Miracle Worker
The departure (1 January 2025)
Written 17 January 2026
When we departed Verona on 1 January 2025 (yes… one full year ago), I believed we would never again experience living as a family in this apartment I love, in this city I love, amongst these people I love. But here we are again.
This time, we are on holiday for just three weeks and we own the apartment. In September 2025, we managed to buy the apartment in which we lived for a full year during 2024. Incredible… and a whole other story. This Italian thing just keeps on giving. Circumstances continue to dovetail beautifully as though they are actually meant to be.
As I write, I am working closely with others in my new Italian ‘family’ to give the apartment the lift it deserves - a minor renovation. Gosh, I’m having fun, learning new vocabulary, finding out how things work, dreaming of the finished product.
Here’s a new word: battiscopa. It means skirting boards!
Let’s just agree that my heart is full.
So, as I write on 17 January 2026, we three are coming to the end of three wonderful weeks spent mostly in Verona (naturally) and a week skiing in Corvara in the Dolomites.
I was really hoping to spend some time writing in detail about our escapades during this period but I have not wanted to take time away from family and friends (and renovation planning time) so the writing thing has not happened. In place of relaying the funny stories and downright lovely times we have had on this trip, I am publishing (below) the story I wrote more than a year ago which describes in excruciating detail our day of departure from Verona after living here as a family for all of 2024.
It recounts my personal heartache, the drama and (looking back on it) the laughable moments which occurred while I was being wrenched away from this place and the life which I could happily have continued living for quite a bit longer.
I hope you enjoy the read.
Written 1 January 2025 (one year ago)
It’s over - our year living as a family in Verona - and it’s departure day.
This morning, we wake to fully packed bags, weighed on John’s bathroom scales and all within our total weight limit for the long Emirates flights home to Australia. The apartment is clean. The fridge is empty and freshly wiped clean. We are ready to go.
I rise early on this chilly morning and take a beautiful, solo wander through my favourite streets of Verona, returning via the River Adige and across the bridge at the Castelvecchio to our Italian home.
The boys rise later - at their leisure - and put on the clothes they laid out days earlier. They get themselves breakfast and, together, they hand wash the few remaining dirty dishes while the dishwasher itself undergoes a deep clean with the Finish dishwasher cleaner I have purchased for this moment.
Once I return from my wander with a heart full of gratitude for the extraordinary opportunity of this year and all the experiences it has afforded, we three settle in the lounge room of our apartment for a last coffee and an unvarnished exchange about our respective experiences and how we’re each feeling in this moment. What have we most enjoyed? What will we miss? What are we looking forward to about being back in Australia? What will we not miss? (The universal answer to this last question is always “the cigarette smoke”.)
Aaaaah, if only it were so.
Wanna know what actually happened this morning? Because it was not the pretty scene I have just described.
By now, I am sitting on the plane which is carrying me away from my home and taking me to… well, that other country I’m meant to call home (Australia). I dare not go to the place inside myself where I am feeling the loss of it all. It is too hard, too painful, really not helpful. I can’t go there because there is no one to comfort me, no one who understands let alone empathises, no one to wrap their arms around me and hold me while I give in to it.
There’s no easy way to say this. This morning - the last morning of our life in Verona - has been a shit storm of last minute panic and pressure for which we paid time and time again as our travel day progressed. As I said to John much later in the day when we were seated in the airport lounge at Venice’s Marco Polo airport: “Travel does not have to be like this. It can be well organised way ahead of time leading to a calm, stress-free, (pleasant even) departure.” Unconvinced, he returned a wordless look.
I have entitled this post “Miracle Worker” because I have to believe I am. If I don’t believe this of myself, then I will crumple in a teary heap, perhaps never to rise again. Never to be the strong, beautiful, loved and loving person I know myself to be. I’ll say it again: You can’t soar with the eagles when you fly with turkeys. Neither can one heartbroken person manage all this alone. It needs to be a team effort.
Give me a sec… momentarily stopping to wipe away the tears… mopping up the mascara.
OK, I’ve collected myself.
