I’m taking my wife to Venice and sending my father to sea
My wife’s 50th birthday arrives in late December. I’ve been struggling to think of something to do to mark the occasion beyond the day itself. I came up with the idea of a trip to Venice. It’s somewhere she has mentioned wanting to see. Neither of us relish the thought of battling across the Rialto with hordes of fellow tourists so an off-peak trip in mid January seems to be the perfect solution.
Unfortunately, this won’t be a complete surprise to Laura because I needed to check dates she would be free in January. On the plus side, it gives her something to look forward to.
I’m thoughtful that way.
Laura has not been to Venice but I have. It was 1972 and I was on a school trip. We flew from London to Venice’s Marco Polo airport and then traveled across to Venice itself to board the ship that would take us around the eastern Mediterranean.
I remember the duckboards across St Mark’s Square and I remember being pursued along the side of the canals by a small group of youths with knives after intervening as they hassled some schoolgirls from the ship. This is how I remember the incident, of course. The truth may very well have been less heroic and much more prosaic.
A half day ashore and then an evening on the boat before sailing into the open sea from the lagoon hardly counts as much of a visit to Venice and I hope to spend a little longer exploring this time — free from wet feet and knife-wielding youths.
And the mention of a ship and a cruise brings me to my father. Tomorrow he finally leaves his house and joins a ship at Southampton for a fortnight’s cruise to the Canaries and back.
I have been trying to get him to sign up for a cruise for the best part of the eighteen months since my mother died. We started with talk of a four month world cruise. This became a month’s cruise to the Caribbean. In the end he booked two weeks.
It’s a start. And it has to be better than a care home, to which he claims he now wants to go. Good food, fresh air, company that still moves — these seem like things that could win him over.
I’m driving him to the ship, of course. And then will return in a fortnight to meet him as he disembarks. At the moment, my hope is that he sends word to me on the dock that he has decided to stay on board for the month to the Caribbean that follows.
Not only do I believe this would be good for him but I have to be honest that it would make this sole carer breathe a sigh of relief. Selfish of me? Yes. Honest? Oh yes.
