Tom & Lynn's Excellent Adventure

Another blue sky, Chamber-of-Commerce day in Nice. We managed to rise about dawn (8 a.m. here) for a cup of coffee and watching the street scene below our windows. In fact, it was pretty quiet until well after 9 a.m., when people ventured out on Prefecture.

We had a couple of errands to run before brunch at Wayne’s. Lynn was in search of chicken thighs to cook this evening, which sent us off to no fewer than three different stores before we found what she was looking for later in the day at Monoprix. The Utile had no fresh meat at all and the Carrefour Express right across the square didn’t either.

Remarkably, the wine store next to the chocolate shop was open on Sunday, and Lynn needed a bottle of white wine for the chicken dish. Of course, at that time of the morning we didn’t have the chicken yet, but the wine would not go to waste in case we couldn’t find poulet that day.

Even more remarkably, we found the chicken Lynn wanted at Monoprix, but they had no shallots. None. We finally found shallots at a tiny epicerie right around the corner from our apartment. Ironically, that was the first grocery we shopped at some six years ago in our first extended visit to Nice when we did not know where the Monoprix was located. Of course, had we walked the 50 yards to the Cours Saleya market, we could have bought shallots from no fewer than six or eight stands.

But to the important business at hand. This was Sunday, Sunday means brunch, and brunch means Bloody Marys. And in Nice that means Wayne’s, our favorite English-speaking bar that sadly does not open until noon on Sunday. So it was off to Wayne’s about 12:30 p.m.

The beautiful Irish proprietor welcomed us at the door and mentioned that she had not seen us in a while. It was flattering to be recognized and remembered. We explained that we had canceled two trips in 2020 and 2021 before making it here in 2022. She sympathized.

The Bloody Marys were excellent, not to the level of Milk in Barcelona, but spicy and pungent nonetheless. Everyone in Europe uses plain tomato juice, which requires some level of attention to create any flavor. At Wayne’s they understand how to add the right ingredients in sufficient quantities to create a decent Bloody Mary. We toasted Wayne’s expertise.

At the same time, sadly, we discovered that Wayne’s no longer offers a true breakfast on their menu.

I asked our lovely proprietor what happened to breakfast, which used to be a true highlight of Wayne’s menu. She explained that few customers ever ordered it. As she said, “Breakfast for the French is a cup of coffee and a cigarette.”

All you had to do was walk a block down the street to the Tabac for proof of that.

So Lynn ordered a cheeseburger and I had what is described as a BLT but in fact is their version of a club sandwich. Nothing at all wrong with that, because bacon in France is more like ham than what we eat in the U.S. But it was not the rich, orange eggs and thick chewy bacon we remembered so fondly.

Our proprietor did allow that they may put breakfast back on the menu in April or May when the tourists start returning to Nice for the first time in two years due to Covid. That alone would be worth a trip back for us.

Following our requisite brunch nap, we walked across Vieux Nice one more time to Monoprix for the aforementioned chicken, to the epicerie for the shallots and to the patisserie on the corner for a baguette to accompany our paté purchased at the Cours Saleya market the day before.

All those errands completed, we ventured out again for a stroll along the Promenade and the Mediterranean. We and thousands of others. The beautiful weather had brought out the largest crowds we had ever seen at any time of the year to the Promenade, with dozens more down on the beach sunning in the warmth of the concrete and stone walls.

It was a scene, and we were happy to be part of it.

We made it all the way around to the Port, where we spied a couple of sizable yachts moored. They were large but not the monsters we had seen last fall in Barcelona. The Stella Maris was “only” 236 feet long and pretty old by mega-yacht standards, having been built in 2012. It is owned by–who else?–a Russian oligarch, Rashid Sardarov.

Wonder why he didn’t join his compadres in the Caribbean this winter. Maybe he had boat envy compared to the 300-footers we saw in Barcelona on their way out of the Med last fall.

Back at the apartment, Lynn began preparing her baked chicken dish garnished with lemon peel, garlic and the much-sought-after shallots. Unfortunately, as soon as she switched the oven power on, the main breaker to the entire apartment blew out, leaving us in total darkness. I found it and flipped it back, but when she tried to start the oven a second time, the same thing happened. I suggested we not make a third attempt.

But cooked in a pan on top of the stove, the chicken was no less delicious. However, it left behind a nasty, encrusted pan that would have to soak overnight and require some serious scrubbing. But better that than eating in the dark.

