of cards. Even on a grey day, Venice has got it. Instead of paths or roads between houses, there were aisles of green water. From this view, I could tell that Italians like their rooftop decks. Many houses had a small roof area, with a table, flowerbeds, washing or a combination of the above. Up here everything was hushed and quiet. With the demanding nature of travel, I've learnt to seize the peaceful moments where you can catch your breath and recognize how far you've come.

Time to check out. I joined the queue as the owner went through the paperwork, while he sighed repeatedly. By the sounds of it, running a hotel in Venice wasn't easy. And what they tell you about Italians short-changing you is true; he tried it on with me. Probably because I was a female in my mid-twenties travelling alone. I gave him a look, which he ignored, before I insisted he hadn't given me the correct change. I love the Italians, but you have to keep an eye out for their mischievous trickery.

I wandered along the tourist shops one last time. Puddles were everywhere, raindrops unceasing. Although I appreciate the craft that goes into the glass blowing, I didn't trust myself to transport anything back to New Zealand in one piece, so had to forgo buying any. Unfortunately, I didn't make it the colourful island of Murano, the centre of the glass business in Venice. The houses there are in the brightest shades of the rainbow. If I had found another day up my sleeve, it would have been my next stop. I bought some diamante bracelets before heading back to the hotel to pick up my luggage.

The Venetians are prepared when it comes to rain. They had cover for their street stalls, swept the puddles off the footpath and generally seemed to know how to handle it. And why wouldn't they? San Marco Square floods in low season, during Acqua Alta. The high tides bring water in because the whole city hardly a metre above sea level. It floods quickly, and the citizens must be reactive. Hotels have been affected in the past as well as countless establishments. It's a risky life living in Venice, where everything could disappear underwater.

Then came the lightning. People zipped into shops and darted under anything that would offer shelter. And did it rain. Heavy. I still had an hour to kill, so I headed back to the hotel and sat in the lobby. I've never been good at sitting still. The hotel owner was in a good mood today. I told him it was raining out, and he looked. "It's nothing, just a few drops," he said. It was pouring like cats and dogs. Maybe they get intense rain in Venice, or maybe he tells his jokes too seriously.

I had organised a shared water taxi to the airport. The pickup point was a little bridge five minutes from my hotel. As Venice goes, there are rarely any labels or signs. It's unlabelled but it's all there. Somewhere. There was no sign to designate it as a stop, so I had to trust I was standing in the right place. The woman from the travel shop had drawn me a picture the day before. In the rain with my suitcase I waited. And waited. I was early but they were also late.

Gliding into view was an unlabelled water taxi with a sporty Italian man in his thirties who barely said a word. The ticket I was given was only a thin sheet of paper with a couple of scribbles. It had become damp in the rain, but I handed it to him anyway. He nodded and gestured for me to jump on.

It was a bumpy trip. On a good day, it would have been paradise, but today it was treacherous. The six other travellers and I huddled inside, with the doors tight shut. On a good day, you would sit out the back in the sun and take in the view. Today, the water was choppy and we were constantly hitting waves. One of the girls said she felt seasick.

Without a word, the driver stopped at the airport and started unloading our cases. Without any directions, I followed the couples in front to the airport. The airport was at the end of a walkway that stemmed from the wharf. Dripping wet, I was thankful to be indoors. I read the flight board, which read like a menu of all the places I want to go. Rome – that's me. London – that would be nice, I've never been there. Spain – on my bucket list. Then there were places I had never heard of, because their Italian name was quite different from their English name.

The ride to the airport took less time than I anticipated, and along with my over preparation to always be early, I had a couple of hours up my sleeve. So did a lot of people. It seemed to be a busy time at the airport, with all the seats taken. I sat on my suitcase and waited for the check-in to open. I was so early I was almost at the front of the line.

A group of half a dozen nuns assembled near us, ready for a flight. I sort of hoped they would be on mine. I went to a Catholic school that had nuns. Only one or two actually taught classes. They were mostly retired, and lived on the grounds but in a separate building away from students. They came to masses and events, but it was always comforting knowing they were there. Since then, I've always felt like nuns bring you closer to God, or something. At the very least, they are peaceful beings. These Italian nuns were dressed in white, head to toe. They were sweet, softly joking with each other as they waited in the long line that had now formed.

Just in front of me was an Australian woman in her mid-thirties. She had two huge suitcases with her, confessing to me that she's a bit of a shopaholic. She was quite fun to chat with, telling me that "us Australasian girls have to stick together." She was heading back to London via Rome.

Our flight was delayed for an hour, and everyone was restless. I ate two chocolate bars in my boredom. People were getting testy; arguments about cutting in line were arising. They got a little heated actually, with some racist remarks hurled at one stage.

A few hours later I arrived in Roma. It was hot and sunny, just the way I liked it. I carefully examined the taxis, making sure they were official looking. The good thing about Rome is that there are tariffs to and from the airport. After Paris, where drivers can charge outrageous amounts, it was a relief to find that Rome had a set fee in place to avoid tourists being duped.

The ride from the airport to Rome was the best taxi ride of my life. One to rival my ride to Sacré Coeur in Paris. Firstly, there was an amazing blue and white basilica that could be seen from the freeway. Already, I could tell I was going to like it here. Once we were off the freeway and past the areas with excessive graffiti (although I've heard that graffiti is common in Rome and nothing to fear), there was the most breathtaking view I've seen. We turned a corner and the Roman ruins and the Colosseum were in full view. The early evening sun cast itself across the ancient buildings. Hollow and crumbled, yet regal and captivating. Rome is known as the eternal city. No matter what happened, with the rise and fall of complete empires, this city endured.

My hotel was near the Colosseum (or Colosseo, in Italian) so we were almost there. The back streets of Rome were slim and the cobblestones were uneven so we bumped along until the driver came to a halt in the middle of the street. He told me we were on the right street but he couldn't find the hotel. He reversed back but couldn't see it. Then accelerated forward and couldn't see it either. I decided I might as well get out and find it myself. I paid him the set fee and hauled my suitcase over the jagged cobblestones. My mum had warned me about the cobblestones in Venice, but the streets there are flat and even. It's the cobblestone in Rome you have to watch out for.

After wandering up and down the street, I finally noticed the hotel sign on the corner, high above street level. The reception was obscured by a neighbouring bar which shared the same entrance. Finally, I could check in and take off. I was eager to see the Colosseo.

After taking the lift to my room, I unpacked the basics, changed my outfit, and left to figure out this city. But first, some gelato. There was a delightful spot a block away, near Santa Maria Maggiore. You could just see the basilica between the buildings. Hence the name Gelataria S. M Maggiore. I would get to know the people here well over the next week. Gelato was my new calling. As they say, when in Rome. For tonight, my choice would be a mix of watermelon and Ferrero Rocher.

I soon found the supermarket down the road. Or less supermarket and more urban food shop. It had a small butchery but other than that just the basics. It was a small space with everything stacked tight from floor to ceiling. The lady at the counter could tell I was a tourist and didn't care for it. When I fiddled around with my purse, trying to get the exact change, she huffed dramatically. No goodbye or see you later, she was above it all. Each time I went over the next week, she acted the same, like she had never seen me before. I found the whole thing quite amusing. I don't think she ever understood what I was amused about.

To hear the Italians conversing on their cellphones was another entertaining experience. Often the conversation would end with "Ciao, ciao, ciao." It would be said rapido, or in haste. They would listen to the other person and then have another round of "Ciao, ciao, ciao" before they extracted themselves from their cellphones. It seemed like "Ciao" wasn't just hello and goodbye, it was also the equivalent of an agreeable "yeah, yeah, yeah." Italians were always so passionate about what they had to say. That's what I loved about them.

DAY 16

The breakfast at the hotel was amazing. There was a small dining room downstairs and staff that treated you like you were at a restaurant, offering to make omelettes to order and proper coffee. There was creamy yoghurt, fresh watermelon, pineapple and melon, mini muffins with chocolate in the centre, cheese and salami, plus the usual cereals and other trimmings. The fresh fruit always went first. And I always took a muffin for a snack during the day.

I returned to Santa Maria Maggiore. Built between 432-440 AD, it is magnificent. This basilica looks completely different from the front to the back. One side has steps for days, a piazza and a circular outer. The atmosphere and is quiet and subdued. The entrance on the other side is quite different, with a visible belltower and a square design. That bell tower, or campanile as the Italians call it, it the highest in Rome at 75 metres.

Even though it's common knowledge to cover shoulders and knees in basilicas as a mark of respect to God, many people did not dress appropriately. Whether it was ignorance or disrespect I couldn't tell. For me, I think that you should always seek out knowledge about the cultural aspects of the country you're visiting and adopt them as you would want in your own country. Some American girls wore daisy duke shorts and skimpy singlet tops. Not me. Luckily I had my trusty pants from Paris, that were long and loose-fitting but still looked chic enough. I wore sleeveless tops, but always carried a cardigan for basilicas. There were so many, it was a given that you would see at least one a day.

Santa Maria was a huge space, with gold ceilings that stretched ahead. It has been said that adventurer Christopher Columbus gave the gilded gold on the coffered ceiling. This basilica was something else. One of only four major basilicas in Rome, it is in elite company with Arcibasilica Papale di San Giovanni in Laterano, the great San Pietro and lastly Basilica Papale di San Paolo Fuori le Mura.

When you look back towards the entrance, there's an illuminated rose window above the doorway. Mary holds baby Jesus on her lap in the centre, with the Old Testament on the left and the New Testament on the right. You might wonder how this window visualised the Old Testament and the New Testament. The former was a seven-branched Menorah candelabra and the latter the Chalice of the Eucharist. The colours were vibrant, very different to the gold of the church. The warm pink, indigo and royal blue shades brought something modern to the church, something I couldn't quite define. Later, I read that Giovanni Hajnal created this rose window in 1995. It was to reaffirm the declaration of the Second Vatican Council that Mary is the link that unites the Church to the Old Testament. It was a contemporary touch that had caused controversy, that some people felt didn't fit with such a historical basilica.

The great thing about Rome is that everything is in reasonable walking distance. In Paris, you can walk but soon you will need a metro. In Rome there are two metro lines, and they don't reach certain areas. There are also buses, but I never needed them.

The Termini was about ten minutes away from Santa Maria. I had been told of lots of fashion shops underneath. On the way there, I found that the Italians are just as aggressive as the Parisians when it comes to crossings. As a pedestrian, you had to be very aware, because even when you had the right of way, the mopeds and motorcycles would be revving close by. Although, I was getting used to the idea that pedestrians had to take charge and charge ahead to stop traffic. Otherwise it would flow for all eternity. It made me appreciate Venice, where there was no traffic, just gondolas and people.

The Termini is a hub of activity. Like a beehive, it hums and whirrs. More than that, it's fast and chaotic and you must have your wits about you at all times. There are people coming and going from all directions, almost like an airport. I took the escalators downstairs and had a browse of the shops. Although I do like a bit of retail therapy, I struggle to do it when travelling, because all I want is to get outside and see the history and buildings.

Soon I was ready to take on the metro and figure out my way to the Spanish steps. Unlike Paris, a lot of instructions were in Italian and so it took observation, trial and error to figure out how to get on the metro.

