There are no secret corners of Venice, of that I have been certain.  Every centimetre of the gracefully crumbling city has been padded on, stroked, coo-ed over and fallen in love with over and over again.

I can't pretend that we discovered anything new in the two nights we were there.  We didn't stumble into any corners where nobody had been before, those corners had already been filled.  Every bridge we crossed already had lovers kissing on it.  Even the water, milky green was jostled and frothed by countless gondolas passing beside us and beneath us as we stole along the paths where thousands have passed before us.

I would love to whisper in your ear "I found it, I found that secret patch of Venice nestled and hidden away like an emerald set in marble" but alas, I found no such thing.

So let me tell you instead of experiences and memories  and how, even in a city where everyone has been before they can still be wrapped up in surprises.

The first time I went to Venice I stepped into a film, I stepped into every film I had ever seen shot in the city.  The glorious technicolour of the 1950s and 60s, Polaroid snapshot colours.  Venice is faded glory and seems to have always been so.  Venice is dusty velvet which frays when you touch it.  It is a tiara once sparkling with finery now dulled but resolutely, determinedly beautiful.

The second time I went to Venice I walked on duck boards across the acqua alta in Piazza San Marco as mist swirled and my breath exhaled in short white puffs ahead of me.  Bitterly cold and glassy as an ice palace.

In quiet times I had murmured the stories of Venice to the Lovely Husband of technicolour, jewels and  a city of glass which you knew before you ever set foot in it.  We were ready for a visit.

The third time I went to Venice, we fell out of love, the City and I.  Assailed by hoards of people, trapped in interminable queues unable to find anywhere, anywhere at all, where I could catch my breath and reconcile my memories.  Aggrieved by extortionate prices and sub par food, Venice and I were heading for a fall.

On the last night I dug deep into my memories, rattling through my archives and drew out a memory of food, an approximate location and the last vestiges of hope.  Through the growing gloom I led the lovely Husband through darkening alley ways, past chain stores, souvenir shops indistinguishable from one another and solicitous restaurants offering us tourist menus for less than 20 euros.

I turned down a non descript alley way with an unsubstantiated name, Calle del Paradiso (Paradise Alley).  Only one building shed any light on the street.  A handful of bistro tables set behind ropes.  It looked the same as I remembered but, oh Venice, looks can deceive can't they?

We sat down and were greeted by the host.  He was older, ten years since my last visit.  We ordered, he questioned our hunger, we chose wine, he recommended something better.  I thought about mentioning that I had been there before but as I said, there is nothing secret in Venice, everyone has been there before.  He turned at the door and looked at me before darting inside with our order.

Course after course came out, each as perfect as the last.  Beautifully fresh, exquisitely prepared dishes that stole the words from us as we tried to describe each crunch, crack, salty, sweet plate until we stopped trying.

"I remember you"

I looked up as he cleared the plate.

"You've been here before, a long time ago but I remember you"

We reminisced quickly, he thanked me for returning, I said that I would return again.

With food and wine and memories, just like that the course was re-set, we would go another round Venice and I.  I would seek to look past the gaudy and superficial and Venice would wait to be admired again.

The City of No Surprises, until you are the one being surprised.

Il Paradiso

Calle del Paradiso

Venice, Italy

The Lovely Husband, in addition to being lovely, is a stellar travel genius. Since childhood he has absorbed maps and travel paraphanalia in a way that just leaves me dizzy. This is a good thing as while I am the planner of the two of us, for some reason I just can't get my head around travel planning. Too much choice, too many places, too many options, too much to squeeze into a weekend, a week, two weeks. Maybe this is why I prefer to live in places I travel to rather than just pass through.

Anyway, it appears I lucked out with the Lovely Husband as nothing gives him more pleasure than to plan and execute our travel. My honeymoon was a complete surprise right up until we got to departures at Schiphol the day after our wedding - and he did a gooooood job. Spa hotels - tick, sunset sails around islands - tick, speedboat rides to remote island restaurants - tick. This one's a keeper.