Following our late, rich dinner the night before, we slept in on Saturday and barely got out of the apartment by lunchtime. For the first day in our trip this time, we had no schedule or agenda, so we walked the streets of Vieux Nice for some sightseeing.

The streets were very definitely more crowded than in previous days. Families with children walked the narrow passages, which we had not seen before. The lines at the boucheries were longer than during the week, as residents seemed to be buying perhaps for a big Sunday dinner.

We stopped at La Pairoliere, the pleasant little restaurant where we had coffee the other day with Florent while we waited on an appointment to see another apartment. This time we came for lunch of escargot and pizza. The escargot came out in a bowl, sautéed to a crispy texture with croutons soaked in the butter and oil, decadent in flavor. Our pizza was quite good, very thin crust and crispy all the way through. Nicoise pizzas seem to follow the style of Naples, which makes some historical sense, because the two cities were once united under Italian rule. To this day, Nice is as much Italian as French.

The weather was so beautiful that we could not resist more walking. We wanted to visit the transit office on Jean Jaures but decided to go there via the length of Promenade du Pailon, the gorgeous linear park that runs along the edge of Old Town, separating the historic district from the main downtown area of Nice.

But before we walked the park, now packed with children at play under a brilliant blue sky but chilly air on Saturday, I couldn’t resist a ride on the Ferris wheel at Place Massena. Lynn overcame her fear of heights and agreed to accompany me as long as I didn’t make her move or look out. I paid our 16 euros fare (no credit cards less than 30), and we walked right up to board the open car.

The views were spectacular looking out over the Mediterranean and the Promenade. The ride only lasted perhaps 10 minutes, which was 10 minutes too many for Lynn but just fine with me.

After leaving the Ferris wheel and walking the length of the Promenade, we came to the transit office to find out that it was closed. We would have to wait until Monday to get a transit card unless we wanted to go to the main office somewhere downtown. We’re in no rush, so we walked through the narrow streets once again, reaching our apartment in less than 10 minutes. Did I mention that Vieux Nice is very small?

We decided on a simple dinner at Taouk, a Lebanese/Turkish restaurant located where our old friend Georgio had operated the Chat Noir until he sold it right after our last trip in 2019. At Taouk, we ordered a full sampler of meats accompanied by the full sampler of vegetables, overall a most filling meal and quite good if not elaborate.

Our discussion of the day related to the apartments we had seen and the correspondence I had read from Pebbles. Both were disappointing.

None of the apartments we were shown really excited us, and none of them was located in the area we wanted in Old Town, nearer the Cours Saleya, the Promenade des Anglais/Etas Unis and the sea. That location apparently costs more than we had budgeted.

Meanwhile, I learned from e-mails with Pebbles that they are pretty selective about apartments they include in their portfolio, and the ones we are looking at would not qualify. That opened up a number of concerns, most of which involved finding the right apartment and identifying a management company to run it. Perhaps our goal may be unattainable.

But we decided to keep looking. It gives us purpose for our trip and a reason to visit little pieces of Nice that we would not otherwise see.

After a quick trip to the Utile grocery on Place St. Francois, Thursday morning we walked the length of Cours Saleya to meet our real estate agent Florent near the Opera on the far end from us.

The market was eerily quiet, seeming almost deserted. All the produce stands were spaced out along the sides, with no stands at all down the center of the long space. What we remembered as a crowded, bustling series of food and flower stands was now virtually deserted. Some of the food vendors were relocated to the square on the side further creating a quiet, open atmosphere devoid of the lively action that makes an open air market so inviting and exciting.

Moving past the flower market at the Opera end of the Cours Saleya, we met up with Florent, our agent who was ready to show us a number of apartments. The first was all the way across Vieux Nice, a walk of perhaps 10 minutes.

We would spend the next day and a half looking at a total of six apartments. One was new construction on Blvd. Jean Jaures, the main thoroughfare on the north end of Vieux Nice. The building is part of a complex that is being totally renovated, including a courtyard. The developer was selling three different units, one with a nice terrace overlooking the courtyard.

All of the apartments we saw were on the north side of Old Town, not near where our current rental is. Florent explained that the part of Vieux Nice nearest the Cours Saleya is also the oldest and therefore most difficult (translate: expensive) to renovate. Owners on the sea side never sell and when they do it is beyond our budget.