Upstairs, you can purchase tickets for buses and specialised trains. I didn't realise this at first, trying to buy a ticket on the machine but not understanding where it was going, because none of the places sounded familiar. I went back downstairs and followed the signs to the metro. Finally, I realised that the ticket machines for the metro lines were here and not upstairs. Then the automated machine swallowed my money. Because everyone spoke different languages, it was hard to explain to the next person that the machine was broken. Despite hand gestures, they didn't get it.

Further away, there was a ticket office with people at three booths. You had to get a ticket with your number in the queue. Another fifteen minutes later I was at the counter. I bought a stack of metro tickets so I wouldn't have to queue for the next few days.

Down another set of escalators, reading some signs to be sure I was on the right metro and then I was on the platform. Whenever you're figuring your way around a new city, you must risk error and jump in. In a whirl of wind, the metro pulled up, heavily doused in graffiti. I had read that it's normal for metros to have graffiti on them but it was still something to get used to.

The Roman Metros were busier in Paris. Always packed full, you're lucky if you get a seat. You generally expect not to. Everyone stands or sits, trying to avoid eye contact. Usually buskers hop on and play some jazzy tunes to entice travellers to part with some euros. They move from carriage to carriage, gradually moving closer or into the distance. As with most modes of public transport, there's always something interesting happening.

Off at the Spagna stop. Past more buskers, a couple of beggars and a group of African men selling fake Chanel bags. Sometimes they lie them out on the ground, others twirl them around, as if it makes them more alluring. They never looked particularly busy. In wondered how much money they made each day.

The Spanish steps. People, people, people. Flower sellers, buskers, tourists, locals, children. Anyone and everyone. The sun brought its golden rays in abundance and everything became more vivid and bright because of it. The fountain at the base was covered as it was under renovation. Same went for the Trinità dei Monti church at the top. Hidden behind scaffolding, the only indication that it was the church was the poster covering it. The cover up of the church lessened the impact of the Spanish steps, although it did nothing to dampen its popularity.

I scaled the steps, almost to the top and looked down on the crowd. Then I went back to the base and looked up again. The best spot was here. Audrey Hepburn had eaten an ice cream on these steps in the 1953 black and white classic, Roman Holiday. Those 135 steps had been built back in 1725, after a design competition won by Francesco de Sanctis, an unknown at the time. Back a few hundred years ago, it was common to have competitions to design buildings. I can't imagine the same happening today.

Relentless Indian men were constantly thrusting red roses under my nose, asking me to buy them. Just when I finally had one off my case, another appeared. They especially targeted couples, urging the boyfriend or husband to buy a rose. Some people did, just to get some space. I would soon find these rose-offering men at other tourist spots, like Piazza del Popolo.

Following the large crowds and the Italian signs, I found Trevi fountain. The great thing about Rome is that you can easily do a walking tour of the city to find all the great spots. The main tourist attractions are friendly neighbours. Besides the Pope, I wost most excited to see the Trevi fountain. With all my preplanning and research, I missed the memo that it was under renovation for the next two years. My hopes were dashed with complete disappointment. Like the church at the top of the Spanish Steps, almost the whole fountain was covered in a mountain of scaffolding. There was no water, the pool was hollow. The perimeter was covered in two-metre-high plastic barriers. It was a far different picture than what you see in Fellini's La Dolce Vita, when silver screen goddess Anita Ekberg wades into the fountain in all its glory. How much I wanted there to be water!

The crowd seemed to be slightly stunned, like me. Perhaps I they were like me, not knowing of the renovation today. It was early afternoon and the crowds were thick, with an abundance of tourist groups. Some of them would hold a large fake flower above their head to ensure their group followed. Others would wave a little flag; some would simply raise a bright book above their head.

This was no small restoration. This was the largest restoration of the Trevi in history. Costing millions of Euros, Italian fashion brand Fendi was the sponsor. In France and Italy, it was common to see large fashion houses associated with the restoration of large landmarks. In France, I had read that Dior was a sponsor to restore the Queen's house in Versailles. I wasn't quite sure how fashion brands came to be integrated with building restoration and what the payoff was.

People still threw money in the Trevi fountain, hoping to ensure a return to Rome. With no water in the pool, it was easy to see how much money was being thrown in, and there was quite a bit from where I stood. I've heard that thousands of euros are thrown in each day. How they take the money out, I'm not sure, but it does go to the deserving, assisting the homeless in Rome.

To one side of the Trevi, a Japanese TV show was filming, joking about the lack of water. Of course, I couldn't understand a word, I was simply deducing this from their facial expressions and gestures. They were just like the game show hosts Billy Murray encounters in the film Lost in Translation, sprightly and goofy.

Like Paris, there is a sombre side to Rome. A clear tourist hotspot, many beggars were on the outskirts. They weren't your average homeless; many of them were severely crippled. To be face-to-face with this isn't easy, and I'm sure their everyday life must be incredibly difficult. A couple of them had club feet and were simply sitting on the ground, praying that someone helped them out.

As I roamed the streets of the fancy fashion district near the Trevi, a particularly persistent beggar limped behind me. In Italian, he rambled words, tipping his hat for donations. It was daylight, and I could certainly outrun him as he had a club foot and a walking stick, but that didn't mean my heart wasn't beating quickly from panic. I turned a couple of corners back onto a busier area and lost him. I felt terrible for evading him as society often turns their back on the homeless and disabled, but it simply wasn't the right place or situation.

There were plenty of gypsies too. Often sitting on the subway with their children or singing a song as buskers. There was one woman with long dark hair that I had passed in the metro with a baby, or what looked like a baby wrapped in a navy blanket. I say "looked like," because I know many gypsies use trickery to distract or elicit sympathy. And perhaps this woman truly did have a child. She very well might have. The thing about these gypsies is that they use so much trickery that one must assume that they are all tricksters to protect ourselves. What a world we live in.

This long-haired gypsy turned up again about fifteen minutes later at a place that unites people of all walks of life. McDonalds. In this setting, you couldn't really tell she was a beggar at all. In fact, it took me a minute to realise why she looked familiar. Thinking about it, it does make sense. Fast food is easily affordable and convenient. Back in downtown Auckland, in New Zealand, homeless people sit outside McDonalds asking for change. Although New Zealand doesn't have a poverty gap quite as vast as in Europe. Not to say that there isn't poverty in my country. It's just the wealthy of NZ have nothing on the wealth in Europe. Europe truly highlights the contrast between the rich and poor. It was an eerie recurring theme. In Paris, cripples would be a couple of doors down from Gucci or Prada.

My way to the Pantheon involved gelato. It was a little boutique down a side street. While I waited in the queue, the owner refused the money from a couple of tourists. He was certain their fifty-euro note was fake. Another woman who worked at the gelataria confirmed his hypothesis. They spent a good ten minutes arguing the point. The owner held the note up to the light and then pointed at this and that to explain his point. Nevertheless, the pistachio gelato was amazing, nothing like you would find in New Zealand. This was the real deal.

Before I found the Pantheon, I spotted a beautiful building, called the Ministry of Culture and Heritage. In Italian, it is known as Altare della Patria (Altar of the Fatherland) or Monumento Nazionale a Vittorio Emanuele II. Vittorio Emanuele was built in honour of Victor Emmanuel, the first king of a unified Italy. Between the Piazza Venezia and the Capitoline Hill, it's impossible to miss. It was huge and epic. 17,000 square metres of epic. The largest monument in Rome, it was controversial for a few reasons. Firstly, its construction destroyed a large area of Capitoline Hill. Secondly, the style and size of the monument has been criticized for being too conspicuous and large. The structure is not a Roman style, but a mixture of Greek and Teutonic styles, differentiating it from the surrounding buildings. The monument is built from a white marble imported from Botticino in Brescia. It is highly conspicuous amidst the landscape of buildings surrounding it. To me, there are still many "Italian" aspects about the building, especially the style of the sculptures.

I had approached Vittorio Emanuele straight on – where the end of Via Del Corso met Piazza Venezia. This piazza is a central hub of Rome with several roads intersecting. Its probably the closest Rome has to the Arc de Triumphe roundabout (though chaotic, no where near as much as Paris). After taking a chance at the crossings, I managed to make it to the island in the middle. This grassy knoll with flower decorations was the best spot to see Vittorio Emmanuele in its entirety. Before whipping my camera out, three people asked me to take their photo for them. There was an entire whirlwind around this island. Buses, taxis, motorcycles, pedestrians, gypsies, and street sellers, all of it. Vittorio towered above it all, the centre of this universe. It was a wedding cake of a building. Corinthian columns, cascading stairwells, angels, goddesses, warriors, patriotic Italian flags. That was just half of it. Standing 135 metres wide and 70 metres high, it is one of the highest spots in the city. In 2007, an elevator was added, allowing people to access the rooftop views of Rome.

Climbing those white steps and seeing all the sculptures, the stoic guards were an experience in their own right. To the right of Vittorio was a lovely basilica called Santa Maria di Loreto. It made a great photograph, the winged lions of Vittorio Emmanuel in the foreground, Santa Maria di Loreto in the distance. There were three main sculptures - centre front was the sculpture of Victor Emmanuel riding a horse, dressed ready for battle. On opposite sides of the building, at the highest points, were two statues of the goddess Victoria riding on four horse carriages. The winged goddess Victoria is a famed character in Roman mythology, a representation of victory.

The lift to the rooftop was around the back of the building. There was little breeze and everyone was sweating in the European heat. The lift that only took about ten people at a time. As we reached the top, the sky came into view. The rooftop offered a panoramic outlook, 360 degrees of glory. The ruins and the Colosseum were on one side, ans Via del Corso on the other. If you have a cellphone that takes panoramas, you would take one here. Looking at the colours of the city. Paris was dusky greys and off-whites; Rome was vivid orange and bronze tones. The colour palette of Venice was a touch of faded turquoise, cream marble and orange rooftops.

Soon after, I found Doria Pamphij Gallery. It was a large art collection privately owned by the Roman Family of Doria Pamphilj. Great historical décor with velvet walls and chandeliers. Parisians and Italians have a thing for chandeliers and I liked it a lot. Situated off the main tourist strip of Via del Corso, you enter the gates of Doria Pamphij and there is a sense of serenity. Not many people venture inside, but that's what makes it feel like an undiscovered treasure, quietly awaiting. It's not well signposted, and most people tend to walk into the light-filled courtyard with curiosity before realising it is a gallery. There was so much art and decadence heaving on the walls it was detail upon detail. What I liked most was the long hallways and the space itself.

Afterwards it was back outside and onto the next staggeringly ancient piece de resistance. I would just have to find it first. As you can tell, it's easy to be distracted in Rome. I thought I was going to get to the Pantheon two hours earlier but then happened upon so many other buildings on the way. The late afternoon sun ripened into that gold shade that Rome does so well. Approaching the Pantheon from the back, it was another titanic building of Europe.

Before entering, I took some time to absorb the scene. You only see something once for the first time. I saw the Pantheon straight on, granite Corinthian columns standing tall. Most buildings in Rome are historic but this one is a godfather. Commissioned during the reign of Augustus about 27 BC, it was later rebuilt about 126 AD. Three ranks of granite columns marked the entrance, eight in the first row, two groups of four behind. The main body of the Pantheon is a concrete dome. Inside, there's an oculus, a circular window to the sky. When you see the light streaming in, it is something ethereal, otherworldly. No wonder the word "pantheon," is derived from the Greek meaning – "of, relating to, or common to all the gods." Almost two thousand years on, its unites people from all corners of the world under its dome.

