I could see the Lion of Venice from my bedroom window, spreading the pages of a book with its paws. Winged and perched on top of a pillar at the mouth of Piazzetta di San Marco, it faced away from Saint Theodore and his dragon on the western column.

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The Golden Gate Bridge was built shortly after the Ambassador, in the early 1930s, and it shares its art deco verve, but on a whole different scale. It’s made to be experienced. Time-lapsing fog, thick and unforgiving, rolls over cyclists as they cut through waves of sea smoke.

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The sun was barely up the morning we decided to shake the tent. Ash from Eyjafjallajökull’s eruption was still falling two months after the spectacle had ended. No matter how hard we tried, our eyes never caught sight of the seared snowflakes dancing towards the ground.

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