Strangely, Nice does not have what we know of as the multi-list system (MLS). Some agents and their agencies seem to guard their own listings from the rest. That diminishes the market, but Florent explained it is common around Nice. What that means to us is that we have to hunt down some listings ourselves and send to him to contact the agencies for a showing. It’s a bit frustrating.

Each viewing only took a few minutes, and Vieux Nice is so small, we could walk from one to another in minutes. That left us plenty of time for our own explorations, shopping and dining.

Between tours of apartments on and near Blvd. Jena Jaures, the main street along Vieux Nice and the beautiful Promenade du Pailin park, Florent helped us at a pharmacy to update Lynn’s pass sanitaire. For 36 euros. For some reason, my pass sanitaire is not expired, despite the fact that it shows (clearly) only two shots. We originally had generated our pass sanitaires online before we left for France last fall. The pharmacy lobby must have gotten to the French government to charge an outrageous 36 euros to update via computer in all of five minutes.

Pass sanitaire updated, we walked over to Monoprix (the Target of France) for the balance of our groceries in the afternoon following our first four showings, then relaxed before heading out to dinner at Bar des Oiseaux, perhaps our favorite restaurant in all of Nice. It did not disappoint.

We sat at our favorite table, a tiny two-top facing the open kitchen, so we could watch the show of cooking, which is always as entertaining as it is delicious. Four chefs choreograph their work and seem to have fun along the way. They are fascinating to watch, as they expertly produce delectable dinners for a full restaurant non-stop until everyone is fed, and they wait on the second seating.

Lynn and I shared the octopus salad that featured paper-thin slices of the tasty tentacles mixed with diced potatoes and spices. Lynn then ordered the chicken breast stewed in a savory broth, and I had the duck breast perfectly cooked, pink on the inside but tender and tasty in its own broth. I could see the inventory of canard breasts in a pot on the stove kept warm until they were sent out to eager customers.

We walked back home through the dark, quiet streets for a restful night after an active day.

Friday morning we ventured out to Cours Saleya market for vegetables and sausage, ingredients for Lynn’s fabulous home-made sausage and peppers, which has become our traditional first home cooked meal in Europe. The Friday market was much fuller than the day before, but still spaced out, no doubt due to Covid restrictions.

After touring two more apartments in the late morning, we walked back for a late lunch at our favorite English-speaking Irish bar, Wayne’s. Lynn had the rich spinach and butternut squash soup, a perfect dish for a winter day, and I resorted to the old standby with a cheeseburger.

By the time we finished lunch, it was late afternoon, so we used our time wisely with naps back at the apartment.

A little after 5 p.m. as darkness began to fall, we walked around the corner to Armand Crespo’s wine bar, La Cave du Cours on rue Barillerie. Since it did not open until 6 p.m., we strolled down the Cours Saleya to Place Massena, where preparations for Carnival were being made. The huge Ferris wheel was already up and running, and the grandstands had already been erected for parade viewing in a few weeks.

The lights created an exciting atmosphere, even though there were few people walking around, not enough to crank up the cotton candy machine in the concession trailer. But there was still plenty of sweets available and enticing.

A few minutes after 6 p.m., we walked into Cave du Cours, as the first customers in the place. We ordered two glasses of wine, and as before, we were presented two plates of sausage with slices of toasted french baguettes. The kitchen was busy slicing sausage and cheese for patrons, who filled the available tables and chairs, including outside in the 40-degree weather.

After two glasses of wine each and two plates of sausage, it was time for us to leave the Cave to the younger set and retire to our apartment so Lynn could prepare dinner. Our bill, incredibly, was the same as it had been two years ago–20 euros for the four glasses of wine, “nibbles” free. If we had stayed for a third glass of wine, our nibbles would have become dinner. As it was, we did not finish Lynn’s dinner until 9 p.m., a more proper European time.

Our apartment is aptly named Chocolat, because it is located on the first floor above LAC Chocolatier, one of the most decadent chocolate shops on the planet.

We arrived in Nice right on time after a relatively pleasant, though refreshment free flight from Paris. Our luggage was already on the belt as we walked into the baggage claim area. (We have been living on a lucky street lately when it comes to claiming bags; I fear that reversion to the means will result in something lost in the future.)