After the Pantheon, I followed the crowd to Piazza Navona. Three grand fountains poured their guts out. I went up to the largest fountain and looked at the world in a daze. There were many artists there and pretty restaurants. Once of my favourite touches was the Pizza Navona sign, which was picture perfect. To its left, there was a Italian shuttered window with a flowerbed beneath it. The violet, white and salmon-coloured flowers dripped over the rails, wisps reaching for the ground below.

This peaceful place was once a competition arena or Circus Agonalis. Ancient Romans would congregate to this spot to watch the games. It is an accepted belief that the name Piazza Navona is derived from Circus Agonalis, which then became avone, then navone and finally settled upon navona.

Baroque Roman architecture was all around. The masterpiece was the famous Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi or Fountain of the Four Rivers. Dating back to 1651, it was designed by Gian Lorenzo Bernini. I love Italian names like this, which emphasize all the beauties of the Italian accent. From the purr of the Gian to the rolled r in Lorenzo to the staccato of the second and third syllables in Bernini, what's not to like?

From the center of the Quattro Fiumi, the Egyptian-style Obelisk of Domitian stretches to the sky. The rocky terrain of the sculpture supports four river gods. These gods represent the four major rivers of the four continents where papal authority has spread – the Nile embodies Africa, the Danube as Europe, Ganges for Asia, and the Río de la Plata as America.

There are two other fountains, one at each far end of the oval-shaped Piazza Navona. The southern one is Fontana del Moro (Moor fountain) and the northern one is Fontana del Nuttuno (Fountain of Neptune).

Fontana del Moro has four Tritons. Within a basin of rose marble, a Moor wrestles a dolphin whilst standing in a conch shell. Around the outer rim are four tritons, Greek mythological messengers of the sea.

At the northern end of the piazza, I was very fond of the Fontana del Nettuno. I can't pinpoint it precisely, but I think its the way Neptune slays the octopus, his body twisting like a graceful athlete. Something about it made me think of the Greek god, Zeus. Other sea figures sat on the sides of the fountain, from sea nymphs to cherubs, dolphins and sea horses rising out of the water. There was also something exceptional about the buildings behind Fontana del Nuttuno; they were vibrant orange and yellow, more colourful than any other corner of the piazza. The way they framed Fontana del Nettuno in a photograph was utter perfection.

After, I backtracked to the hotel to cool down. From my room, I could see the rooftops of the buildings of the street, with beautiful tiling and little gardens. This only affirmed what I already knew from Venice – Italians love their rooftop hideaways. I could hear the resonances people coming and going along the cobblestone paths. At night I could hear drunken Romans singing and partying it up. They knew how to have fun.

There was also a small church across the street from the hotel. I would visit this church a number of times. It was comforting to know it was just across the road if I needed somewhere quiet.

Before dinner, I feasted my eyes on the Colosseo at sunset. It was my highlight of Rome. Even though I did see Pope Francis, this was my most spiritual moment. It was like gazing into the face of God. The light was golden, beaming onto the Colosseo. It was completely mesmerising. I was obsessed with Rome.

On the footpath between the Colosseo and Piazza Venezia, there were many street performers. They were all rather talented in their own little ways. There were artists that painted you while you sat, artists that painted Rome at your demand, graffiti artists and comedians. There was also an Indian busker cloaked in a shiny orange robe. He appeared to levitate about the ground in meditation. He was there again when I returned with Lucy a couple of days later. He was always there, actually. Day in, day out, sitting still. Levitating. Of course, it was complete trickery, but the commitment was commendable.

There was a relaxed pizza place a couple of streets away from my hotel on Via Cavour. It was an adorable place, simple but sweet. They had several styles of pizza and instead or ordering by the slice, you did it by size. I believe this is called pizza a tagio (literally, cut pizza). You pointed and gestured as to how much you wanted. They cut some and weighed it and voila! The Wi-Fi there was better than my hotel so it was a good spot to wind down at the end of the day. My favourites were the pesto mozzarella and mushroom pizza.

What I loved about Rome was that there was always a church (and a gelato shop) around every corner. Besides the church across the road from my hotel, there was one around the corner, and one down the block in either direction. Everywhere really. That's Rome.

DAY 17

The holy trinity of the Roman Forum, Palatine Hill and the Colosseum was today's destination. I knew this was one of the most hectic tourist spots, but it was even more so than I imagined.

It was a twenty-minute walk from where I was staying, a walk which involved a lot of people on the way. I snaked down the steps across the road from the Colosseo, and on each step an Indian man was selling me something. Scarves, necklaces, trinkets, ornaments, flowers. They all held up their products and bombarded us with an endless stream of words. I just wanted to get to the Colosseum.

That day was humid, but rainy in patches. It started and stopped all day. As I approached the Colosseo, the spots of water got large and heavy. A group of us sheltered under the side of the Colosseo. I silently cursed at myself for not bringing an umbrella. I didn't want to surrender to becoming one with the poncho crowd if I could help it.

In the shadowy alcove, a group of strangers and I leaned against the walls. Keeping an eye on the sky for a sign of a break. There was a father with his two sons, passionately explaining the history of the building. He touched the rough Colosseo walls like they held magic, telling the boys of all the people who would have touched those very walls centuries ago. He described the men that entered the battles and those who watched. It was quite moving to hear him speak. Perhaps it was reminding me of my father when I was young, he often read stacks of books about history and art, and would recite some of them to me in an impassioned monologue.

The rain eased and we stepped out from the alcove. Not sure where the entrance was, I scaled the entire circular outer of the Colosseum anti-clockwise. It was stunning to look up and see how the light hit these ruins from different angles. Inside, people looked back at me through the open-air windows.

Then there was the Arco di Constatino, or Arch of Constantine. It reminded me of the Arc de Triumphe, the architectural style from the same family. This arch was far more ancient. Between the Colosseum and the Palatine Hill, it was made to commemorate Constantine I's victory over Maxentius at the Battle of Milvian Bridge in 312.

With four columns and three archways, and heavily decorated with iconography, there's a lot of detail to see. Warriors, hunters and gods, it tells many stories with its imagery. Unlike the Arc de Triumphe, you couldn't walk underneath it. Metal fencing surrounded it, protecting its historical value.

Like many people, I wanted to see the Colosseum first. The line didn't seem too long, but it soon became clear that it moved slower than a snail. After waiting half an hour, staff manning the lines suggested going to the Roman Forum entrance to buy a ticket and coming back. After a bit of deliberation, I headed that way. The Roman Forum line was still quite long, and ended up taking another 40 minutes to get in. It pays to have time and patience in these situations. The rain began again, but this time I welcomed the Indian man selling cheap umbrellas. He was clever and moved fast, ready to hide his goods at a moments notice and pretend to be a tourist. He wasn't the only one. There seemed to be a group of Indian and African men selling umbrellas. They even found their way inside the grounds. When it was rainy they appeared as if by magic, offering me an umbrella. When the sun came out they offered a "sun umbrella" which was really just a parasol. While I was there I witnessed a tiny old Italian man escort a tall African street-seller off the grounds like he was a child.

The Roman Forum, or Foro Romano, is full of ruins that were once the hub of Rome. To me, being amongst these buildings was like time travel to ancient Rome. Crumbled buildings that were the place for public ceremonies, speeches, gladiatorial matches. Everything.

To the ticket booth, into the gates and the Roman Forum was mine. The Arch of Titus was right at the entrance. A grand Arch dating back to 82AD, it was a source of inspiration for the 1806 Arc de Triumphe in Paris. The Arch of Titus had Roman inscriptions and sculptural details that have truly lasted the test of time.

There were many types of ruins in the Foro Romano - temples, basilicas, arches, monuments, government buildings. This was once a public space used for over 1,400 years, from 8th century BC to 600 AD. Not everything survived though, some ruins have vanished completely. Others have vague fragments left, some required reconstruction. Most of the existing ruins hark back to the Imperial period, 27BC to 476 AD.

One of the ruins that captured me was the Tempio dei Dioscuri. Once it was a podium, a speaking platform. Today it exists without the facing, only as three columns. This trilogy was striking to me. Three has a sense of balance and simplicity all in one.

I detached myself from the crowd, not sure what I would find. On the eastern edge of the Roman Forum, there was more to discover. Once I reached the top of Velian Hill, the Colosseo came into view. I could see into it through the misty rain. I turned the corner and then I found the Temple of Venus and Roma. Half of the temple remained, with a diamond-style pattern on the inside of the alcove. Once I was at the Colosseum, I would lean out and take a photo across to this same spot on Velian Hill.

The ruins were also special at dusk and night. They took on different shades, morphing into different configurations. They were lit carefully from just the right angles, the beams shifting into the grooves to highlight their patterns.

I was also fond of the House of the Vestals. It was once a three story, 50-room palace. At the entrance were headless statues of women, draped in flowing clothing. Green grass and the pink flowers grew amongst the statues.

Then up to Palatine Hill, the centre of the Seven Hills of Rome. High above the Roman Forum on one side and Circus Maximus on the opposite. Palatine Hill is the location of Roman mythology that tells of how the city of Rome was named. Romulus and Remus were infant twins abandoned by their mother. They were found by a she-wolf Lupa who feed them and looked after them. A shepherd Fasutulus found the twins and raised them with his wife. When they were older they killed their great-uncle who had seized the throne from their grandfather and set about building a new city on the Tiber River banks. When they had a violent dispute, Romulus killed Remus. Rome was then named after Romulus.

I liked how the flowers grew amongst the cracks in the ruins. Near the top of Palatine Hill lavender coloured flowers had weaved into the crevices. It was one of my favourite images from that day. A reminder that the world continues to turn, growing around the skeletons of its past.

Then a quiet walk to the church of San Bonaventura located on the highest peak of the Palatine Hill. Through a dark tunnel and out into the light, the path curved up the hill, San Bonaventura at the top. Its peaked roof was a modern touch in terms of the architecture surrounding it. Built in 1625, it was hundreds of years behind most of the ruins. There were green benches along the footpath, offering a view of the Colosseo across the way. I continued to wander along, not quite sure where I was going, having lost track of where I was on the map. Eventually I stumbled upon the exit, a steady decline down a dirt track to the bottom of the hill.

The Colosseum was my favourite part of Rome. Every angle was interesting. The Colosseo offered many windows to the world below, acting like a photo frame with those rough edges. This elliptical amphitheatre is the largest in the world. Dating back to 80 AD, the fact that it has survived hundreds of years makes it an unmatched feat in architecture and engineering. To me, it's a miracle we can still walk through the Colosseum and the ruins; one day they could be fenced off for preservation. That day might be closer than we know it.

The Colosseum has a dark history, as a place where gladiators would fight to the death. People would be executed as a form of public spectacle. It could hold between 50,000 and 80,000 spectators. These spectators were held in tiers of seating that signified the stratification of Roman society. By the early medieval era, it was no longer an entertainment venue; it was a place for workshops, a quarry and quarters for a religious order.

I started with walking around the circumference of the Colosseo, seeing every angle it offered. There were two spots that people clamoured for the view. The outlook from the stage and the view from the opposite side towards the stage. I took a Polaroid from the stage, but it didn't do it justice.

Exiting through the gift shop, I wanted to buy a keepsake because I had loved the Colosseum so much. I found a gold ring, a small version of the Colosseum that wrapped around my finger. It had all the detail of the ruins, all the tiny windows etched in. I wore that ring every day for months.

