By Kate Browne

`I'm so sorry, madam, there's nothing else we can do,'' says the woman looking sympathetic. ``All we could save was this,'' she mutters holding up the mangled amber plastic of my last roll of film. Beyond the counter lies the lifeless body of my camera.

It is there in a camera repair shop in Italy that I say my final goodbyes to the trusty camera that has accompanied me on my travels through the years. Feeling sad and with no funds to replace it, I ponder the remainder of this trip camera-free.

This seems a grim proposition, considering where I am. Venice is a heartbreakingly photogenic city of genteel buildings, peeling pastel paint, tiny arched bridges and sparkling water. From the edge of the Grand Canal I watch all the other tourists clutching their cameras, faces screwed up in concentration as they try to capture the city around us. I feel impotent and cranky as I keep reaching for a camera that is no longer there.

The next day I walk along the water's edge watching gondoliers in striped jerseys and beribboned boaters hustle plump American tourists into ornate gondolas. I spot one such couple climbing awkwardly aboard. ``Oh Bob, it's so romantic,'' the woman says to her husband. But Bob isn't listening; he is romancing something else, a sexy, slim, silver camera that he cradles ham-fistedly. Ignored, Mrs Bob gazes across the water, looking sad.

As the days pass I start to embrace my camera-free state. I rediscover the joys of writing in my journal and fill it with words and mad stick figures to describe all I see and do. I am liberated from the burdens of buying film, batteries and the pressure of capturing everything on camera. I start to live in the moment rather than living through the lens.
On my last night in town I decide to take a gondola, but with the sky-high price of a private ride akin to that of a waterfront apartment in Sydney I agree to share with a couple of other tourists to cut down on costs. We pile in and float off into the darkness and for a moment there is nothing but candlelight, the lapping of water and the faint tinkle of laughter from the open windows above.

Seconds later the mood is shattered as someone spots the house Casanova once lived in. All hell breaks loose on our craft as camera flashes strobe in the darkness and we are almost upended as one guy stands up to get a better shot. In the chaos I look up to the sky and see a pink, full moon rising over the steep rooftops. It is a picture-perfect moment but as I turn to tell the others our gondolier catches my eye, puts his finger to his lips and shakes his head. I cotton on and he and I settle back in silence to enjoy the view while the others are oblivious, still obsessing with their cameras and Casanova.

At this point I'm so very glad of my camera's untimely death in Venice. After all, it's taught me that some things are just meant to be enjoyed in the here and now, not captured and pinned down in albums for later.