The plane touches down in Malpensa Airport on a dark, warm October night. I can't wait to get the hell off this thing as quickly as possible. Ever since the attacks of 9/11, simple plane journeys have taken on a new, frightening edge and its grip doesn't let go. I can see it in the faces of the other passengers as they clap with relief at the landing.

While Jack's been blissfully sleeping off two large doses of whisky, I've been struggling with a demonic entity in the form of a one and a half year old. My son has formed an obsession with the owner of what has to be the biggest head of hair ever known to man, sitting in the seat in front of me. For an hour and fifty minutes, Simon has done nothing but reach, grab, giggle, let loose and cry.

The poor woman with the big hair has tried her best to be accommodating and until the last, appology I made, has graciously turned round and playfully shaken her massive hairdo in discouragment at the little boy sitting on my lap. Now she - along with the rest of the passengers, has run out of patience. We are all telepathically willing the flight crew to let us get off the plane and escape from this torture.

When we finally disembark onto the runway, the fresh air is a welcome relief, The air isn't as oppressing as I remember it being in Pisa. Jack muscles his way onto the transport bus, using our carry-on luggage to claim a standing space large enough for his small, tired family. Everyone crams in and off we go. I almost lose my footing as the driver of the clanky old vehicle spins round to head back to the terminals.

This is the start of my new life, my pulse elevates and I soak in ever little detail inside the bus. The young, attractive Italian couple opposite us, kissing and playing with each other's hair. The older parents of a ridiculously noisy pack of children, placating and bribing good behaviour with sweets. A thiry-something, Italian business woman - obviously coming back from a work trip, clutching her briefcase in one hand and the rail grip from the ceiling bar with her other while she pulls faces at the rabid children to amuse them. A group of teenagers, rough in appearance but giggling together as they entertain a toddler in the seat behind them, the mother gratefully laughing along.This is Italy, this trapped microcosm of its population.

Grabbing my back, Jack kisses me on the cheek and blows a raspberry at Simon making him laugh. "Nearly done." He says.

We get through the controls and out of the narrow corridor to the arrivals area. It's full of bustle and the smell of espresso coffee, rumbling chatter and aircraft engines, overtaken every now and then by some man or woman's yelp of joy at reacquaintance.

We look about desperately for our escort. Zio Alberto is late. I bribe Simon into getting in his pushchair by giving him yet another sweetie, while Jack calls his uncle on the phone.

"Zio?... Ah, si... Si, va bene... Ciao, ci, ciao.. ciao."

For some unknown reason, anytime there's been an Italian on the other side of a call, it always takes at least three goodbyes to be said before the message gets through to actually end the call. Jack puts his phone into the back pocket of his jeans and picks up the bags.

"He's parked up outside."

Alberto as per usual, is parked what seems like ten kilometres away from arrivals at the far end of the cheaper carpark area. He spots us from a distance and waves to signal his position, he's standing on the door-sill of his old fiat 500, balancing on the driver's door.

When we get to him, he hugs and kisses hello to one and all. I notice that he's wearing brown framed glasses for the first time I can remember, maybe he only needs them for driving.

"Aha... Jilly!" he exclaims, his long arms stretched wide in welcome. "At last you have come to your senses and now you can begin to live and more importantly, eat in a better way yes?" He laughs and nudges Jack with his elbow as he brushes past him to get to me.

"We will make an Italian out of her yet, you agree Jack?"

Jack smirks and settles Simon into the car seat that we've brought with us. Looking round the inside of the compact car he asks. "Uh, Zio, how are we going to get everything in here?"

Alberto sighs loudly, makes a big display of exasperation with his hands, then proceeds to jam our possessions piece by piece into the vehicle. I end up having to sit on top of all our jackets with our carry-on bags wedged around me in the back seat next to Simon.

Looking back, the drive to our new home is now a blurry memory of fast, flashing headlights, crazy, lane-hopping drivers and low, wide shadows of industrial buildings crouched beside the motorway, lying in wait for the morning to come. There's no particular beauty here, just the sleeping industrial heart of the country.

Alberto and Jack chat away about the apartment, as far as I can gather, a major clue being the words, 'bagno' 'cucina' and 'disastro'. Simon thankfully falls asleep. I text a message to Mum to say we have arrived, so now she too can go to sleep in peace.

We pull off the motorway and exit the pay toll, under the overpass and onto the road into Bergamo. Here we're greeted by more industrial plots, new car showrooms, bars and restaurants, the night sky polluted with orange streetlights and bright shop windows. We drive around the centre of the city, then begin to ascend upwards. Passing what looks like a mini train station built into the side of the hill, Alberto points out that this is the track of the funicolare, which runs passengers up to the old quarter of Bergamo Alta. The parking up there is too expensive.

As we slowly make it up the hillside road, I get a view down to the sprawling, light sprinkled countryside that's spread out underneath us. I can see a couple of airplanes, one low in the sky, its landing lights blinking and another soaring into the distance high overhead.

Alberto drives us cautiously under an old stone gateway, quite similar to the ones we have in York but larger, and we circle a wide space of grass to turn off up onto a narrow one car-width cobble road, once more heading upwards. We park at the top of the grass area just by the side of another medieval stone gateway.

As we stretch ourselves and gather together our meagre house move belongings, I begin to get light headed and romantic about how different everything looks.

The full moon has crept out from her cover of clouds and I can easily see the tall, old stone buildings that encircle us, running either side of the town's entrance way. Glancing back down the hill, I can still see the glimmer in the distance of the lower lying city lights, peeping between the deep orange foliage of trees which line the road.

With Alberto and Jack complaining constantly about having to carry all our luggage once again, I take the sleeping Simon from his car seat and balance him onto my hip, make my way through the gateway, and drag the pushchair behind me.

The thin road becomes easier to walk on as it is tarmacked from the gateway onwards. It curves forever upwards surrounded by elongated housing of stone and concrete, gripping the hillside, their windows and doors opening out directly onto the street.

Reaching in his pocket for keys, Alberto stops outside the door of one of these buildings on the left side of the road. It has a tall, black door which looks fairly new and very robust. He pushes the door open with his foot and says something to Jack about 'luce' which to me sounds like 'loochay'.

Jack reaches past his uncle and flips a switch. Light cascades out of the doorway, leaving the shadow of Jack and Alberto plastered on the smooth road surface. Motioning for me to leave the pushchair inside the doorway, Jack follows Alberto into the building.