So… here’s the blow by blow description of what really went down on our departure day of 1 January 2025:
I wake early - a little after 6:00am. By 6:30, I’m sitting on the couch with coffee and going over my plan for the morning. At this stage, even I don’t appreciate how much work remains to be done before we are collected by Riccardo at 11:00am and driven to Venice airport.
There’s only so much one person can manage. I’ve been at this for weeks with increasing intensity in the last two - going through cupboards and drawers, sorting and tossing things, giving away Jack’s clothes which no longer fit, planning and actually getting myself packed - a task I loath.
I refuse to pack the fellas - their department.
Surely, this family gig is, by definition, a team effort. But, we all know that’s not how it works in every household and I’m pretty sure I am rubbish at training my fellas to be team players. At least, I think I am. Maybe it’s not me. Maybe it’s the material I’m working with. In truth, it’s probably a combination of the two.
In any case, neither the number nor the severity of the warnings I have been issuing to the fellas in recent weeks - that we are facing a deadline and the plane is leaving with or without us, ready or not - could stir my two reluctant travellers into action any earlier than the day before we were to fly out of this joint. Even then, they needed multiple conversations about the various considerations… what to pack, how to pack. OMG.
I repeated the suggestions I gave a couple of weeks ago: start with the clothes you intend to wear on the first flight from Venice to Dubai, then set aside the clothes you will wear on the second flight from Dubai to Sydney, add everything you will need while on board and during our overnight stay in Dubai - toothbrush, PJs, phone chargers etc. Then, work backwards from there. What will you need for the first week in Australia?… summer clothes, swimmers, a nice shirt and trousers for your meeting in Sydney John. Really not rocket science.
Yesterday, Jack and I dispatched six boxes of our stuff home to Sydney via DHL - winter clothes, books and Lego. Not cheap but a huge load off my mind. Everything else must fit inside our suitcases and come with us on the plane.
Both of the fellas got roughly two thirds of the way through their packing (not bad) and came to me saying they didn’t know how to finish the job. We’ve all heard it before. At a certain point, it’s quicker to do it yourself than it is to explain it, to field the questions and to provide the repeat instructions along the way. And who has the patience anyway to do that multiple times, with tender loving care and understanding - times two people? Not me. There comes a point where you just have to get the job done, regardless of where the responsibility should actually lie. That plane is a comin’.
I really don’t believe I could have got us packed up any sooner (doing it alone, I mean) without actually cancelling Christmas and, therefore, being able to pack up certain things a week earlier. But who wants a Christmas like that to round off a beautiful year in Italy - and I couldn’t do it to Jack.
I admit, I’m having a winge-fest and… I digress.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, it’s our last morning in Verona. I finish my coffee, do a few yoga stretches to keep the dodgy back functional (critical to success), get myself ready to depart and then go about packing my last bits and bobs. But there is much to do… all too boring to list here and I can’t bear to re-live it. It will suffice to say that even John sensed the urgency (better late than never) and was a great help this morning in all the ways that he could be. Even Jack grudgingly got on board. (He is 15).
Actually, Jack’s numeracy skills have saved our butts several times recently from being over-charged (or under-charged) and, for that, I am thankful. At critical junctures, I am necessarily in the thick of decision-making and negotiating (often in Italian), which means Jack has the benefit of remaining a step removed from a situation, able to act as an observer, a checker and a balancer. When required, he speaks up and lets me know that something is amiss. Pretty cool.
It seems like barely an hour later when the front door buzzer sounds. It’s Chantal (our real estate agent) arriving bang on time at 11:00am to collect the keys to the apartment. This is also our scheduled departure time from Verona. We’re supposed to be downstairs, suitcases loaded and being driven away right about now by the robust figure of Riccardo - my guy at times like this.
But we’re not ready. I ask Jack to dash downstairs and let Chantal know we need five minutes. I cannot let her inside. It’s hot rushing about and finishing everything so I am wearing only a bra and silk camisole on top of my trousers. There will be no time for a second shower before we leave. We’re already out of time and I don’t want to overheat and feel uncomfortable for the rest of the day. Chantal kindly goes for a walk.