The Nice airport is quite pleasant and easy to get around. We walked out of baggage and right to the empty taxi line, where we boarded a very clean Mercedes for the short ride into Vieux Nice. The Mercedes should have been well kept–the flat rate from the airport is 38 euros, including the luggage surcharges. That’s more than New Orleans.

But the ride from the airport to Vieux Nice is most pleasant, moving along the promenade with the town on the left and the Mediterranean on the right. When we entered Vieux Nice, traffic was clogged on the narrow streets with large delivery trucks backing up and going the wrong way. So the simplest thing was to leave the cab and walk the two blocks to meet Gosia, our meet-and-greet guide from Pebbles.

She was right at the front door on rue St. Gaetan, just around the corner from the main thoroughfare of rue de la Prefecture. We exchanged greetings (no cheek kissing these days), and she led us up to our home for the next two weeks.

Chocolat is fully equipped. For a small apartment, it has everything you could wish for, including an oven (a true rarity in Europe), and dishwasher (even more rare), a washing machine and separate dryer, and–rarest of all in Nice–an air conditioner. Guests are advised not to run the AC too much, lest the neighbors get angry with the noise, since in the summer, everyone opens their windows because AC is so unusual in these centuries old buildings.

The refrigerator is stylishly behind a closet door, which we learned is common in contemporary renovations and includes a separate freezer. A full-size washing machine and dryer are stacked in a separate utility closet down the hall hidden behind a thick curtain.

Once introduced to our home for the next two weeks or so, we settled in and immediately took short naps to get over the worst of the jet lag.

Awake, if not alert, we ventured out to explore our neighborhood, which we already knew so well. Bistro d’Antoine is right across and less than a block down the street, so we walked over to make dinner reservations. The Cave is right there as well, so we stopped in for a few bottles to get us through the first days. And then it was off to Place St. Francois, where the fish market stands, and the Utile grocery store for basic provisions.

And then back home for another nap. I took a quick walkabout to explore the Cours Saleya a block away (more about that later) and then down to the Promenade and the Med. They were, as always, wonderful, inviting and rich with memories.

Our reservations at Antoine were for 7:15 p.m. They have only two seatings, the second at 9 p.m. way too late for us, jet-lagged as we were. We took a table that was in the same place as we had met a couple of Ireland a few years ago who flew over from Dublin for all of 29 euros to have a weekend of eating Nicoise cuisine.

Dinner was nothing short of wonderful. Lynn had the pork cheeks, served in a steaming pot of rich gravy over a polenta that was the consistency of mashed potatoes. I ordered the sausage in a pot full of lentils, more than I could consume in a single meal. In consideration of our fragile, post-travel state, we ordered a half-bottle of wine (delicious), because Antoine’s does not offer pichets. Regardless, the half-bottle was just plenty for us in our impaired travel state.

As a celebration of arrival, we split the chocolate mouse dessert (what else, to honor our namesake apartment?), which turned out to be one of the most decadently delicious we have ever encountered.

Luckily, Antoine’s is less than 100 yards from our apartment so we were able to make it home without mishap. The streets were sparsely populated, the town was quiet, a combination of January and Covid. Tomorrow would be a day of touring apartments. Business awaits.

Our trip to Nice started Tuesday morning at 9 a.m. It would not finish until 11:30 a.m. Wednesday, which would be 4:30 a.m. our body time. And most of that was suffocatingly masked up.

Our friend Potter Ballard picked us up to take us to the airport right at 9 a.m. As we alighted at Moisant, I mentioned he had a potentially great second career as an Uber driver.

Our flights from New Orleans to Kennedy and Kennedy to Paris were uneventful. We enjoyed Delta’s Sky Club while waiting on the first two legs. The New Orleans lounge features some local dishes such as gumbo, and both lounges had excellent bars. The New Orleans bartender even showed off his version of a Bloody Mary by adding just a touch of red wine, which gives the drink a little richness. I made a mental note to try this at home when we return.

Our flight to Paris was perhaps a third full, which afforded Lynn an entire row in the middle to stretch out and get some sleep as we crossed the Atlantic. We landed in Paris right on time, and then the adventure began.

We taxied from the runway for a good 20 minutes before stopping, when we were informed that we would have to depart the plane by stairs and board buses to Terminal 2. The temperature was about 35 degrees Fahrenheit in the predawn hours, so we were none too pleased to march through the cold to a packed bus for transport into the terminal.

