When we last left our heroes, they had spent a short and uncharacteristically disastrous time in Venice. We now pick up the story a week later after the hillbillies have visited northern Italy, confirmed that V is for both vendetta and Venice, and returned to the London fog. Let's watch!

After leaving Venice, our vacation started taking a turn more in line with our expectations. It was a three hour drive, mostly through mountains, to our ultimate destination but it was worth it. Among the hotel's better amenities: a separate room for Syd (with a bunk bed no less), a spa, and a zip line, which is a playground device designed for maximum speed/fun (i.e. minimum safety).

Our companions for the week were the Donaldsons who were amazingly gracious hosts, especially since they don't live in Italy either. And there is still a good eighty to eight-five percent chance I would still say that even if I didn't know they read this blog. At the very least, they are more diligent at putting up pictures than I am.

Activities ranged from a family bike ride to a nearby town followed by a parents-only bike ride back to the hotel. Sam and Ana, the younger Donaldsons, made the trip while hardly breaking a sweat. Syd did too mostly because she spent it in a child side on my bike. (The Bahamas is hardly what you would call "bike-friendly".)

Also went hiking in the Alps (not the Swiss Alps, mind you, but impressive nonetheless) and visited a local castle, of which there are many. Seems building a castle was the medieval version of "pissing for distance" given how many of them spot the landscape.

The missus and I also celebrated nine years together during our trip. And as you all know, the ninth is the "atomic diarrhea" anniversary and I celebrated in grand style! (And judging from the port-o-potty I almost used in a nearby town, someone else also observed nine years.) I swear it was from a stomach bug but some have argued that it was psychosomatic.

We returned to Venice for a night, which was just long enough for Syd to get food poisoning, leading her to conclude that our family was allergic to Venice. Luckily, it subsided before we had to board the plane to London although she did get airsick just for good measure. When we politely asked the flight attendant if we could get a fast pass for British customs, not only did she refuse, we were admonished for bringing a sick child on the plane. My response: Can you repeat that? I can't hear you over the hacking from the other flight attendant.

So we landed in what I thought was a dense fog but I later discovered it was the whole of London taking one last puff before the country went smoke-free the next day. As luck would have it, we landed on the same day Picadilly Circus was being defused. But despite my wish to barricade myself in the hotel, the girls wanted one last night out in London.

And thank God for women's intuition. We left the hotel and followed the sound of music to Trafalgar Square. Syd was the first to figure out what was going on: DADDY! THEY'RE CELEBRATING CANADA DAY!

And there was much merriment going on. We wandered through the booths, acquiring much red and white memorabilia. Syd got a "Canadian Girls Rock" tattoo which lasted several days. There was live music by several bands I didn't recognize plus Sam Roberts, who I still don't recognize but I was in the minority. Compared to the bands before him, he was a little generic for my tastes. Syd was very patriotic, though, and showed it by screaming a lot.

Alas, all good things. Syd and I made our way to Calgary for the summer and Liza back home to Nassau. We are left with fond memories supported by pictures (because we all know what my memory is like). And many, many thanks to Scott, Alex, Sam, and Ana for what Syd has described as our best vacation ever.

Except for Venice.

 Ah, Venice. Our stay with you was short but such a sweet and noble disaster it was! And such entertainment you will provide my loyal reader!

Before I go into details, I should mention that this was my first ever trip to a country where English was not the primary language (excluding a couple of border towns in Mexico where, let's face it, no language is necessary). And I have to say it's freakin' EMBARRASSING speaking only one language there when even the rats squeak in at least three.

The first problem we ran into was the rather draconian rules imposed by hotels in the area. It seems they all expect you to have what they call a "reservation" when you go there. And they act all surprised when you tell them you swore you made one but upon looking through your e-mails, you realize that you didn't quite confirm it.

But no matter. I was able to effectively use my mastery of languages to express our wishes at the Quattro Fontane ("Garcon! L'accommodatione, por favor! Chop chop!"). Luckily, they were able to house us. Even more luckily, it is a very nice hotel and close to a couple of pretty cool beaches, even if it doesn't get many points for being all that convenient.

Second issue: Venice contains at least one thief with a penchant for cell phones. Which is a fairly big deal but easy to remedy. When you speak the local language. Alas, the pay phones (and corresponding instructions) in Italy are, in fact, in Italian. After several unsuccessful attempts to insert a credit card and make a call home to someone who can help us, we eventually found a phone with a toll-free number next to an American and Canadian flag and we were able to make calls on our credit card to North America.