Once we connect with Chantal (20 minutes later), I invite her inside to look around. She quickly tells us the apartment looks perfect. Then she thoughtfully asks me how I feel about returning to Australia. Am I looking forward to being home? It is my most dreaded question. I gesture towards the living room, smile and say: “No. This is home.” The tears that are never far from the surface rise to my eyes and she can see my emotion. I move away and fiddle with a box of tissues, repositioning it on the shelf. OMG. I am unable to look at her or say any more.
Riccardo is downstairs, waiting patiently. By now, John is overseeing the loading of the suitcases into the shiny black van. Somewhere in this process, John loses his set of keys to the apartment. This is something John cannot bear. I tell him to relax - they will turn up. (They haven’t yet.) More delays while we all look for John’s keys. At least Jack remembered not to pocket his set of keys. Regular readers may remember he has form. We hand over three out of the four sets of keys with which we were entrusted one year ago.
Chantal graciously accepts them and says that if we ever come back to Italy, we must be sure to tell her. She’s telling us we’re good tenants. We embrace with a warm abbraccio (hug) and she leaves us to finish our dishevelled exit.
Overall, not the departing impression I wanted to make.
The pressures and the panic of the morning mean that (1) I don’t get breakfast and (2) we depart Verona 30 minutes behind schedule. That’s the 30 minutes I have allowed to process my Global Blue tax-free purchases at the airport before Check-in. The pressure of this morning is such that I don’t even notice the absence of it - breakfast, I mean. I am surviving on the coffee I consumed at 6:30am with a double shot of adrenaline.
Darling Riccardo remains outwardly tranquillo (calm) in that very Italian way. The moment arrives when I have closed the door on the apartment for the last time, the van is loaded and we are all downstairs on the street, ready (sort of) to depart.
When it’s my turn to step inside the vehicle which is about to carry me away from my home, I hesitate and look at Jack. Tears well. I say: “I don’t want to go.” He sees it. We have an all too brief hug and I take a last 360 degree gaze around me. I say “thank you and goodbye”, pushing it down again, all that emotion which lives just below the surface. In I must climb and off we must go, to the airport.
I feel like calling out to all the Italians living in Italy: “Do not take this for granted. Do not under estimate this place, this heritage, this lifestyle. It is unique and wonderful and oh so precious”.
We are halfway to the airport when I say aloud (almost to myself): “I feel like I’m leaving home, not going home”. I get nothing back from the boys. John is focussed on his phone. Jack too! I encourage Jack to look out the window and say goodbye to Italy. With a cheeky smile he says: “Good riddance Italy.” I get that he’s had to manage a lot this year and I get that he’s happy to be going home but - really? I stare back at him and the darling fella says he’s trying to help. Oh boy. I explain that I’m not up to humour right now.
He puts his phone away and we share a cuddle, a chat and a look out the window. Jack spots a brand name on a building which he recognises - something to do with Formula One. These are our last sights of Italy from the ground.
As we drive away from clear, blue Verona, the weather quickly closes in around us. We are enveloped in a dense, low lying fog which hangs in the air all the way to Venice. Quite fitting really. Italy and me… always in sync.
On arrival at the airport, the same grey mist conceals the lagoon. I can see the shore line but very little beyond it. A metaphor for the state of my world.
Now, rather than being able to rest in that wonderful feeling that all the work is done and soon even our physical baggage will be checked-in and off our hands until we land in Sydney, I am dreading the next part.
Once inside the airport, my first job is to process the six Global Blue documents for my recent tax-free purchases. This is a great system whereby one can claim back the goods and services tax on Italian purchases over a certain value as long as one exits the country within roughly three months of purchase. I have taken careful steps to qualify for this tax refund. I have budgeted for it. It means a substantial saving - hundreds of euros. But that late departure from Verona will dog us all the way to the departure gate. We are 30 minutes down. That’s my Global Blue time.