As we waited to deplane, I noticed out the window that we were going nowhere, because for some reason, the ground crew could not get the stairs up to the aircraft door. After ten minutes of trying, they gave up and brought in another truck to literally push the first one away from the plane. A few minutes later, a second motorized stairway drove up and successfully connected so we could deplane.

And wouldn’t you now it–we reach the bottom of the steps and were held up by the gate attendant because the first bus was full. SO we stood in the cold for another few minutes waiting on the first bus to depart and the second one to pull up in its place.

Once our bus filled up to capacity (so much for social distancing), we finally took off to Terminal 2. It was then that I realized we had been parked somewhere very distant from airline civilization. The bus ride was a good 15 minutes along a series of roads outside the airport, then through the bowels of Charles de Gaulle, until we pulled up and tumbled out to crowd into the terminal through a single doorway.

And then….well, nothing. No signage, no directions to tell us or anyone else where to go. Attendants we asked gave conflicting instructions. First we took a train from wherever we were to take us into Terminal 2K, where we were directed to collect our luggage. I thought it strange that we were getting our bags first before Passport Control, and asked several officials where that was. But no one had an answer except to go to 2K for baggage.

Finally, someone asked for our luggage receipts, and I fished them out of my briefcase, whereupon we discovered that our bags had been checked all the way to Nice. Apparently the French authorities don’t really care it we smuggle something in, as long as we wear a mask while doing so.

Now it was finally time to find Passport Control, as we made our way to Terminal 2F, essentially retracing our many steps back to 2K, then on the 2F. But not before showing someone our vaccination records. The French officials waved my expired pass sanitaire right through as we entered security again for one more showing of our boarding passes and vaccination records.

Finally we reached Passport Control. That was all but an afterthought for the French, as the Immigration officer quickly checked our passports, stamped them and asked to see our vaccination records one more time. We could be illegal aliens entering on fake passports, but by golly the French will make sure we are vaccinated. They don’t take chances.

The flight schedule board estimated that our gate was 30 minutes away, not counting passport control, so even though we had two hours between flights, we were getting close to boarding time. Hustling through the ubiquitous duty-free stores in the terminal, we entered the cavernous gate area containing F41-56 and found Gate F53 and our flight to Nice.

When we were called up to board, I could see that this was to be a laborious process. Sure enough, we had to show our boarding pass, passport and vaccination proof one more time before walking down the jetway to the plane.

As we boarded the aircraft, we encountered the final indignity–the attendant forced us to change out our regular masks for the useless surgical kind that billowed out on all four sides, inviting the omicron gremlins in.

But wait–there’s more. I was terribly thirsty by now, having endured hours of single-digit airplane humidity. No water on board, however. The French have forbidden any food and drink on all public transport to make sure no one sneaks a mask off while taking a bite or a sip. The domestic trains have actually shut down their dining cars. Did I say the French take no chances?

Our abbreviated (for us) trip to Nice started well before we left for the airport. As a matter of fact, the process began Sunday at 3 p.m. with the now-obligatory Covid test before getting on the plane to France Tuesday morning.

In their new-found zeal to stamp out Covid omicron, aka a common cold, France now requires a negative Covid test two days before flying out, so I scheduled our test at the local urgent care clinic for 3 p.m. Sunday, giving a couple of hours in case our plane might be late. I didn’t want to tempt fate by having to explain to Delta or French authorities that we tested prematurely.

We showed up at the urgent care office a few minutes before 3 p.m. and checked in at the desk. It was 3:40 p.m. by the time we were called in, and the nurse asked us why we were there. Two questions immediately crossed my mind: 1) What’s the purpose of making an appointment (as they instructed me) if we have to wait 40 minutes to be called in? and 2) Didn’t the nurse talk to the receptionist before taking us inside? I explained again patiently that we need Covid tests to fly.

Now the light bulb went off, and she brought in two of the infernal swabs, which she inserted up into our respective crania. This time I put the test to the clock. Some 20 minutes later she came back with the glorious news that we tested negative. She handed us our papers, wished us a bon voyage, and out we went, relieved and excited to head for Nice.

Once home, I proceeded to duplicate the documents every which way I could think. I scanned them, photographed them and tucked the originals away in a folder to go into my briefcase. We were liberated, free of Covid fear and free to travel. Worse case now is that we test positive before leaving France, so we have to spend a few more days in Nice.

But now we can start packing. We’re good to go.