Another ten minutes from the Colosseum was San Pietro in Vincoli (Saint Peter in Chains). It was a minor basilica in Rome. Although it was not an easy find. After walking past a steep staircase several times, I decided it must be the way. This staircase extended beneath a building and was shadowy, dirty and had a rather aggressive homeless person guarding the entrance. Best to say I wondered what I was in for. I waited a few minutes until a group of people came along so I could blend with them.

Once we were up the staircase, it was a completely different world. It opened up into a plaza and to my left was San Pietro in Vincoli. From the outside, it doesn't differentiate itself much from the buildings surrounding it. But with arched columns and golden gates, I assumed it must be the place. That's the thing about a lot of basilicas in Rome. From the outside they look like just another building, another door, another something. But inside is where it all happens.

Saint Peter in Chains houses the chains that bound Saint Peter when he was imprisoned in Jerusalem. They are kept under the main altar. It also holds Michelangelo's statue of Moses, part of Pope Julius II's tomb. The white statue is carved with divine detail. It sits to the right side of the altar and was one of the first things I noticed when I approached the front of the basilica. Completed in 1515, Moses is created with horns, an icon of godly radiance. Horns are synonymous with beams of light, and an iconographic symbolism dating back hundreds of years.

Then there is the ceiling. What a ceiling. Far more vivid than any images I had seen on the web. The fresco in the centre was painted by Giovanni Parodi, portraying the Miracle of the Chains. It contrasted against the white marble ceiling and columns, with its warm, rich colours. It stretched vertically towards the altar and was best viewed from the back of the church. It was like a jewel sparkling under bright lights, vibrant and colourful.

At one sector of the basilica there was a service, with no more than twenty people in attendance. I don't think I will ever get over the oddity as people sit in mass while tourists click their cameras in every conceivable direction, myself included. It's odd to think of religion as a commodity.

Tonight was my last evening on my own in Rome. Tomorrow Lucy would be joining me in the afternoon. It had been nearly a year since she left New Zealand for Madrid. We had plenty to catch up on. I knew our first meeting would be one of those epic conversations where you try to capture the essence of the last year and all that's happened.

That evening was a quiet one, I returned to my new hangout, the pizzeria on Via del Corso. And afterwards a visit to Gelataria S. M Maggiore to round out my evening of Italian cuisine. As the night ended, I thought about how far I had come since I had landed in Paris. I was feeling more at ease with travelling and less bothered about when things didn't go my way. The spontaneity was freeing, and after working in an office for the past two years, I hadn't walked this much in a long time. Although most people gain weight while travelling, I had become more toned and slimmer. I felt good in a way that I hadn't for many months. To hold onto this feeling and make it last was the challenge.

DAY 18

Pope Francis would be out in St Peters Square today, and I would be there to see him. Like so many, I have been fascinated by the modernism he brings to his mission, the way he has revived religion unlike any Pope before him.

Not only that, but over the past year I had lost my faith in a lot of things. In myself, in my journey, in life itself and its purpose. My hope was to see the Pope, a representation of God on earth, and restore some of that faith. Rome is a city that honours God unlike any other.

Francis is notably different to his predecessors for his less formal approach to the papacy. For one thing, he resides in the Domus Sanctae Marthae guesthouse instead of the papal apartments of the Apostolic Palace. He embraces modernity and isn't afraid to tackle contemporary issues which the Catholic church has been hesitant to address. For this, he has revitalised public interest in religion, and got more people talking. He even lets people take selfies with him.

His induction as Pope was under unforeseen circumstances. It started with the resignation of Pope Benedict XVI, the first Pope in almost 600 years to resign. Benedict was expected to reign until death. But he felt his health was declining and he no longer had the physical and mental capacity to endure.

The election process for the new Pope has always been fascinating to me; a process established hundreds of years ago. For the most recent election, 115 cardinal electors journeyed to Rome to gather in the Sistine Chapel. With the doors locked, they did ballot after ballot. After the first ballot, black smoke swirled from the Sistine Chapel's chimney, indicating that no candidate had received the required two-thirds of the vote.

The next morning, there were two more ballots, both resulting in black smoke. No consensus. By the fourth ballot that afternoon, Bergoglio, Francis' given name, became a frontrunner. The next ballot showed Francis receiving a large majority. White smoke from the Sistine Chapel announced that the new Pope was chosen. On the central balcony of St Peters Basilica, Bergoglio was officially announced as Pope with his chosen name, Francis. He asked the people to bless him before he enacted his own blessing.

On the metro to Vatican City. It was many stops down the line, but the trip was a nice chance to catch my breath. Once out of the metro, it was clear which direction to get to St. Peter's Square. Just follow the crowd.

I entered Piazza San Pietro from the side entrance, walking beneath the colonnades into the light. I was out there. In all its glory. St Peters Square. I went to the centre of the square, beside the Egyptian obelisk that had been in that spot since 1586. The hot Roman sun cast its long shadow across the cobblestones. The open space of St Peters Square was redesigned from 1656-1667 by Gian Bernini under the direction of Pope Alexander VII. It was envisioned as a place that could hold a great number of people who would stand before the Pope.

St Peters Square is defined by its colonnades, four columns deep. At the top of the colonnades are statues of saints, representing evangelists, martyrs and founders of religious orders. Bernini designed the colonnades to figuratively embrace visitors in the arms of the church. Four columns deep, it did just that. Like a hug, it folded you in to its world.

San Pietro. What a basilica. Refined and delicate, it beamed against the blue, blue sky. It had a cream dome with pastel blue flourishes. One of the largest churches in the world, this Renaissance basilica is regarded as one of the holiest Catholic basilicas. It holds a unique place in the world of Christianity and its almost impossible not to get swept up in it, regardless of your own beliefs.

Built in 1626, the shape the dome cuts into Rome's skyline is unmistakable. You can see it from Castel Sant'Angelo, from Piazza Del Popolo or from a very special keyhole in Rome. That keyhole was on my list but I would miss the chance to see it. I was told by a friend that it was epic. If you ever get the chance to see this keyhole in Rome, take it.

The line for San Pietro was the longest line than I had ever seen. It made any line you had ever seen before look miniscule. This was the line of all lines that there ever was. It was the kind of line that you could ponder your entire existence while you waited. It trailed three quarters of the way around the square. And St Peters Square is a vast, vast space.

45 minutes till the Pope took to his window, and people were streaming into the square. The Pope would appear at noon to perform Angelus, a prayer in Italian that he reads from his window. Typically, it lasts about 20 minutes.

Many of us sheltered under umbrellas to keep cool. Despite the number of people, the square was so large that everyone had enough personal space, and were respectful of others. There was a joyful energy, like getting ready for a sports match.

With 10 minutes to go, a red lectern cloth was hung from the window, draped over the side of the building. Everyone cheered, in good spirits. We were counting down, settling into position for prime viewing. Closer and closer.

It was time. Pope Francis appeared at the window, and in a few seconds the crowd hushed as fast as a breeze passing. No one wanted to hold up the Pope.

Of course, my Italian was far from fluent, but this was something that transcended language. This was an experience, not just a prayer. I did pick up a few words here and there, and of course he said "Bonjourno" and "Arrivederci," - see you again. I hoped that one day I would. A couple of other words – "Fratelli" and "Sorelle." Brothers and sisters. He mentioned them a lot. His voice carried perfectly. It had strength and certainty, but it also was kind and firm. To my left was one of the large TV screens set up in the piazza. This was a fine-tuned operation with every detail taken care of. They had the routine down.

I let his voice glide over me, as did the crowd. There was a lot of respect; no distractions. We all stood in the hazy heat, looking up high at that little window. There were clicks of photography here and there, but mostly it was just pure adoration. It was like listening to a concerto, words rolling with pauses here and there for emphasis. Then a pause was longer than the rest. Just like that, it was done. Francis bowed, waved and vanished from the window. Everyone remained, to be sure he wasn't coming back. The red cloth was pulled back and the window was closed.

The crowd dispersed in waves out of St Peters Square. I walked in a blissful daze, like being a little tipsy. Living in the moment and nowhere else. My feet seemed to know how to get back to the train.

Time to meet Lucy at Via Urbana, near where we were both staying. She found my hotel easier than I had and was at reception when I arrived. Her wavy hair had grown longer and she was more tan than I remembered. Other than that, she was same free spirit that she's always been.

We I decided to do a bit of a ramble and see where we ended up. We started along Via Urbana, near my hotel, and cruised along Via Leonina. Rome has a lot of graffiti and isn't the cleanest of cities, but we could feel its warm spirit rising through. Rome was raw, unfiltered, gritty, primal.

There were a few restaurants coming to the end of lunch, which looked like they were closing. One seemed inviting, with the waiter encouraging us to look at the menu. Once I saw there was bruschetta, I was all in. The thing about Rome is that there are a lot of good restaurants, like this one, but they don't have signage on the street. Whether its an attempt to be more modest, or simply to be a well-kept secret, I'm not sure. All I know is that it is the place with the seats outside and the golden tablecloths, a few shops around the corner from Cavour metro station.

In the sticky afternoon we drank some Italian wine while we waited for the bruschetta to arrive. We ordered a combination - one with crushed tomato and olive oil, another with olive tapenade and one with oil-soaked courgette. The plates they used were patterned with red and yellow flowers around the rim.

The main phrase I took away from Rome was "andiamo." Everywhere I went from the airport to the mall to the streets I heard this word. I mentioned it to Lucy that I should know this word, it seems like a common phrase I would have learned at university. Andiamo, andiamo, andiamo. What could it be? Was it a verb? Why couldn't I remember how to conjugate it? Lucy asked the restaurant owner and we were informed the meaning of andiamo – "let's go." Of course. That's why the Italians gestured when they said it with the wave of a hand, as if to say "this way."

Like most Italians, the restaurant owner was endlessly friendly and accommodating, despite language barriers. In fact, according to Lucy, his Spanish was excellent. She found it easier to converse with him in Spanish than in English.

Lucy and I had so much to catch up on, we didn't notice that we were the only ones left in the restaurant. As the afternoon was winding down, it was time for them to close and have a siesta before reopening in the evening. They were polite about it, not wanting to rush us, seeing that we were friends reunited after a long time apart.

I had heard that there's no excuse for visiting Rome without seeing the Capitoline Museums, or Musei Capitolini. At the top of Piazza del Campidoglio, it's a steep climb up many steps. The great Michelangelo himself created the design of the Campidoglio trapezoidal piazza. It features an interlaced twelve-pointed star, a reference to the constellations. This star is centered in front of the façade of Palazzo Senatorio. A peach tone in colour, Palazzo Senatorio has a clock tower in its centre and diagonal staircases that meet at the entrance, forming a triangle. Michelangelo also designed these stairs, another one of his ideas living on in Rome decades after his existence. The Palazzo Senatorio was a senate building, where official records were stored. Now it is Rome's city hall. We saw a bride and groom appear for a photo-shoot on the peak of the Capitoline staircase.

The Capitoline Museums are renowned for their marble sculptures, Roman statues, artefacts, and medieval and Renaissance art. The floors were black and white diamonds; the ceilings were gold chandeliers, and the walls white and gold gilded configurations. Fittingly, we visited the Michelangelo exhibition. An ocean of white marble, every type of marble head and expression. I had never seen a museum like this, with rooms and rooms of heads. To think of the time it took to create each statue was mind-boggling.

The statue of Romulus and Remus was front and centre in one of the rooms. Right away Lucy was drawn to the statue. She knew a lot more about the history of Rome than I did and worshipped this statue. The bronze sculpture was of a she-wolf suckling twin infants, inspired by the legend of the founding of Rome. There was a feral, wild quality, which in a way is true to Rome. Rome is beautiful, but in a rough way.