One of the reasons I love to fly out of Venice airport is it’s relatively small and rarely busy (in my experience). We quickly find the Global Blue office where I will process my tax-free documents and, as usual, there’s no queue to speak of. But they’ve changed the system and I must first walk across the hall to have my documents inspected and stamped by a Customs officer. No biggy. There’s only a small queue at the Customs window. There are two desks and there should be two Customs dudes but, at the moment, one guy is working alone and he’s not happy about it. Progress is slow.
After waiting for a while, I suggest to John that we remain in the Customs queue for just 10 more minutes in the hope that we get processed fast enough. My tax free refund will likely cover any excess baggage costs we are about to pay at Check-in. I haven’t warned John before now about the excess baggage. Saving myself pain.
As rotten luck would have it, the people in the Customs queue immediately ahead of us have a problem and it takes forever for solo Grumpy Customs Dude to process their documents.
Too much time passes and I tell John we need to forget it and move on. John completely ignores me. I remind him that Check-in could take a while and I need time to eat before boarding the plane. Ya gotta remember, I’m operating on empty. One coffee at 6:30am. That’s it. But John is determined to take advantage of the tax refund (which he didn’t even know existed until a few hours ago).
Our son Jack, is standing out of sight some distance away, minding the rest of our baggage while John and I are queuing to do the tax free thing.
More time passes and I get antsy. It’s around 1:30pm now. Our flight leaves at 3:25pm. We still have Check-in, Security, food, Prosecco and Immigration to traverse. Before we left Verona, there was no time to do my usual trick and weigh our suitcases before departing and I know in my gut that we are over the weight allowance. Everyone knows that’s a costly exercise at this point and it’s gunna take more time. Time is not our friend today.
My phone rings. It’s Jack. He says we need to go. I agree and I tell John (again). He continues to ignore me. Infuriating! I tell him I’m pulling the pin on the tax free thing and I take my Global Blue documents with me. I quietly move away to collect Jack and proceed to Check-in. It’s a while before John joins us - he’s reluctant to give up. Easy for him… it’s my money that I’m choosing to forego and it’s my stomach that’s on rock bottom. I can feel my body turning on itself. I’m losing precious weight as we speak.
Next step: Check-in and bag drop
Thankfully, there is no queue for Check-in. So lucky! The beauty of my Venice airport plan strikes again. We are even more blessed to score the loveliest Emirates check-in person in the world. She’s actually pretty special. I hand over our passports. Without thinking, I’m speaking in Italian. She compliments me and we’re off to a great start. She asks me how many bags we have. I do a quick count… “seven”, I say. Jack corrects me. “Oh, sorry… that’s eight bags.”
Emirates Lady senses something immediately… I see it flicker across her face and explain that we have been living in Italy for a year and we are now returning home to Australia… so we’re fully loaded. “Ah…” she says. She asks if I think we are OK for weight or might we be over? This, I say in English: “Err, I reckon we’re over” but she smiles a reassuring smile and onwards we go.
She enlists the services of her colleague at the desk next door and asks us to use both conveyor belts either side of her desk in order to weigh all our check-on suitcases at once. I stand back and invite John to do the lifting and loading. Jack is there too, helping and observing all.
Emirates Lady uses her calculator and tells me as gently as she can that we are 19kgs over our weight allowance but “Let’s call it 15kgs”, she says. I thank her warmly in Italian and she goes about working out how much that will cost.
But then our ever vigilant, highly numerate son pipes up. He’s been watching the scales as the suitcases were weighed and doing his own mental arithmetic. Jack says we are not over by that much. There’s a flurry of re-calculating. Bottom line: we are over by only 10kgs! She says she will charge us for just 7kgs. God bless this woman - she’s still going to give us a discount.
The damage is more than 100 euros and I’m happy with that. I was expecting it to cost much more. Honestly, the worst part is watching and waiting while John digests the numbers and the cost of it all. He hates having to pay anything extra. But, as far as I’m concerned, this is payback time. If the boys had got off their arses and started helping me a week ago, this whole Exit Italy Gig would be playing out very differently.
So, Emirates Lady has told me how much it will cost for the check-on gear but she hasn’t yet hit my credit card and the suitcases are still sitting on the conveyor belts - looking back at me ominously.