Awakened at 5 a.m., we were showered, dressed, packed and ready to head out to Heathrow via the Express by 6:30. A quick taxi ride to Paddington Station and an equally fast train ride out to Heathrow had us checking in at the Delta desk with plenty of time to spare.

We showed our passports, but no one asked for a vaccination record or our negative Fit to Fly test or the self-attestation form. I know I had uploaded the self-attestation, but couldn’t remember if I had done the same with the Fit to Fly test letters. Document checks are inconsistent from airline to airline and country to country. Nevertheless, checked in, we headed for security.

Heathrow’s security is efficient, polite, organized and thorough. Belts, watches, jackets, computers, iPads, phones and anything else that even resembles metal. I have learned to put my wallet in my briefcase because most new credit cards are now metal and will set off the scanners. But we made it through in one pass, reassembled ourselves and marched off to look for a lounge to wait on our flight.

We found the American Express Centurion lounge, which offered some interesting egg breakfasts and a bar where I ordered a Bloody Mary, which turned out pretty good, better than I expected. They don’t use plain tomato juice but rather a true Bloody Mary mix, the only one I have encountered outside of Milk in Barcelona.

After a relaxing hour or so in the lounge, it was time to head to Gate 31, a 20-minute walk, according to the desk attendant. It didn’t take us 20 minutes due to people movers, but I can understand why they estimate that time. It’s a long way down a long concourse. Heathrow is huge.

We showed our passports one more time, then boarded and Lynn gave our flight attendant her standard bribe of a bag of individually chocolates that we had purchased in Covent Garden. The crew was most appreciative, and gave us excellent service the entire flight.

Our flight was not much more than half full. Americans still are not traveling to Europe in large numbers, and Europeans can’t enter the U.S. until November 8. The numbers will go up soon, and I suspect by summer, planes will fly across the Atlantic fully booked. But right now, this is a great time to fly and to visit Europe.

We took off from London pretty much on time a new minutes after 10 a.m. and landed less than seven hours later in New York at 1:30 p.m. local time. That’s really nothing more than a long day trip, and you don’t feel the jet lag for a while. We wisked through Global Entry in minutes, retrieved our baggage quickly, walked through Customs and we were outside. The entire clearance process didn’t take a half an hour.

We were back in the U.S.

In fact, there was no line at the taxi stand, so we climbed into the first one and hit the expressway, which itself had virtually no traffic on a Saturday afternoon. The ride took less than 45 minutes, but the fare was $72, which included a $2.50 congestion charge–on a Saturday. I have to question that. I don’t remember cabs to and from Kennedy costing that much, and we had just taken one that took nearly two hours into JFK back in August for a fare of about $66.

The Iroquois welcomed us and gave us a second floor room over looking the street that was ready for occupancy early. We grabbed it, despite the clerk’s admonition that it might be noisy since it was so close to the street. We didn’t care, and as it turned out, the room was spacious and for the most part very quiet.

We slept just fine.

Our last day abroad was rainy. What can you expect in London?

For the last seven weeks, we had enjoyed beautiful weather for the most part. Except for that one drenching rainy day in Paris, we had seen nothing but blue skies and reasonably comfortable temperatures ranging from cool in Paris to warm in Barcelona. So it was perhaps fitting that our last day would be rainy.

But that didn’t stop us. We decided to go down to Westminster, just four stops and one transfer on the tube, staying dry underground. Our initial goal was Westminster Abbey, where we had not visited in some 20 years. But they have applied a pretty stiff price to their tickets, so we slightly changed plans–a river tour on the Thames.

What could be more fun in the rain? The last time we did anything like this was at least ten years ago at a cocktail party for Cumberland Cup.

We chose Thames River Sightseeing among the row of tour operators. The price was reasonable, and they promised a bar on the boat. The boat went from Westminster to the Tower of London, then back up the river all the way to Greenwich before returning to Westminster, a trip of nearly two hours.

The boat was not terribly crowded, and we snagged a table for ourselves before two elderly British ladies ensconced themselves on the bench opposite us. The commentary as we moved along the river was funny, satirical and a bit biting if you were a sensitive type. Apparently the two British ladies were sensitive.

They disembarked in an argument with the bartender over whose closest relative had succumbed to the current plague, the commentary’s deprecating (but hilarious) remarks about the Tate Museum of Modern Art and the location of the boat’s Tower stop, which they claimed to miss because no one told them. Except that boat was not scheduled to stop where they indicated. The entire incident was a bit unclear, but they left in a huff to no one’s regret.

