Pedestrian hazards and other Italy Warning Or Danger Tips

Cute, isn't it? Being a bit of an animal lover (in the nicest sense) I thought this was a wonderful photo opportunity. What this pic doesn't enlighten you on is the problem with this animal.
If Rome be the cat capital of the world then Naples has a fetish with dogs. We were surprised to see women who were obviously models in their day job walking around at evening in high heels towing a dog along - and then watching noncholantly while it crapped all over the footpath, or alleyway or wherever else you wanted to walk.
A friend of mine invented a method for strolling around Napoli. He said you must always walk in pairs, one to see where you want to go and the other to watch what you don't want to step in.
You have been warned!

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The following is and extract from my E-mails during the journey.
"I thought I had seen the last of them with the one at Grotte d' Frasassi. There we had rocked up at 9.32, asked for some tickets and she of the bottom-of-the-coke-bottle glasses and concentration camp demeanour had unsmilingly glanced at the clock around which her life revolved and, in the most officious manner, uttered the words, "Next tour, 11 o'clock." You couldn't argue with that.
We scarpered and returned the next day, this time at 10.47 and I couldn't help but notice there was a sign indicating that you had to be there 10 minutes before tour time. The ticket nazi dutifully checked the clock again then, to my amazement and her ultimate obvious disappointment, she looked at her watch as well for positive confirmation!
Sadly, for her, having set her watch to the precisely correct second and not having the creative intelligence to hold and original conversation for longer than two minutes in order to stall me, she condescended to hand over ticket for the 11.00am tour.
The next one was yesterday at the La Villa chairlift. Closes at 16.45 and we were there at 16.47. She of the blond hair and couldn't-care-less-about-you-outside-the-window body language ignored me, so keen to be going home was she. The worst thing was, she kept smiling at me from time to time while I was using my finest Italian hand waving gestures, finally resigned to my fate when the louvers came down.

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There we were in Corniglia of the Cinque Terre, dining on fine fresh seafood and salad,
soaking up what sun there was as it desperately sought a way through the semi-permanent haze of northern Italy. La dolce vita, as the phrase goes.
Sadly, the contrast to the next day was complete. In a municipal carpark in Verona, intestines conducting a bitter struggle to tie the tightest knot as fever firmly gripped my person and Rosemarie, not feeling too well herself, had just located a toilet just one floor above.
Now, one floor may not sound much to those of you currently enjoying good health but, let me assure you, on that day it was my personal mountain to climb. Even though I was able to use a lift, the sense that I may not be able to contain my bowels during that ever-so-brief journey upwards was omnipresent. Make it I did though and made haste as best I could to the toilet, throwing the door open knowing some small measure of relief was at hand. I was to be disappointed. In my weakened state, with legs barely able to support me, I had encountered a floor level toilet. What followed is probably best not described here but your imagination can fill in the gaps.
Suffice it to say it was the only one I came across in Italy.

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