OK, she says. Let’s do the hand luggage.
It’s a dead cert. Our carry-on is grossly over the per person limit. We are packing two flutes, three laptops and everything we need for an overnight stay in the airport hotel in Dubai. Shit.
My new Emirates friend looks at me. We understand each other - wordlessly. She leans a little closer and says in hushed tones that she can’t turn a blind eye to both our over-weight check-on and our over-weight hand luggage. I immediately express my understanding and, without reference to my other half, I make a snap decision. I instruct her to charge us the full whack for the check-on suitcases already weighed and to overlook the hand luggage. I know instinctively that this will be better all round… not to mention quicker! By now, I’m desperate for food and I can taste that bloody Prosecco.
Emirates Lady is amazing with us. She asks us to remove the check-on suitcases and to place our three carry-on wheely bags onto the conveyor belts. All three little wheelies turn out to be on or under 7kgs so she’s not concerned at all. She attaches an Emirates bag tag to each of them - the equivalent of a blessing for them to continue all their little way onto the plane - and hands them back to me.
But what she doesn’t know is that our three backpacks weigh a fricking tonne because that’s where the flutes and the laptops are stashed.
Ever honest me offers our backpacks to be weighed as well. She all but winks and smiles back at me, indicating that won’t be necessary. By this stage, I could climb over that desk and kiss her.
My card takes a hit for 146 euro for the full 10kgs of over-weight check-on suitcases (could have been a lot worse) and our grossly over-weight hand luggage sails through without a hitch. I credit not only gorgeous Emirates Lady but also my Italian language skills and perhaps a newly acquired travel confidence with getting us through. God bless women who work together.
Check-in takes a very long time. I was right to skip the tax free thing and get us moving!
Next, we’re off to find food, food, food…. and a drink.
I am running on empty in more ways than one so I let Jack know we’re looking for signage to the VIP lounge. He’s happy to have a mission.
On our way through the airport, I notice more Global Blue signage. It’s a second opportunity to do the tax free thing. I hold my breath, knowing John is about to see it too. He turns to me. My look says it all: “No… food, food, food… and a drink.”
Now, a few years back, I upgraded my credit card to one which gives me a few international travel-related benefits. I rarely have use for any of it but - when I do - I love using them - the benefits, I mean. My Monica-style (Friends reference) aversion to unclean environments and an appreciation for good food (I blame the Italians) means I dislike airports and the food that comes with them. I mean, “food” is a loose term in some of those places. So, a VIP lounge which offers quite nice freshly prepared food and an endless supply of Prosecco is - to say the least - appealing and I am feeling an unbridled sense of entitlement at this point.
Once we’re in close proximity to the lounge, I know exactly where we are. As we take the escalator up one level, I make a mental note that Passport Control (the last frontier) sits immediately beneath the lounge. There’s no distance to travel, no queue and our departure gate is only a few metres further on. I am familiar with this airport by now and the rather fantastic Prosecco Bar nearby… mustn’t get distracted… VIP lounge awaits.
We three approach the reception desk to gain access to the lounge. I produce my credentials and the handsome Italian man reminds me that I can enter with one guest for free but I need to pay for the third. It will cost 32 euro. I can smell the food just metres away and - you know it - I can taste those bubbles.
As we hover at the reception desk, in my right ear, I hear Jack say softly: “We won’t be here very long.” Instinctively, I know this is a Chinese whisper which has come down the line from John, to Jack, to me. The message is this: It’s not worth spending money (any amount of money) when we will be here for such a short time. My turn to do some ignoring.
I refuse to eat crap in the airport food hall at a plastic table that hasn’t been wiped down when I have gone without brekkie and my tax refund and I am entitled to lovely food and as much Prosecco as I can down in however many minutes I have left.
I fleetingly consider taking Jack into the lounge with me for free and asking John if he would prefer to remain outside in the concourse with his phone for company. But I couldn’t do it. For starters, it would be unkind. But mostly I prefer to keep everyone within sight at this stage. This is no time to lose track of each other and we surely would.