The trip was overall a real hoot. We passed alongside the new survey vessel that the public had voted to name Boaty McBoatface (true story–look it up). The authorities decided to select a more conventional name (polar scientific research vessel RRS Sir David Attenborough), but acknowledged the vote of the public by naming one of the vessel’s three autonomous underwater probes after the popular vote winner. Unfortunately, we passed alongside Boaty in the worst of the rain, so my photo is impressionist at best.

We enjoyed more irreverent commentary about contemporary London architecture and a quick stop in Greenwich at the Cutty Sark, which burned to the waterline on May 21, 2007, while were sailing the Cumberland Cup (wasn’t our fault) and was restored by 2012. After nearly two hours of pleasant, sometimes rainy but interesting cruising on the river, we alighted back at the Westminster dock as the rain finally moved out.

After a decent fish sandwich lunch at nearby St. Stephen’s Tavern, we made our way back to our cabin at the club to pack up for an early departure the next day and get ready to meet our great friends John Dallimore and Linda Pennington for a last dinner abroad. We joined them at the downstairs bar of the club (no ties required there) and embarked on three hours of catching up.

JD is an active skier, and he has not been able to travel to Switzerland for more than a year, much less the U.S. We sympathized, since our own trip had been planned and postponed twice in 2020.

Dinner was at Motcomb’s, a pretty traditional British restaurant, where Lynn and I enjoyed excellent shepherd’s pie, and John and Linda both had the beef bourguignon, along with a most delicious Portuguese wine that our waiter praised as the best in the house. We couldn’t argue.

We had to be up at 5 a.m. the next day to get to Heathrow for a 10 a.m. flight, so we finished dinner at a reasonable hour and returned to the club, again pledging to see each other sooner rather than later.

After all, seeing Michele and JD was really the reason for extending our trip a few days into London. Not to mention using my overseas membership status. It’s always great to be where everyone knows your name.

We have known Michele for some 15 years, going back to our very first team racing in London in 2007. She has stayed at our house, we have met up in Paris, Venice and London, but the pandemic has kept us apart, as it has so many others.

It was time to correct all that.

But first we had some business to take care of. We had to walk down Knightsbridge to the City & Travel Clinic to discuss getting an antigen test for a Fit to Fly certificate that would get us on our plane home. At the same time, England requires a Day 2 test after you arrive, and as of this week would recognize an antigen test in addition to the PCR.

Think about this for a minute. Even if you are fully vaccinated, you have to have a negative test to enter the U.S. That seems a bit excessive but logical. England, on the other hand, allows fully vaccinated people into their country with no previous test but requires a negative test after two days. That means you can enter England and infect people for two days before going into quarantine for 10 days.

In our case, because we were only scheduled to be in London for two days and three nights, the Day 2 PCR test results would come back after we left the country. We were forced to take two tests at the same time, and pay for them both, even though only one would be needed. This made no sense.

So we walked down to the clinic just a block from the Thames and explained the situation to the receptionist. She understood immediately, offered to cancel the second set of tests and give us our antigen Fit to Fly test right then and there. We eagerly agreed.

Some 15 minutes later, I received the e-mail that certified that we were indeed Fit to Fly, negative for any sign of Covid. Both Lynn and I had been losing sleep this week or so, fearing that one of us might show some breakthrough infection and forcing us to make an expensive extension to our stay in London. I felt an immense sense of relief reading the simple letter. We could return home as scheduled.

Thrilled and relieved, we were ready to head off to meet Michele at Covent Garden for a festive lunch.

When we arrived, we didn’t recognize Covent Garden. It has been transformed into a huge mall featuring street performers in the outdoor plazas, shops inside and outside, restaurants, entertainment and most impressive, an Apple store, one of about a half dozen in greater London.

We were early, so we had plenty of time to explore everywhere and find candy for Lynn to bribe the flight attendants on the way back to the U.S. (It works.)

We arrived at Palm Court right on time to meet Michele, who had already taken the table and ordered a Bellini. Another two for us were quickly ordered, and hugs were made all around. We had not seen each other for some two years.

Lunch was festive, fun and tasty, as we caught up on our lives through the pandemic. I ordered the partridge special of the day, Lynn had a delicious roasted chicken with savory potatoes and Michele, who is a semi-vegetarian, ate the special mushroom casserole over rice. Needless to say, we shared a bottle of wine over our delicious meals.

