Ah, Trieste. The little Italian refuge from the pomp of Vienna. Rest cures. The sea. Warm breezes and dry air and lack of prying eyes.
Empresses need their rest cures, you know.
This hauntingly lovely place built by my brother-in-law, Ferdinand Maximilian, and the family often vacationed here before and after his death. It was here, at Miramare, that I recovered from tuberculosis. It was here that I returned, time and time again, to settle my nerves and the bouts of depression that plagued me in stuffy, cold Vienna.
All was not perfect in this Adriatic paradise, however. There was this one time I had it out with my sister-in-law, the whiny, pretentious Charlotte (my mother-in-law’s favorite daughter-in-law, it must be said). It involved Shadow, my airedale, and a yippy little spaniel belonging to Charlotte. There was a scuffle, and some growling and that was the end of my sister-in-law’s dog–which had been a gift from Queen Victoria I found out later. Oops.
Charlotte, of course, held it against me for the rest of her days and I made sure that I never visited while she was in residence again.
I never did like little dogs.