Below, the air grew cooler. I knew what was coming. Lots of tombs, a little more morbid than I was anticipating. The cool corridor of tombs was actually the link to the other side of the building. It ran underground, beneath the piazza. What made it more morbid was that Luce and I were the only people down there. There were a few people ahead of us but they had moved out of sight. Even though I appreciated the craft of these sarcophagi, it wasn't for me.

Near the end of our visit, we found a balcony, which overlooked the Roman Forum. It was a completely different perspective. When you're in the ruins, you see the details, the specifics. You notice each part individually. Up there, it was all about the collective. How the shapes looked together, the big picture.

Afterwards, we noticed a brick building at the top of a staircase nearby. Located on the highest summit of the Campidoglio. It was mysterious and interesting – we wanted to know more. It was a church, and became one of my favourites in Rome. With arcs of chandeliers that brought light into the church in a way I hadn't seen before, it was ethereal and otherworldly. This was Santa Maria in Aracoeli, Basilica of St. Mary of the Altar of Heaven. It had a gilded ceiling that illuminated all the light from the chandeliers. And its own gift shop in a room that was probably once a side chapel. Calendars, postcards, bookmarks, books, rosary beads. Complete commodification of the Pope in all his glory.

Even though I truly loved Santa Maria in Aracoeli, it was one of those places that was forgotten in my hundreds of photos when I returned back home. I looked at it dozens of times, and couldn't quite remember where it was, just that I had loved it. After some extensive google image searching I finally found the name and it all flooded back. The summit, the exterior, those ceilings. I'm not sure what was holding all those memories back, but I was glad to have recovered them.

After scaling those stairs, we were in the mood for a snack, and were eyeing up all the food places, wanting to pick something special. Then we saw La Casetta Della Madonna Dei Monti. It was a building almost like a large house, covered from floor to rooftop in ivy. It was a secret garden café. I had passed it once or twice before Lucy had arrived, admiring the building, curious about what it was exactly. We walked up and admired it once more, when Dominico greeted us. He waved us in like we were old friends catching up. In full Italian welcome mode, he ushered us in, sat us down and made us think we had chosen this place. The truth is, he chose us. That's Dominico. He's a people lover, always seeking out new friends to tell his long-winded stories to, as we would soon discover.

He showed us his handwritten Italian menu of home made Italian dishes, translating into English for us. He told us we were crazy if we didn't order the eggplant and mozzarella sandwiches. You don't dispute Dominico, so we ordered them, as well as some tomato and mozzarella ones. And some teas from his fragrant herbal tea collection.

He would disappear down a tiny staircase and return later. It seemed like a tiny kitchen, from the peek I saw. We sat by the windows that were open like French doors onto the cosy alley. It was a quiet spot that lended itself to existential contemplation.

About ten minutes later, Dominico resurfaced from his kitchen with our herbal teas. He served them and then sat with us for a chat. It was almost impossible not to like Dominico, he was as sweet as a purring cat on your lap. We asked him about his fan art. A few customers had painted or sketches pictures of him on the wall by the register. They had perfectly captured his head of salty grey hair and moustache. The old-fashioned glasses were spot on.

Lucy took a couple of photos of him because he was such a character. Then he offered to take a photo of us. And another. And another. He went out onto the street to get the whole leafy building in the picture. Afterwards, he explained he had to "get all the angles." Twenty pictures later, he came back into the café.

Afterwards, he told us a bit more about himself. He lived upstairs, and had recently modernised the place. He also rented it out to people for yoga classes. He showed us his listing online and all the photos. Then he handed us a business card, pointing out that he was both on Instagram and Facebook. Not bad for a man in his late fifties, he was up with social media. That night, I found his page on Instagram and followed him, then tagged him in the photo I had taken of Lucy in the window while he had been downstairs brewing the tea.

Our sandwiches arrived and they were sublime. He was right, the eggplant was spot on. Lucy and I revelled in how utterly charming this place was and how we wanted to go back even though we hadn't yet left. Lucy would go on to stay a few more days in Rome and reconnect with Dominico. He would remember her name and they would take a selfie together.

While on my own for my first days in Rome, I often went through a little piazza near my hotel. The piazza was next to a small chapel, and across the road from a basilica. Piazza Della Madonna De Monti was its name. There were a handful of restaurants dotted around facing the fountain in the centre. There was also a wine bar, which had often looked inviting. Now that I had a friend, we ventured in to give it a try.

The wine bar had a relaxed atmosphere, with tables beside open windows facing the piazza. Lucy and I took a good look at all Italian wines behind the bar before deciding on a Pinot Gris. The waitress asked us if we were sitting inside or in the piazza. If you sat inside, you had a proper glass. If you sat outside, you were given a plastic wine glass. We decided outside. They also had tapas to help yourself to. Olives, bread with rosemary and peanuts. We took a little plate with us and found a seat on the steps by the fountain. This would be the first of many times we visited this piazza. Locals drank there, which made us feel absorbed into their lifestyle. It was a sun trap, soaking up the last warm rays each day.

From then on, almost every night we spent at this quiet treasure, tucked away. With its gently sloping cobblestones and a two-tiered fountain. It was a village within a city. Amongst "our people" in Rome. People we did not truly know, but yet found a sense of community with. Some days we went to the liquor shop instead of the tapas bar. They sold wine and beer specifically so people could take it away to drink it in the piazza. They would crack it open for you at the counter and away you went.

There was an image of Mary, a painting on the side of the basilica. She stood on a cloud in a blue robe, a halo circling her head. Her gaze was peacefully looking downward. Underneath the image, pink flowers sat in a window box. Whenever I walked past Mary, I admired the image, finding comfort as if she was watching over me.

On our way back to our hotel, we found Piazza Degli Zingari. A tiny piazza, it had another wonderful gelataria. Although, lets face it, it's hard to find a bad gelataria in Rome. This one was called Fatamorgana. It was complete with a vintage yellow VW beetle outside. Lucy and I sampled four flavours each before our final decision. This time it was hazelnut and blueberry. This became our new gelato spot, although I did end up showing Lucy the gelataria opposite Santa Maria Maggiore. This one had a hip vibe, laid back and breezy.

DAY 19

In the morning, I was going to do some shopping while Lucy saw the Colosseo. We planned to meet up a few hours later for more adventures. When I asked the well-groomed attendant at the hotel where to shop, he answered "Via Del Corso" with complete certainty. "You will enjoy it, everything is there" he told me. He pulled out a map and pointed the way from the hotel. Piazza del Popolo was right next to Via Del Corso, a spot I wanted to see. I thanked him, and he replied "Prego," a common phrase for "you're welcome." I loved the way the Italians rolled their r in "prego" as it slipped off their tongue so easily. In New Zealand, the kiwi version for "prego" is "no worries."

By now I had the Roman metro down pat. It was just a matter of finding the closest stop to Piazza del Popolo. Once out of the metro, I twisted around to get my bearings. Once I saw the twin basilicas, Santa Maria dei Miracoli and Santa Maria in Montesanto, I was sorted. I entered the piazza through Porta del Popolo, the northern entrance. Porta translates to door in English, so this was the ancient doorway to the Piazza. It's quite an entrance, the four columns towering with inscriptions embedded in stone.

Piazza del Popolo translates as "People's square," but in actuality its name is derived from the Latin word "populous," taken from Santa Maria del Popolo. Its history is a dark one. Public executions used to take place at Piazza del Popolo. The final execution was in 1826, less than 200 years ago. For all its beauty, that's a shadowy past.

Back in New Zealand, my mother had a book of Rome from the 80s. I had flicked through it before I left, and again when I returned. The black and white images of Piazza Navona looked almost the same as it did today, thirty years later. Conversely, Piazza del Popolo has changed its look over the past few decades. The book depicted the Piazza as a giant car park, with VW Beetles snuggled amongst the fountains. No longer a traffic ocean, today it's strictly a pedestrian zone.

For architecture lovers like me, there was plenty to feast my eyes upon. The largely neoclassical style of Piazza del Popolo juxtaposed with an Egyptian obelisk at its centre. Brought to Rome in 10BC by order of Augustus, it once was part of Circus Maximus, a large chariot-racing rink that sat behind Palatine Hill. At the base of the obelisk, there were four fountains with lions, mouths open wide, water streaming through.

I quite admired the Fontana del Nettune (fountain of Neptune), for its nautical imagery. Neptune stands boldly, trident in hand. On the opposite side, armed Romans wore lances and helmets; in front is the she-wolf feeding Romulus and Remus.

Seeking shade from the sun and a change of pace, I entered one of the twin basilicas bordering the square. I rested in one of the pews and chilled out for a little while. Interestingly, not many people had filtered in from the piazza. It really was a contrast to the humming energy outside.

Back out into the light. I turned to my right and headed down Via del Corso, the urban stretch. Via del Corso was considered a wide street hundreds of years ago, but certainly not by today's standards. Not far down Via del Corso, I saw a church sitting between the shops. In fact, it was adjoined, like it was part of the framework. It was tiny, but amazing. Rome has so many churches right next to shops, an interesting contrast. Down the small side streets, I would find more of the same. You had to be careful down these streets, there were many twists and turns. To a tourist it was a bit of a maze.

I hadn't bought much so far in Rome. My Colosseum ring was my only memento. This was mainly to do with the space in my suitcase. I wanted to buy my mum something from Rome to go with the necklace I had bought her in Paris. Either a scarf or a leather bag.

The range of leather bags in Rome was similar to Venice. Every colour, shape and size. You had to know what you needed or you would be lost. I went back to the same leather bag shop three times, but I still couldn't pick which one. At that, I decided I would look for a scarf.

I ended up in Max & Co, which had all kinds of embellished clothing, warm colours and stylish cuts. I had to remind myself I was there for a gift, not for myself. I found a thick turquoise scarf, which ruffled like rose petals. It was soft and luxurious. In other words, just the thing. Now that I had something for my mother, it was my turn. The H&M on Via del Corso is a multi-level building, lit and merchandised to the max. I tried on a number of outfits, but my favourite thing was a black t-shirt with cat eyes.

All shopped out, I took my bags and jumped back on the metro to my temporary home in Rome. Unloaded my bags, then up the spiral staircase to the rooftop deck. This was my quietest spot in Rome. Looking over the orange rooftops, the noise from the street simply faded into nothing. Bathed in warm sun, it was bliss. It was a meditative space, where I could zone out. I hardly ever saw another person up there.

Soon after Lucy and I headed out. We were destined for Villa Borghese gardens. It wasn't until we got there that I realised they are right next to Piazza del Popolo, where I had visited that very morning. Never mind, it's always a great thing to revisit wonderful spots in Rome, even on the same day.

Like a tourist guide, I showed Lucy the twin basilicas of Piazza del Popolo, the fountains at either end, and the lions. Lucy jumped up on the lion for a photo. We then took selfies and photos of each other with all the great architecture in the background.

Having heard that the view was amazing, we climbed the staircase above Piazza del Popolo. I could tell it would be a good spot, judging by the cluster of people at the ledge. We joined the cluster. Like a lot of tourist spots, you had to wait for a good opening to take a photo. When we found an opening, we looked out above Piazza del Popolo. Across the building-tops to the far-away dome of St Peters Basilica.

