We set the alarm for 6 a.m. just to make sure we would have plenty of time to get to the Nice airport, which you an see from Promenade des Etats Uni, a block from our apartment. Lucky thing we did.
We were ready to roll by 8:30 a.m.–land speed record for us–showered, dressed, croissanted, packed and all three bags hauled down the three flights to the ground floor. I summoned Uber, which indicated a driver arriving at the apartment in less than ten minutes. I was concerned about the car getting down narrow rue de Barillerie, especially since, of all times, no fewer than four vans had parked in front of us performing various commercial chores. It’s Monday, right?
Fifteen minutes later, after watching our Uber driver circle around our street so close, going back and forth around the neighborhood yet not able to get to us, he disappeared from the screen. So I called for another Uber driver. For another 20 minutes, he did the same.
Now we were setting into a mild panic. I walked over to the Patrimonie Office that had been so kind to give us directions to rue de Barillerie when we first arrived after we were dropped off by a cab driver who clearly did not have a clue where he was. They gave me the number to a local cab company.
Back to the apartment, I tried Uber one last time, but the Uber driver hardly showed up on the screen, seeming to be somewhere on the other side of Castle Hill. After two failed tries, this did not give me confidence. I gave up, cancelled the Uber summons and called the taxi company. (Uber would later charge me 6 euros for the cancellation!)
The taxi dispatcher promised a cab in five minutes. Ten minutes later, I called again. And again 10 minutes after that. By now, the dispatcher was tired of hearing from me and said another car would be coming to pick us up. I moved the pickup location to the back of the Palais de Justice, right around the corner, but much easier to find and reach by car. We dragged all three bags down rue de Barillerie and around the corner and waited.
And waited until my phone rang, and I explained we were standing there on rue Alexandre Mari, which she seemed to recognize and assured me another taxi would be there momentarily. Sure enough, a few minutes later, Lynn spied the red lights of a taxi–on the other end of the street. I left Lynn there with the luggage in front of the hard goods market (what if she had been tagged and put up for sale with the silver and the furs and the paintings?).
I ran down the block waving at the taxi, and to my immense relief, he spotted me, and we drove down to the other end of the street to pick up Lynn and the bags. By now, we had spent an hour trying to get transportation to the airport located only 15 minutes away.
The taxi still hit me for a 35 euro charge.
The rest of the day was relatively anti-climactic after that. Two flights over the Alps (the second with spectacular views of the snow-covered peaks), and an early landing in Venice.
The vibe in Venice could not be more different from Nice. Crowds were clustered around all the bus stops at the airport, milling around trying, as we were, to get a sense of direction in a strange locale. I managed to buy tickets to the wrong bus, but thankfully the same destination. Learn from my forsaken mistake next time you visit Venice–remember the difference between these letter designations:
- ACTV is the public transit line that runs a bus from the airport and all the vaporetto water buses. The bus from the airport to Piazzale Roma terminal is the local bus that makes stops throughout the ‘hood on the way to Venice. You drag your bags into the bus and hold on for dear life while the multi-section monster bounds through curbs and lurches through stops.
- ATVO is a private bus service that operates Greyhound-like luxury liners with thickly padded seats and luggage stored in the compartment in a hold below, close to the ground and easy to heft in and out of the belly of the beast. Price is exactly the same as the other one.
Guess which one I bought?
But we finally made it to Piazzale Roma, where I dragged the third bag to the storage facility (seven euros for 24 hours). We then boarded the correct vaporetto for Ponte Rialto to meet our Apartments Venice representative at the Golden Point store on the corner. Andrea, guided us to our lodgings overlooking Campiello Bruno Crovato, which Google cannot find, despite knowing everything else in the world. Understandable, since no one else can figure Venice out either.
I still cannot define exactly what our address is, although the number 5992 is prominently displayed over the door. Just don’t know the street name, which in Venice seems to be an fungible element.
If Andrea had not led us to our destination, we would still be wandering around Venice, begging for directions from costumed characters who themselves wander around, entertaining tourists, posing for photos and pointing out directions on maps.
Did I mention it’s Carnival in Venice?