I pay. We enter the lounge. I task the boys with scouting a comfortable spot for us to settle. I have to say, they do this quite quickly, for which I express my gratitude.
I give them both a hard stare (Paddington Bear reference) and leave them in charge of our remaining worldly goods in order to freshen up in the bathroom. With lovely clean hands, I head straight to the food area where I find what I need… Prosecco, mineral water and, aaahhhhh… several good things to eat. I am so hungry that I start eating while I’m standing at the bar waiting for my drink to be poured. The ever perceptive Italian serving me clocks it and smiles her understanding. I return to the boys and settle in a chair, practically inhaling the food. They know they are released to find their own treasure.
When Jack returns with a full plate, I task him with keeping an eye on the departures board while he eats. I inform him that we will leave the lounge when the sign says “Final boarding call”. The look on his face is priceless. He is predictably alarmed by this piece of information but he’s a bright kid and he can see it’s not the time to argue.
I check the clock. Right - we have just under 30 minutes to eat and drink before boarding.
As John returns with a plate full of food and some water, I respectfully ask him to go back for a glass of Prosecco. He shoots a look in the direction of the full glass sitting on the table next to me but I’m way ahead of him. “That one won’t touch the sides - another please.” He dutifully heads back to the bar and returns with a second.
Note to self: “Holy shit, keep it together, keep it together.”
We board the plane late in the piece and arrive at our seats to find the overhead compartments already full. Our carry-on gear ends up spread between various compartments - some above our heads and others six rows back. Jack is fabulous enough to make a mental note of the luggage compartment numbers so he can tell John from which compartments to retrieve them at the other end of the flight. I would never have thought of doing that.
The boys don the noise cancelling headphones I purchased for them and hook into something on the TV.
I brace myself for take-off from this land I love. Italia.
The rest of the flight is a blur.
It’s only six hours from Venice to Dubai and it’s as good a flight as it can be under the circumstances.
Once we land in Dubai, the aisle of the plane quickly fills with passengers waiting to disembark. It is not possible for John to access the overhead compartments six rows back to get our stuff. This means we are the last people to disembark with the exception of a couple of dear old things who cannot walk unaided.
That 30 minute late departure from Verona has chased us all the way to Dubai.
We stop overnight in the international hotel which sits literally on top of Dubai airport, breaking the long journey to Australia. Tomorrow’s flight will take 14 hours to Sydney but, first, there is time for showers and food and sleep - lots of sleep.
Jack has calculated the time difference and decided when we should sleep and remain awake. He is determined to skip the whole jet-lag thing. He thinks it’ll work if he sleeps well in Dubai (which we all do) and then remains awake for the entire flight to Sydney. He might be right although I am not convinced. Jack has never before needed to adjust his body clock after such a prolonged period so far away from Australia.
So, how am I feeling about all this - the exit I mean?
Answer: completely ripped off. Angry, actually. Angry that the fellas are not better at jumping on board and helping in a timely fashion and angry that I’m not better at showing them how.
There’s been no calm exit for me, no last solo wander through the chilly streets I love, no moment sitting together as a family on the striped lounge in our apartment to reflect on the year that was and to consider what lies ahead, to each say what we’re looking forward to and to laugh about the things we’re happy to leave behind. After all, it wasn’t all easy.
As I knew I would be, I am grieving and I am alone in that grief. I’m not making the fellas wrong for that. Their feelings are equally valid and of course they’re feeling happy to be returning to their homeland, their friends and their usual routines. I can respect the things they love too. It’s pretty wonderful that John was willing to uproot his life and move to a foreign land for a full year. As a minor, Jack didn’t have a heap of choice in the matter although, to his credit, he did get himself mentally on board with the idea and conducted himself largely with grace while doing without his teen friends and the usual structure to his life.
It may sound as though John and Jack have not enjoyed this year when actually they have. We have each made a list of the things we will miss about our life in Italy and the things we will not. It’s probably a good time to gather those lists together and share them here for the record for, with the passing of time, we will surely forget.
So, looking back over this last year and considering all that has gone before, it was probably a predictable exit.
No idea what’s next.