So I had no fears, no fears at all when he took full charge of our America trip. Even once we got on the plane I had only the vaguest idea of our itinerary. Over the next few days the plans got much clearer but he kept the New York section, the final four days of our trip completely to himself.

With very good reason, he had planned the most excellent surprises for me.

Surprise One - Staying in a very nice hotel on Times Square.
Surprise Two - An offer of tickets to any Broadway show I wanted to see (in the end we got very lucky at the TKTS booth and got a pair of tickets for the show we wanted at a 50% discount - score).
Surprise Three - Dinner and Jazz. Yes, I know, it's not for everyone and I must admit that even I was slightly hesitant. I only like certain types of Jazz and I couldn't tell you what those types are - if my toe taps, I like it. So this could have gone horribly wrong. But this was no ordinary Jazz. Oh no. This was Jazz at the ultra swank Carlyle Hotel. So Jazz and a really good dinner. I was thrilled.

We hopped in a yellow cab and slid through the dusk of Manhattan towards the black and gold art deco entrance of the Carlyle.

Outside I spotted posters for two female singers. "Hmm" I said "Debbie Reynolds... isn't she famous". Really, I have no clue.

Inside there was another poster board resting on a gold easel. "Oh my goodness darling, look, Woody Allen plays here" I walk a little closer "He's playing here tonight!" long pause, realisation dawns "You.Did.Not".

But of course he did, because he knows that I have a fondness for Mr Allen (not in that way, eugh, he's old enough to be my.... yeah, he really did himself no favours with that one.), because he knows that Woody Allen in Manhattan would make my eyes larger than saucers and because he know music genres better than I do and so knew that I really really enjoy New Orleans Jazz.

We started with dinner which was excellent. I can only ever remember what I ate at restaurants (when I can remember at all), I appear to have a very single minded focus on my food to the exclusion of everyone elses.

Starter: Prawn Cocktail (Lovely, loads of fresh prawns and just the right amount of horseradish in the cocktail sauce).
Main: Roasted Halibut with a bourgogne jus and baby golden beets on a bed of spinach. Gratin potatoes as a side dish.
Dessert: Nada. We had over indulged earlier in the day.

About half way through the main course the band finished setting up and took their places. Into the last remaining seat on the corner of the stage crept Woody Allen with his clarinet. And then they began. And it was wonderful. Superb music and a real proper musicians. I don't know what others in the very small but very packed dining room were expecting but for me it was everything you expect dinner and Jazz to be. Small tables, crisp linen, little table lights and music washing over you.

Other, more prepared attendees, had brought cameras. Alas, this was the one detail the Lovely Husband overlooked so I have no photos to share but for me it wasn't really about the photos and once Woody Allen got on stage it wasn't even really about him. The band were just too good as an ensemble for anyone person to stand out amongst them. I really enjoyed it, the perfect surprise.

Back from what may have been my best ever holiday (and the honeymoon would take some beating, let me tell you...).

I have so much to report back on and so many photos to process. We ate, we drank, we saw just about everything.

Which is to say that I am more than a little tired and my body is in need of some clean living for a while. I am craving simple tasty food after two weeks of excess. Today's lunch was just right, Molly of Orangette's recipe for Chickpea Salad served with a grind of fresh black pepper over a pile of springy, green lettuce.

Now, back to the clothes washing, errand running and food buying.

I first lived abroad in 1996. I had taken a course at university because it required me to spend a year in Italy and at 18 that sounded like a wonderful thing to do. I hated it at first, I was lonely and isolated. That lasted about 3 months. Then I got brave. Then I got braver. By the time I had to leave, they practically had to crowbar me into the plane, I was so desperate not to go.

I lasted less than a year back in the UK. I couldn't bare the anonymity of London any more. I craved my life back in Italy, the lifestyle, the pace and the quality of life.

