Soon after I landed last night, my checked bag was collected from the airport by the cruise, who, apparently, even do some of the unpacking for you. A detail I’d managed to forget in the chaos of throwing everything I own into my suitcase. I’m yet to board the boat and be reunited with my belongings, but I’m sure whoever is looking after it will wonder what in the actual fuck is wrong with me. But hey ho, at least I made it. And I only have to carry my hand luggage around, which I smartly packed with spare clothes and toiletries.
I spent the night in a quaint hotel overlooking the Ponte di Rialto, and in my post-breakup, pre-holiday mania, Itreated myself to a bottle of wine and room service and set myself up by the window, soaking it all in. I spent the early hours of the morning spiralling over the past five years, my relationship with Mike, how I’d consistently focused on everyone else around me rather than myself. Then, I thought about how he changed for the worse and I can’t help wondering if I did something to make him that way.
Was it me? Was I too focused on my career? Did I not give him enough attention?
I wish I knew how to feel.
The next morning, with only a handful of hours to soak up the sights before I board, I shake off my hangover by strolling along the canals in the sunshine, don my dark sunglasses and pretty white sundress, and even talk myself into handing over silly money to ride in a gondola, only to feel supremely awkward the whole time and nearly topple into the canal as I climb out.
And sure, I’m surrounded by couples on their romantic getaways, and yes, I don’t see any other solo travellers, but I don’t let it bother me.
I’m in Venice! I’ve never been to Venice!
I’ve never been anywhere on my own for leisure, and, although I know this should empower me, in this particular moment, it’s completely destabilising. Betrayal has made itself part of my DNA, and I hate it. I want to cast it away, but it won’t leave. Some part of me feels like it was my fault. And with that comes intense guilt. As if, had I found out sooner by being more vigilant, there would’ve been less pain.
Bad runaway bride.
Despite knowing deep down I did the right thing, it doesn’t dispel the thoughts that I should’ve handled it differently.
I stop in front of Saint Mark’s Basilica and admire the detailed architecture, forcing the thought from my mind. I need to be in the moment. I’m in one of the most beautiful, ancient cities in Europe, and the sun is shining. If I can’t force myself to enjoy this, how am I going to get through the next fourteen days in the Mediterranean?
I snap a picture and take a deep breath.I’ve got this.
An hour before I’m due to board the cruise, I pop into a stylish bar with views of the busy port and order myself a spritz, since I’ve been told Venice are famous for them. I step outside, hoping to find a seat at one of the tables when a massive oaf crashes into me. The sheer force takes my breath away. My spritz explodes from its glass, spilling orange liquid all down the front of my pristine white dress.
Fuck! Are you kidding me!?
“Jeez. Watch where you’re going!” the oaf says.
Fight.I’m going to start a fight. I can feel my blood roiling. “Are you serious?! You crashed intome!”
“You stepped into my path.” He takes a step back, assessing the damage.
“Do you know how much this cocktail cost?” I spit. I can feel Aperol dripping down my cleavage.
“Look, I’m sorry but I’m in a hurry,” he says, his voice only partly apologetic. The rest of him seems weirdly anxious, like he’s running from someone.
He takes another anxious glance behind him before reaching into his pocket. “Here, buy yourself another one on me.”
“I don’t want your money!” I hiss, but it’s too late. He thrusts the cash into my hands and dashes off. “Prick!” I call after him, drawing the attention of several passers-by.
Perfect.
Now not only are the cruise staff going to think I’m a lunatic, thanks to my unhinged packing, but they’re going to take one look at my dress and think I’m an absolute liability. There’s no way I can remedy this in such a short space of time.
I avoid pitiful looks from a few women sipping their drinks canal-side before stepping back into the bar. I assess the full damage in the bathroom mirror. It’s almost comical. Maybe this is a sign. Maybe I should cut and run, right now, before it’s too late.
No!I can’t let the oaf ruin my day. I splash some water on my face (no point in trying to sort the dress), wipe off the sticky Aperol from my chest and arms, and take a deep breath.
I’ve got this. Nothing is going to derail this trip.
Nothing.
*
I saved ruthlessly after Mike proposed, going above and beyond at work, securing new clients and working my arse off to hit targets to pay for this. Despite where I’m at emotionally, I’m now able to remember why. With five floors above deck, the superyacht is luxury on water. Even the gangway is carpeted. Next to other cruise ships, the Adriatic Angel is a beauty, exactly how it looked in the pictures: sleek, majestic and expensive. Because it is. I’m immediately greeted with champagne, a map of the ship detailing all the facilities and a detailed itinerary that includes the entertainment, restaurant times and port dockings.
I’m then escorted by an immaculate attendant to my stateroom. It’s not even close to the nicest room on the yacht and yet it’s beautiful. Varnished mahogany walls, spotless finishings, a large white bed with red petals sprinkled over it (I’ll deal with them and the heart-shaped towels later), watertight glass doors that let in an immense amount of light from the private balcony, and current views of the gorgeous harbour.