Lucy and I offered to photograph a couple if they did the same for us. I had made a good call for the hot day, wearing a daisy tunic, sunglasses, and plenty of sunscreen.

On to Villa Borghese gardens. Stretching far and wide above Piazza del Popolo, Villa Borghese crowns the city with its greenery. It's a breath of fresh air with its trees, views, walkways, fountains, statues and quiet spots. These sprawling grounds make it one of the largest public parks in Rome, and certainly the most central.

We aimlessly weaved through the gardens, lush and green in every facet. People lounged under the trees, napping or reading a novel. I took a photo to remember what it is to be relaxing in a garden in the Roman summer. We then circled around, admiring the statues, reading the plaques. There was a gorgeous carousel spinning to infinity. Then we stumbled upon a restaurant in the gardens, that hadn't yet opened for the day. It looked like an unforgettable spot, but perhaps only for the elite.

Then out of the leafy fronds and into the light. Another opening at the edge of the gardens overlooked the rooftops of Rome. The juxtaposing Altare della Patria gleamed in its white glory among the orange rooftops. The domes of basilicas also stood above the crowd, growing towards the sky.

Back into the gardens, we found a map and started hypothesising about what was what, decoding the Italian. In the shape of a heart, the gardens had some blue spots, which we figured were ponds of some kind.

Hot from walking, we came across a fountain and joined the dozens of people who dipped their feet in to cool down. Even though it was a fountain, people were treating it like a pool, a couple of kids swimming and more people sunbathing on the grass.

Into the woods and soon we saw it. Viale Del Lago. Amongst the 19th century Temple of Aesculapius, people paddled along in rowboats. The Temple was built as a landscape feature, influenced by the lake in Wiltshire, England. The water was green, but in a gem-like way. The sun was hitting it perfectly, with sparkles everywhere. I took a polaroid of the scenery. There's something soothing about rowboats to me. The don't allow you to rush, you must be slow and assured. It was a reminder to take a moment to enjoy everything and take it in. Something I constantly needed to remind myself, once I started rushing around Rome I found it hard to stop.

We had wanted to visit the art museum Galleria Borghese, but today it was closed. Instead we explored the manicured gardens around the back with marble sculptures. Further along we found an amphitheater in the forest. I imagined the warm nights that the Italians staged Shakespeare on that stage, surrounded by trees and moonlight.

Soon it was time for our daily gelato. There was a place across from the northern entrance to Piazza del Popolo that we liked. We headed back into Piazza del Popolo and sat on the steps of a little church just inside the archway. The sun grew hazy as the early evening settled in.

A few hours later, we changed outfits and headed out to Tiber River. The third-longest river in Italy, it flows and winds a staggering 406 kilometers. On our way, we passed the the Roman Forum, Capitoline Hill, Vittorio Emmanuelle and more beautiful buildings we couldn't name.

We crossed the ancient Ponte Fabricio bridge. The oldest bridge in Rome, is still exists as it did originally. It dates back to 62 BC and spans half of the Tiber, with Tiber Island in the middle. It's not long or wide, at only 62 meters and 5.5 meters respectively, but it was magnificent. The water beneath jogged along, moving quickly but not too much so. There was an open-air film theatre set up below, with empty chairs anticipating the arrival of guests. On Tiber Island, we could hear some jazzy melodies reverberating into the sunset sky above. As we came to the end of the bridge, we saw the saxophonist creating those jazzy refrains. I threw some coins in his case, which was already quite full.

The Lungotevere are boulevards running along the river Tiber. These Lungoteveres were built to limit the river Tiber, preventing flooding. Tonight, they were glorious and dreamlike, running as far as the eye could see with hundreds of white canopy tents and fairy lights. A world of its own, it appeared to float alongside the river, lights illuminating the water, reflections dancing. The tents housed bars, restaurants, artisans, markets, musicians and unexpected treasures. These were the "Lungo il Tevere," (along the Tiber) – an event that Rome proudly hosts during summer nights. Over 15,000 visitors attend each night, amongst the ancient bridges. Spanning almost one mile, we never did reach the end of the markets.

Lucy and I played a few rounds of foosball at some tables right next to the water. No one else was playing but us, but we didn't care. It was nice to take a break from the sight-seeing and just be goofy. Afterwards we tried some dried feijoas, amongst a stall of exotic dried fruit of every variety and colour. Laid out with care and displayed impeccably, it was like a candy store. We then eyed up all the eateries, of every type. Buffets, formal restaurants, salad bars, casual takeaways, anything and everything. There were a few open-air disco clubs getting into their groove, the dance music throbbing into the early evening. A few groups of people were already into their groove, cocktails in hand. My personal favourite stall was an Italian poetry reading. A silver-haired man with glasses spoke avidly in Italian to intellectual types on beanbags and chairs. They were enraptured in his words. Even though I couldn't understand them, so was I.

We headed back to a waterfront library-style bar we had seen near the beginning. It was loungey and relaxed, with soft couches and bookshelves heaving with classics. This was our spot. We ordered some ruby coloured rosé and hung out as the sun went down. We told each other about our favourite parts of Rome so far, and what we wanted to see next.

Past the initial catch up, it was time to be honest. A few wines deep, we started speaking truths. No masks, no pretences. A lot can happen in a year. I asked Lucy about teaching and if she liked it, and how it was being away from home. She said she had gotten intensely homesick. She had felt isolated, and doubtful about having left New Zealand in the first place. We all have our vices when stressed, hers was food. She told me that she used to binge on food when she felt down, a habit that was tough to break. I told her I had never noticed, never even suspected. She said she was a good secret keeper, found all the ways to hide it. To break the habit, she started planning trips here and there, to different parts of Spain and Europe to take her mind off things.

"I feel so bad. I had no idea." I told her.

"There's no way you could have known. No way."

"I get that. I used to think it's better that way, but by telling someone, it lifts that weight off your shoulders. Sharing the problem makes it seem smaller, less daunting."

"It does. I'm trying to get better at that."

"Me too."

Then there was me. My year hadn't been great either. She asked about my boyfriend back before she left New Zealand. I told her it was over, that we both let it fall apart, neither willing to pick up the pieces. Of course, I had pictured all those things in the future that girls daydream about. But that soon faded into nothingness. During that time, my anxiety lurked in the background, telling me it wouldn't last. I could see it all going wrong but I couldn't do anything to save us. It was one of those relationships that burns brightly and like a firework, fizzles out quickly, irreparable.

But that wasn't my biggest issue. On the back of that break up, things got really hard. Even though I convinced myself I was okay, it took me a long time to become something close to my "normal" self.

At the same time, I had a person in my life who had bullied me for months, but at this point it became worse. Constantly putting me down, manipulating me in ways I couldn't fathom and completely disrespecting me. I felt terrorized to the core, not knowing when this person would be normal and when they would turn on me. It brought me back to high school, where teens can be so cruel. This person never grew out of that high school phase. Every day was hard, it was a struggle to start the day, not knowing what it would hold. That person tipped my anxiety over the edge. I'd always had a little anxiety, but this was something far bigger. Even now it's hard to write these words, to retrieve the memories I'd rather forget.

The anxiety ruled me. Fear was my go-to emotion. My daily companion. I was in constant flight or flight mode, always fearful of a million ways life could go wrong. I struggled to extrapolate those feelings from my mind.

Sleep. That was hard to come by. The days were long and tough, but the nights offered no reprieve. As soon as my head hit my pillow, the thoughts churned. Unravelling and unpacking. My mind went on and on, ruminating about every mistake I had made, would make. The thoughts felt so real, I couldn't fathom that it was the anxiety taking over.

And this trip. I had to do something big, something huge. Something to look forward to. It had to be drastic and epic. That's the only way I would wake up from the nightmare my life had become. So, I booked my plane tickets and a few months later quit my job. And it felt good. Like I was finally getting somewhere. It was a boost to keep going.

The deliberate choice to keep this person nameless, faceless, and genderless here felt the right one. I don't want to humanize them, although of course, they were a human. In my conversation with Lucy, I did use them by name. She had known this person too. But she'd never seen that side of them. She didn't know them the way I did. What makes me sad is knowing that I wasn't the first person she treated that way, and probably not the last.

To be honest, I don't think this person realised how much grief they caused me, caught up in their own world that was falling apart at the edges. They knew I was susceptible to their behaviour. I've always been on the sensitive side of the spectrum, internalising conflict and hardly confronting it. This person saw that and it's why they picked me. I'm sure they didn't realise it brought me to a low only comparable to my father's death over a decade before. That it caused me to question life, my identity, my ability to trust.

Forgiveness has always been tough for me. But knowing that grudges are poisonous to the soul, its important to work through them and make peace with it all. You have to tell yourself that it will shape you into a stronger person, create more meaning in your life and teach you wisdom. There will always be that one percent that I can't let go of, but I think all in all, I'm doing well.

I haven't seen that person for a few years now and it feels good. No longer do they occupy my time, energy, and most importantly, headspace. I know that one day I will see them. I'm not sure what my reaction will be. Or theirs. I'll have to let that one play out.

That conversation with Lucy at the riverside was one of the most meaningful conversations of my life. Probably because for once I was being honest about things being shit, and not hiding away, which corrodes your soul. This was the ultimate catharsis.

Then we talked for the next two hours about life, being there for each other. Promising to tell the other one when we were having a hard time no matter when or where we were. We cried at the riverside while we ate our chicken salads. We picked up our tear-stained faces and proceeded to do the only thing we could at that point. We got gelato.

We walked it out. Walking along the ruins at night was a serene end to the evening. We had no words left. Exhausted but energised. We had both said more honest words than we'd said in a long time. Back past Capitoline Hill, more ancient buildings. Vittorio Emmanuelle glowed, lit from every angle. Lucy and I hugged each other goodnight and agreed to meet up the next afternoon. That night I slept the best I had in months.

DAY 20

Back to Vatican City. All I had seen of Vatican City so far was St Peters Square and Pope Francis. I hadn't had time to peruse that day because I was meeting Lucy back in the main centre of Rome. But today, I had many more hours. And I would need them all.

Vatican City is the smallest internationally recognised independent state in the world. By area and population, it is tiny. 44 hectares and 842 people. Today my first stop was the Vatican museums. I had a map, but all I needed to do was follow the flow of people. We were all going to the same place. Over 4 million people visit the Vatican museums each year. Every day is a busy one. Like most tourist spots, this was chaotic. People selling things, jumping in your way. Others waving tickets at you, saying you could skip the line. I had no idea if they were legitimate or not, but I didn't need to. I had pre-bought a ticket off the Vatican website which allowed me to skip the line. Although there was still another line inside, it didn't take long before I was in. Lucy hadn't booked her Vatican museum ticket in time, and they had sold out. She had gone on a walking tour instead, to map out Rome. Because I had arrived a couple of days earlier, I had beat Lucy to a lot of the tourist spots like the Colosseo, Piazza Navona and the Spanish Steps. I couldn't wait to rehash it with her later on and see what she thought of it all.

The Musei Vaticani has a worldly historical collection of masterpieces, built up by Popes through centuries. The number one attraction is the Sistine Chapel, which is right at the end. There are 54 galleries, or salas in total.

The first thing that took my breath away was the Sphere Within Sphere, a bronze sculpture by Arnaldo Pomodoro, which is found in the courtyard. It was a bronze globe that gleamed even on a dull day. It was cracked open and inside its core was another smaller cracked globe. The inside layers looked technological, like the inside of a clock or a computer. Versions of this sculpture can be found worldwide from New York to Tehran.