Two weeks after my final exams I was on a plane to Ireland to bond with my paternal family. Initially I thought I would just see how it went. I didn't go back to the UK for seven months, and only then to attend my graduation ceremony. Ireland is a pulse of the heart to me, as natural as breathing. I ache for it when I hear bad news. I celebrate its triumphs. My father is there and I try to get home as often as I can, which is never often enough. The smell of smoke from chimneys, peat fires, clean air, rain which leaves you damp to the bones even when its not raining. I thought I would never leave.

Two years later my company transferred me to Paris. I was ready for a change, my landlady in Ireland was getting married and I needed to find somewhere else to live. It seemed like a sign. I moved my belongings by FedEx, my father was horrified. "At your age I had you and yet you can FedEx your life just like that".

I knew no one in Paris. No one at all. I worked from home and for the first three months I firmly believed that I would never again hear English spoken other than on the phone. Too apprehensive of the metro system I walked everywhere that summer. Miles and miles in dusty sandals. I was astounded by how Paris squeezes your heart with its beauty, over and over again then casts you aside, gasping, at the arrogance of its natives.

In desperation I stumbled into an expat drinks night. Friday night drinks after work flowed seamlessly into midnight restaurant runs. Mouths stained with red wine, open and laughing. Talking and talking with people who knew and understood that hunger in the corner of your stomach which causes you to go out into the world, leaving your home country, looking for new experiences. Drinking buddies became dinner companions became family and remain so to this day.

It took me far too long to realise that Paris and I needed to part ways. I never stopped loving the city but I couldn't achieve what I wanted to achieve there and it was crippling me in tiny imperceptible increments.

I went to the only place I knew I could, to piece myself back together again. I went back to the UK. For a short while I revelled in speaking my own tongue all the time. It took me a while to realise that I was an alien in my own country. I had missed huge chunks of other people's experiences while I had been away. Things people expected me to be familiar with were incomprehensible to me. I learnt to stop talking about living abroad to avoid the inevitable "What? You lived abroad? Well, that's brave. Won't catch me leaving England. Why would you want to live abroad?" Nevertheless, I started to achieve and move on. I met the love of my life and somehow five years later I was still there.

I wept when he said he had been offered a job in Amsterdam. I had just started my dream job a month before, there was no way I could follow him and there was no way I could hold him back. So we began a strange hybrid existence. Straddling two coutries, racking up air miles and never really living in either country. We were homeless and it was too hard.

We talked it out and decided to make our home here in the Netherlands.

That was March 2007, we found a bigger apartment, shipped our belongings and transported the cat. He proposed in November 2007 and we married on a canal boat in August 2008. As much as I have loved everywhere I have lived, Amsterdam is home. The canals, the people, the way of life all of it feels completely natural. I love being an expat. I love the experiences it affords me and the people who cross my way on their own journeys. May it never end.

Tiny streaks of white speed boat spray across the broad Hudson River as we flew over more land than I had ever flown over before. It was 1998 and I was on my way to America for the very first time.

Huge trucks, bandit style raced past us on the highway. Rows and rows of traffic and hot tarmac snaking off into the distance. Billboards loomed above me, smiling faces, whiter than white teeth and mile high telephone numbers. Call me, buy me.

I was in the South, Memphis Tennessee, living inside every movie I had seen growing up. Everything so familiar on screen, so alien in person.

I can't say I fell in love. Although, it left me with a strange yearning for Red Lobster's cheese and garlic biscuits.

That all changed in December 2004. I landed in Manhattan.

Big.
Skyscrapers.
Dizzy spinning in circles.
People.
So many people.
Shouldn't they be bursting into song randomly like the movies? Shouldn't I?
Steam from the streets.
Yellow taxis.
Cold breath exhaled in puffs of white.
Spinning and spinning so much to see.
Lights.
In Times Square,
On Broadway.
Painted across my upturned face.

I fell in love, and I fell hard.

By the time this posts I will be back in America. We are heading to the South (the Carolinas this time), to celebrate the milestone birthday of a beloved friend. On our way back to Amsterdam we will be spending a few days in Manhattan, me and the husband, in a city we both love but have never explored together.

I can't wait.