Which, apparently, the Bahamas is not part of. Even though it uses the same country code. We did manage to get hold of a family member in Calgary. Alas, Rogers will not allow just anyone to cancel your service. You have to phone and do it yourself. So, of course, said family member called pretending to be the missus, cleverly subverting their security system ("What's my birthdate? Oh gosh, I'm not actually the real customer so I guess I don't really know now, do I?").

Unfortunately, Rogers uses a secondary security system which is more effective. Namely, incompetence. Said family member got cut off before she could successfully complete her operation. But she was able to ascertain that Rogers had a 1.800 number that works "anywhere in the world". Except from Italian payphones calling a toll-free number to connect to North America. I spoke with a very pleasant gentleman who informed me that he was unable to connect me to toll-free numbers from his system, only numbers with a valid Canadian area code.

By that time, we had figured out how to successfully use the credit card in the pay phone and were able to call the Rogers 1.800 number directly, if not toll-freely. I can't stand voice recognition systems. You know the ones. They tell you in a semi-human voice, "I'm sorry, I didn't quite get that" when you scream "SWEET ZOMBIE JESUS, GET A REAL PERSON ON THE &*%$# LINE NOW OR I SWEAR I WILL STAND HERE AND SCREAM AT YOU SOME MORE TO THE AMUSEMENT OF PASSERS-BY!"

Seriously, there is no "press 0 for an operator" option in Rogers' system. When you do, they still want more information. So after entering 454.558.3323 as the phone number to be cancelled (translation: I KILL U DEAD), we finally got hold of someone who was almost able to understand our request before putting us on hold for approximately three minutes, give or take an hour. During that time, someone took mercy on us and simply disconnected the call so we left it at that, relying on the fact that the call would be monitored or recorded for quality assurance purposes so they had a formal record of our intent, even if they didn't quite grasp it.

Total time spent in Venice: 18 hours. But the memories will last a lifetime. Whether I want them to or not.

Venice be where the Hillbilly and his family are at. Left London this morning after visiting the old bird for a week and tomorrow, we leave for our next destination for the week. I'll try to act humble while you browse through the website. Note that all of this is relative to when I'm typing this (June 23, 2007) because there be no knowledge of Internet where we are now. Hope the hotel we go to tomorrow has one somewhere because I'm starting to get the shakes.

The London portion of our trip is fairly routine in that Cabbage and I come here every year at this time for work. It was getting so routine, in fact, that we had to bring the young'un with us this year just to shake things up a bit.

The hotel we were in while in London is one I've come to love. Uncharacteristically large rooms and exceptional staff. The bathrooms include a bathtub and separate shower with five nozzles which is a source of unending fun with Syd (and, I'm guessing, the cleaning staff who has to deal with our room afterward). It also boasts the largest free-standing marble staircase in the world, which proves my theory that everyone can be the best at something if you add enough qualifiers.

Sights seen to date: Buckingham Palace ("Look, Daddy, I can wave like the queen"), London Eye ("It would have been better if it went faster"), Tower of London ("Henry the Eighth was an angry king"), The Lion King ("Daddy must have been a young warthog once too") and Madame Tussaud's (gallery of wax figures notable for having the coolest activity we've seen so far - immortalizing your hand in wax).

We also took a double-decker bus tour which gave us nice family-friendly tidbits of information like the fact that King Charles I had his head cut off for treason but they had to sew it back on because they forgot they had no decent portrait of him. There were a number of clarifications I had to make for that for Syd:

• No, he didn't come back to life when his head got sewed back on
• This happened a long time ago, not last week. They don't cut people's heads off now, we're much more civilised
• What's treason? Why that's when you don't finish your vegetables at dinner, of course.

Syd has unabashedly declared this her best vacation ever, praise which I'll temper by saying she has inherited her dad's memory so there's a good chance it's the only one she remembers. Still, she's had a perpetual smile on her face ever since arriving so maybe there's something to it. It may sound sweet but you weren't the one listening to her sing, "He' gorgeous! He's Teddy! He's gorgeous! He's Teddy!" to her Hamley's teddy bear last night for forty-five minutes. And now that I've typed that out, the &*%$# song is stuck in my head again.

Here's hoping the fine folks at Google Maps have carefully researched tomorrow's destination because it does NOT look easy to get to.