Amongst the art, was a special view out the window of one of the galleries. The dome of St Peters perched above us. That pastel blue dome in its close-up glory. A group of us tourists clustered at the window, swapping places for gazes and photographs.

Being the impatient tourist I was, I couldn't stand waiting another few hours before I saw the Sistine Chapel. So, I headed there and planned on seeing the rest of the galleries afterwards. Of course, I didn't realise it was the last stop. To get there, I had to go through most of the galleries; there was no shortcut. Perhaps an analogy for life?

Not far from the Sistine Chapel was The Gallery of Maps. The walls and ceiling were covered in painted maps of Italy. The frescoes were in bold golds, reds and greens. It felt like the hallway emitted light, illuminating. It took three years for this 120-metre gallery to be painted.

We were close. I could feel it. The Sistine Chapel had to be around the next corner. The tourist wave condensed through the lean corridors. I clutched my belongings close in case of pickpockets. More turns and twists and stairs and doors. Then we were there.

Before we went in, some tourists were given white material to cover up. I still found it hard to believe that people weren't aware of the custom of covering shoulders and knees when entering churches in Italy. A bunch of American girls were wearing singlet tops and denim cutoff shorts. They were pulled aside before they could go ahead. This was the Sistine Chapel, after all. It doesn't get much more sacred than this.

Once in the Sistine Chapel, it was all hush. Thoroughly policed by Vatican Museum staff checking that no one was taking pictures. They also constantly reminded us not to speak, that this was a quiet place. With this many people, the best you can get is a whispered crowd.

There was so much to see. Literally every crevice of the Sistine chapel ceiling is covered in frescoes. So much detail. Even though I was standing below, I could tell there were tiny specifics that my eye couldn't see. To be in the place where the cardinals voted for the Pope was very moving.

It took me a few minutes to see Michelangelo's masterpiece, The Creation of Adam. I thought it would pop out at me right away, but it was embedded in the frescoes surrounding it. Painted circa 1511, it's one of the most famous pieces of art in the world. Its closest rival is the Mona Lisa. Those hands reaching for each other were poignant and powerful.

The narrative of this iconic image is taken from the Book of Genesis. The story is of God breathing life into Adam, the first man. God has a white-beard and a windswept cloak, surrounded by a red womb-like cloth and several cherubs. Adam sits below God, his fingers reaching, mirroring God, to symbolize man is created in God's image.

Time to take a break from the art. The Vatican Museums had their own pizza café, and it was good. It was actually some of the best pizza I had in Rome. I was really getting into this pizza and gelato way of life. With a touch of wine, of course.

Now for the second lap. The volume of art was like the Louvre - plentiful beyond the capacity of the human brain. After a marble sarcophagus gallery, I moved onto a gallery, which had images of the Popes over the years. Delving back into history, I enjoyed seeing the images of their induction and service. They had stamp collections which had the Popes on them, which I hadn't known existed.

The spiral staircase ended the Vatican museums on a high note. The stairs descend rather than stagger like a normal staircase, making the journey more of a glide. The thick rails had designs with swirls and tendrils that followed you to the bottom. Looking up, light streamed in a hexagonal window. Everyone tended to bunch at the base of the staircase to gaze up at that window. Then it was all over. Just like that.

By now, Day 20, I had seen nine of the most visited art museums in the world. Back in Paris, there was The Louvre, The Pompidou, Musée D'Orsay, Grand Palais, Musée de l'Orangerie, Palais De Tokyo and Musée D'art Moderne. Then in Venice, the Palazzo Ducale and then in Vatican City, the Musei Vaticani. So much greatness, more than I could truly fathom. Europe has a wealth of art and history that I had never seen in little New Zealand.

When travelling in peak tourist season, you need to have time on your side. Especially if you're lining up for St Peters Basilica. The line stretched across St Peters Square, hundreds of people deep. Same as a few days ago when I had gone to see the Pope. I never made it in.

I was guttered, but there was plenty else to see. I continued along Via della Conciliazione, a perfectly straight road that leads to Castel Sant'Angelo. I kept turning back to look at the dome of San Pietro as it became smaller and smaller. That pastel blue dome is a statement from any distance.

It was one of the hottest days I'd had in Rome so far. I seeked every slither of shade I could find. I forgot about the heat when I saw Castel Sant'Angelo, in English, Castle of the Holy Angel. Initially commissioned as the mausoleum of Hadrian, a Roman Emperor and his family. It later became a fortress, a castle and now a museum. A cylindrical building of a dusty orange shade, it's highest point is the bronze statue of Michael the Archangel, sheathing his sword. This gesture was to symbolise the end of the plague of 590.

In 1277, Pope Nicholas III created the Passetto di Borgo, or Passetto as it is also known. An elevated passageway of almost 1km, it connects St Peters Basilica to Castel Sant'Angelo. Historically, this fortified corridor became an escape route for Popes in danger.

The best spot to look at Castel Sant'Angelo is from Ponte Sant'Angelo, a bridge that leads to the building. Also known as Pons Aelius, the Bridge of Hadrian, it was completed in 134 AD, a year before Castel Sant'Angelo. Made from travertine marble, its three arches plunge into the Tiber river. This bridge is full of angels on each side, each with a name and meaning. Bernini envisaged these ten pieces of iconography. Each angel was to hold the "instruments of the passion," objects associated with Jesus' Passion in Christian symbolism and art. Also known as "Arma Christi," or "Weapons of Christ." My favourite angel was the first one I saw, "Angel with the Lance." Each angel was made by a different sculptor, Domenico Guidi sculpted this one. The inscription read "Vulnerasti cor meum," which translates to "Thou hast ravished my heart." Her weapon had a pointed steel head, angled upwards to the sky. The draped robes were windswept, folded upon themselves, creasing in the most beautiful way. For a stone statue to convey motion and movement like this is not an easy task.

Birds perched on the shoulders of these statues, completely nonchalant. They flapped away down the Tiber River. I did a couple of laps of Ponte Sant'Angelo, looking at all the angel's faces. I love the divinity of angels - the hope and enlightenment. It was a peaceful place, not too busy, everyone moving glacially. San Pietro was still there in the distance, ever smaller, but no less statuesque.

There was another bridge opposite Ponte Sant'Angelo, called Ponte Vittorio Emanuele II. The four sculptures on this bridge were large and impressive. They were allegorical sculptures, representing the abstract. In turn they represented Liberty, Oppression defeated, Unity of Italy and Loyalty to the Constitution. At each end of the bridge, there were two pillars with bronze winged victories. These winged goddesses, representing Nike, the goddess of victory, were powerful and feminine at the same time. My favourite was the victory that held her sword held high and shield at the ready. She was dynamite. With all the magnificence of this bridge, it's clear why it took 25 years to build. You can't rush excellence.

The ride on the metro back to Rome from Vatican City was a reflective one. It was all over. Who knew if or when I would be back at the Vatican? I was so thankful for the experience and all I had seen. I didn't want to forget a second of it.

Afterwards I met up with Lucy for wine at our new favourite bar by the Piazza Della Madonna De Monti. They had snacks like olives and bread and nuts that you could choose with your drink. Now familiar with us, the girl who ran the bar would greet us when we came in. We lounged the night away, recapping each other on what we had seen that day. Lucy had been on a walking tour and had taken herself to Trastevere for lunch where she had devoured a whole pizza because it was that good. Ah, Rome.

DAY 21

SPQR was everywhere from coins to mosaics to manholes. It was phrase of Italy. An acronym from the Latin phrase "Senātus Populusque Rōmānus," it refers to the Senate and People of Rome. There's a popular restaurant back home in Ponsonby, Auckland called SPQR. Whenever I saw those letters, I thought of home. Odd, I know. That something so Italian could remind me of New Zealand. But that's how associations work, they aren't always logical.

Today was last day in Rome. Lucy had extended her stay and would be there three more days before heading to Pisa to see the Leaning Tower. For today, Lucy and I planned to revisit our favourite spots in Rome. But first, we would uncover a new one. While walking some backstreets, we found a ceramic shop where a woman made statues by hand. She was a true Italian bohemian. She chatted to us about how long it took her to make each piece, how she crafted the shapes and came up with the ideas.

As we neared the end of our backstreet meander, some Roman ruins jutted out above a plain brick wall. It was the corner of Foro di Augusto (Forum of Augustus), characterised by those white Corinthian columns. The fact that these ruins are still standing is a miracle. With construction from 20BC and inauguration in 2BC, it truly has defied the years stacked upon it. It had chips here and there and tufts of grass growing on the top. It was radiant against the crisp cobalt sky.

We were looking for Campo de Fiori markets, but in our loss of direction, we found something else we had heard about. The Torre Argentina Cat Sanctuary, a short walk from Piazza Navona and the Pantheon. Run by volunteers, it's set amongst the ruins of Torre Argentina. Cats sunbathe on the ancient temples, a sight only to be found in Rome.

I read that the sanctuary houses over 200 cats. Either I went on a quiet day or they are skilled at camouflage. From above, I couldn't spot many, maybe half a dozen at most. Once I found one, then I could see another and another. Soon, Lucy and I were pointing them out to each other. We were on a roll. These cats tended to blend with their surroundings, picking clever spots here and there. I liked that the city of Rome was so appreciative of these cats, giving them plenty of space and care.

Campo de Fiori. I had heard a lot about markets in Rome, and this one was said to be one of the best. There were several Campi in Italy, markets everywhere. Just how I liked it. It wasn't hard to find. The markets were cushioned by those orange and yellow buildings you only find in Italy – the ones where every window has outside shutters and the rooftops are rustic orange.

There was so much fresh fruit, a festival of red, yellow, orange and green. I settled on a strawberry salad, Lucy chose some rock melon. We swapped our fruits as we sat by a fountain. There were so many fresh and dried fruits I had never seen, ones that don't make it to New Zealand. Then there were more of those delectable leather bags that I could never decide on. Beyond were bottles and bottles of perfumes.

Then there were the illegal street stalls. Selling glasses, jewellery and bags. These guys were something else – they could shut up shop in the blink of an eye if they saw someone coming. They had their stalls specially designed so they folded up underneath and collapsed into a black box they could carry. Then as soon as the coast was clear they would whip their stall back up again. It was unexpectedly entertaining.

While Lucy and I zigzagged our way around the streets, we walked past a truck of policemen on a mission. What the mission was, I couldn't tell. What I could tell you is that the policemen in Rome were hot. It was something about their tanned skin, the navy shade of their uniform, but mostly the aviator sunglasses. Plus, these guys had swagger in the way only Italians do.

More buildings with charming windows. From the shutters to the flowers to the frames, it was always worth a photograph in my book. I'm the kind of tourist that gets excited about the minutiae, off in my own reverie. Some people don't get that, but Lucy did. She saw those little things too, those details that make places unique.

According to our map, we weren't far from Quirinal Palace. Palazzo del Quirinale is huge, at 110,500 square metres it's the 6th largest palace in the world. By comparison, The White House in the US is only one-twentieth of its size. But we sure had trouble finding it. We came to odd streets, dead ends, and patrolled corners. Afterwards, we realised why it had been so hard. You couldn't access Quirinale until you were right at the top of Quirinal Hill. The highest of the Seven Hills of Rome, it looked across the Roman rooftops to San Pietro.

Luce and I walked around the piazza in all its glory. There were guards nearby, looking after the palace. As a place that had housed thirty Popes, four Italian Kings and twelve presidents of the Italian Republic, including the current president, it was understandable.

Down the hill and onto another piazza, we passed many more stunning buildings and architecture. And back onto somewhere familiar. Via del Corso. I loved that Rome had everything in close vicinity. A city that truly lends itself to wandering, everything interlinked.

We decided to say hello and goodbye to Piazza Navona. For me, anyway. Lucy would have her extra days in Rome up her sleeve. Warm waves of jazz greeted us, fluttering down the streets as we approached Piazza Navona. A group of musicians were playing some sweet music to the crowd. These men looked like they had played together for years, mostly in their late forties or early fifties. There was a man with sunglasses that played the violin, a man on the guitar, another on the accordion and another on a double bass. They even had their own cd.

Lucy and I took some photos of each other in front of the fountains. As we had both visited Piazza Navona on our own before, we didn't have any good photos of us against the backdrop. Lucy was big on the importance of taking travel photos with yourself in them. To show your family, she said. To prove we really went to Rome.

I silently farewelled the fountains and the Piazza Navona sign with the purple flowers. Then we went into the bookshop. They had books of all languages, English, Italian and Spanish. I settled on a water colour style bookmark of Castel Sant'Angelo. For me, it was to remember the angels and the spirit of Rome, the belief in God and the faith in humanity. The bottom of the bookmark had a sketch of Romulus and Remus next to the word Roma.

We went on to farewell the Spanish steps. But first – macaroons. I told Lucy of the magic of Ladurée I had found in Paris. There was a Ladurée in Rome too. I had noticed it when I first visited the Spanish steps. I wanted to show the Ladurée experience. The chandelier décor, pastels of every shade, ribbons, and of course, the sweet treats. We bought four macaroons each and savoured every bite as we strolled the streets of Rome.

It was time for a late lunch. And I had just the spot. There was a quaint restaurant near my hotel. It had an exuberant energy - there were always people there no matter what time of day. I had walked past it at least half a dozen times and every time wished I had gone in. On a quiet backstreet, it sat amongst other small cafés, restaurants, boutique clothing and homeware shops.

Hosteria La Vacca Bracca. It looked adorable. We checked out the menu. The pesto gnocchi sounded good. And it looked good too. I could see people eating it from the footpath. I hadn't really eaten pasta in Rome, which is clearly a sin, and I needed to change that.

The waiters were adorable guys in their early twenties. Our waiter had thick dark hair and eyebrows and the hint of a moustache. He topped it off with his square black-rimmed glasses. He was incredibly polite and smiled a lot. He charmed us both. After our meal I told Lucy I wished we had taken a photo with him.

The gnocchi was subtle and soft in the way that gnocchi is meant to be. The plate was decorated with paprika, sprinkled around the circumference like fairy dust. We also ordered a salad full of goodness and shared the dishes.

I had a chat with the waiter at the register, where I found the real name of the restaurant. Turns out that Hosteria La Vacca Bracca means "the drunken cow." Meanwhile, Lucy was inside photographing the walls and décor. I must have gone on about how much I liked the waiter because she emailed me a photo a few weeks later. She told me she went back for some more gnocchi, then asked him if she could take a picture. If that's not true friendship, then I don't know what is.

Back to the rooftop for some calm and collected time. I could put off the packing no longer. I was surprised with how much stuff I had accumulated in the short time I had been away. Bathroom products, hats, receipts, trinkets, pamphlets, polaroids. I had to part with some of it, but kept the good stuff. I knew I was going to be tired after dinner so I had to get most of my packing done now. That way I could relax and enjoy the evening without feeling rushed.

To end the evening, we returned to the delicious Japanese place by our favourite, Piazza Della Madonna De Monti. Lucy and I had eaten lunch there the other day when we were overcome by a craving for sushi. If the crab sushi was anything to go by, the tempura would be brilliant. We ordered tempura and edamame to share and a couple of Japanese beers to go with it. Of course, it was odd to find an amazing Japanese place in Rome, but just as I had found a great pizza place in Paris, the world is fun and surprising and its best to embrace the oddities and enjoy them. Not that I hadn't loved the pizza of Italy or the pastries of France, I had seriously become addicted. But it was a welcome change having something a bit different, with a little more vegetables on the menu – I had started craving them in the way most people crave salt or sugar. Back in New Zealand, I would eat sushi at least a couple of times a week, so the deprivation was making me feel weird. I hadn't been aware that I was strangely addicted to that sweet rice and fresh filling. We took our Japanese food and devoured it while sitting on the steps of the fountain in Piazza Della De Monti.

Afterwards we figured it was worth drinking something special, so we bought some sparkling wine from our favourite bar across from the fountain. We recapped our highlights and our plans for the future. We toasted to that. Lucy was going to see some more of Rome and then go to Florence for a few days. I had told Lucy I really wanted to write a book. She had read some of my short stories and told me to go for it. And that's just what I did. This is it, right here.

As the night wore on, it was time for the final goodbye. I had to wrap up my packing and rest up for the 24 hours of flying back to New Zealand. I never know what to say with goodbyes, I tend to ramble on about trivia and start making promises I can never keep. I told Lucy I didn't know when I would see her again, but I was glad that we had made the trip to Rome. So often people talk about these world trips and plans change and people cancel, but we had done it! We had figured out Rome and found some great secret spots along the way. We hugged goodbye and I watched her tread the cobblestones as she left.

Before I went to my room, I made one more stop. The tiny chapel across the road from my hotel. It was one of my favourites in Rome; it had an intimacy that differed from the enormity of the larger basilicas. It had capacity to seat only thirty people but that night I was the only one there. Not a person in sight. Clusters of candles flickered and cast a glowing light though the whole space. I whispered a short prayer and was thankful for this blessed moment where I felt settled and complete. A way I hadn't felt in a very long time. As I made my way gracefully out the door, I tripped and stumbled over onto the cobblestones. I quickly gathered myself together and continued on, trying to find that grace again. As you do.

DAY 22

The morning went by in a blur. Getting up, showering, last-minute packing and perfect timing with the taxi arriving to the airport. I always check in early. I sat on some seats and chilled out, feeling all good. The flight was breezy (which for me is a big deal) and then I was back in Hong Kong. From there it was all a bit downhill.

Once I arrived in Hong Kong, I felt a sense of trepidation creeping in, I couldn't put my finger on it at the time. Now I think it was probably concern about whether I would go back to my old anxious habits or if I could continue the positive wave I had started overseas.

My optimism about travelling lead to a decision of complete stupidity, defined by booking a 12-hour stopover in Hong Kong. I don't travel well and had landed in a huge wave of tiredness with a huge headache. My plans to conquer Hong Kong city in a day rapidly went down the drain. Instead, I spent the day at the airport trying to catch some sleep.

I will say that Hong Kong airport has a captivating view of mountain ranges – something that a couple of American tourists commented on behind me as I had arrived in the airport. I found a group of lounge chairs that allowed you to recline and watch the planes on the tarmac, with the majestic mountainscape as the backdrop.

For the most part of those 12 long, long hours I gazed out this window. I thought about napping and tried but never fully succeeded. I remained in that zombie-like state of total and utter survival. Plus, there was the speakerphone in the airport that kept warning me to watch my belongings – which made me think I couldn't afford to grab a nap.

I played a track on my phone to get me through it, one I had especially downloaded for this journey. The song was called "Waves." I let it flow over me, on repeat. I had heard a remix on the radio that had made "Waves" into a dance track, but I preferred the original. This one was half the speed, lengthening every moment. Instead of electronic beats, the accompaniment was a lone guitar. I let the lyrics flow over me again and again, on repeat. They spoke about waves and drifting, that feeling of being powerless. As much as you try, you can't resist the current. Waves determine the direction you drift in. It was definitely a metaphor for how life can feel. Sometimes you just find a song that speaks to you. One that says all the feelings you can't articulate.

Between the sleep deprivation, my piercing headache and the hours to kill, I felt edgy. In the distance, I could hear the repetitive words of the travelator, telling passengers to "hold the rail." These three words mechanically chimed each time a person got on the travelator, which as you can imagine, was very often.

It was all very weird. The room in the middle of the airport, just for smoking, mostly men encased in their own smoke fumes. Toilets that automatically flushed. The robotic voices. I was slowly losing my mind.

As I neared the 8-hour mark, I called my mum in New Zealand. It was about 7pm at night there. I just needed a familiar person, a conversation, something to keep me awake. I begged her to stay on the phone with me, even though we had spoken for the most part of an hour. My biggest fear was falling asleep at the airport and missing my flight.

Those next three hours were like a prison sentence. I prayed that our plane boarded on time. I just wanted to get into a seat and sleep with the comfort that I would get to New Zealand.

As I waited by my gate, I saw that the plane I was about to board was an Air New Zealand one. Seeing those familiar korus on the tail was a taste of home. As soon as the plane was boarding I was at the front of the line. It was the fastest I'd moved all day. Once I sat in my window seat I felt like I could finally relax. A Kiwi couple in their fifties sat next to me and were jovial and kind. Out the window I could see the rain lashing at our plane in the blackness of night. Thunderstorms in the distance lit up the tarmac. I figured we could still fly in this weather as we had boarded the plane. I was wrong.

Two hours later our plane hadn't left the runway. Most of the airport was closed due to the thunderstorms and many flights were delayed. We had to relocate to another part of the tarmac to take off, with the pilot updating us every 10 minutes. The plane slowly jutted its way over, now we were fourth in the queue. This queue was not a fast one. I spent most of the wait napping. It was looking like my twelve-hour flight was now a fifteen hour one. I was too tired to care at that point. Another half hour later, we took off. Rain still lashing at the windows, a forceful farewell. I hope that one day I go back and have a much better experience of Hong Kong.

Now it was time for luscious, luxurious sleep. New Zealand was beckoning and with every minute I was closer to home.
New Zealand

DAY 23

A year before my trip, I was caught in a place I didn't want to be. Full of anxiety, sleeplessness, and constantly worried about what the next day would bring. Fearing everything. It was a spiral of shame, guilt, and failure. Once I was drawn in, it was a struggle to find my way out. I would think to myself, "How did I get here?"

I had to train my mind to rise out of those feelings. They weren't real. They were perception. To change, I had to alter my perception. But old habits aren't easy to break. Self-improvement is a lifelong process. Life is always in a state of flux and so are we.

Once I started writing this book, I had to see it through. I wrote it on various scraps of paper, in notebooks and on my laptop. Later I pieced it all together, a combination of thoughts, feelings and questions. I wrote in the evenings, on weekends, when I wanted to let it out and when I wanted to relive my time in Europe.

Here is my philosophy on happiness. You have to let yourself be happy. You can't go looking for it or asking for it. Just be open to it. Most importantly, let go. Stop holding on so tightly. Even if it all falls to pieces, the world keeps turning.

Time. I've always felt it was chasing me and that I was racing it. Never having enough. I'm starting to learn to go with the ebbs and flows of life instead of fighting the current. I'm learning to focus on the present and go with life, which ever direction it takes me. Because, try as we might, we will never know our journey until we're right in the middle of it.

Travel is a great stabiliser. De-stabilising your life can re-establish your identity. I think it's a reminder that even if the surface of our life changes, our core remains the same. We might encounter ripples, waves or even storms but eventually the sun will come out.

Back to happiness. Elusive, desirable, fleeting happiness. I was believing again, and chasing that dream. Because, what else is life for?