As we finished lunch, it was clear that Michele had planned to party. We walked around Covent Garden from bar to bar, stopping in for a drink until Lynn declared she had had enough and ordered a cup of espresso. The bar did not serve coffee, but did offer an espresso martini, so Lynn ordered one and simply asked to hold the martini. The waitress looked a bit confused, as the movie Five Easy Pieces flashed through my brain, but she caught on and brought Lynn a cup of very strong, very bitter espresso, the way Europeans drink it.

Three bars later, including the illustrious Mrs. Riot (look it up at www.mrsriotlondon.com), the evening was beginning to draw near, and we had dinner reservations at the club. Michele was not deterred. We took the Underground back to Royal Thames where we ensconced ourselves downstairs in the bar and kept right on doing what we had been doing all day long: drinking and talking.

I had to run to our cabin to change clothes and put on my tie for dinner after an unfortunate encounter with a glass of wine. Meanwhile a German friend of Michele’s whom she knew from sailing happened to walk into the bar and joined us. We compared notes and realized we had sailed against each other years ago at Cumberland Cup. The party continued.

Finally, we it was time to go upstairs for dinner for us. Michele stayed downstairs with her German friend, showing no sign of leaving. She is well known and quite popular at the club and was having a great time. We were happy to be a part of the celebration.

But before we parted, we planned to catch up in New York in late November, Nice in January, Wimbledon in July and the Amalfi Coast next fall for a Big Birthday for Michele. We’ll make up for missing each other over the past two years.

Time to leave Barcelona. We rose a little early, finished packing and walked out to find a cab, which pulled up in less than 10 seconds. While our driver loaded our luggage into the car, I ran up to the apartment to leave the keys on the table. Wouldn’t you know–the elevator was in use, so I dashed five floors down the stairway while the patient driver waited.

He spoke fairly good English and explained on the way to the airport that summer business had been terrible, but tourism is finally now picking up with the return of the cruise ships. At 9:30, the incoming traffic to the city was bumper to bumper as we sped to the airport in the opposite direction.

Barcelona Prat airport is huge, modern and eerily quiet. Before the pandemic, it handled 50 million passengers a year. (By comparison, New Orleans at its peak was about 9 million.) We walked through the one entrance into the vast terminal to join the long queue of Ryan Air passengers checking in for multiple morning flights. The line moved fairly expeditiously, and when we walked up, the pleasant attendant checked our passports, vaccination (EU was acceptable), UK passenger form and of course our tickets. Then she handed me a little slip of paper with a handwritten legend that said: “Docs OK.”

Off we went to security, where we had to doff belts, watches and jackets, take out computers, iPads, phones, pocket change and anything else that the metal detector might pick up. I had kept my wallet in my pocket and set off the alarm when I realized that credit cards are now metal. Lynn had to return because she forgot to take out her bag of toiletries, because she is used to USA TSA Pre, which allows passengers to keep that stuff in their bags.

We reassembled ourselves and started the winding walk through the Duty Free store before emerging into the main terminal to find our concourse and gate. The airport remained quiet the entire walk, so unlike others where unintelligible announcements follow each other minute by minute.

The gates are grouped into pods, and we had been told to go to W, where we found a small shop to grab breakfast sandwiches. As we ate, we could see people flowing toward Gate 42, our flight to London. The line formed from the check-in desk all the way out to where we were, so we joined in. An airline employee came by to check our papers, and informed us that this line was for Priority, whatever that meant. I had paid extra for seat selection and baggage check, so naturally I thought we had priority. Not to be. We never did figure out what Priority meant, but we finally boarded nearly last, where our seats awaited but overhead bin space did not.

Ryan Air is famous (notorious) for being cheap in its fares and even cheaper in its operations. The plane had the least padded seats I have ever encountered on a commercial airline. In fact, there was no padding at all, either in the seat bottom or the back. And the seats don’t recline, which is fine with me. Ryan has even eliminated the pocket in the seat back, instead placing the required safety rules on a decal affixed to the seat. All to reduce weight and therefore save fuel and money.

Our flight took off more or less on time. We watched Spain and France below us for two hours before landing at Stansted, which was built during WWII as a military base for American and British planes. Today it serves as Ryan Air’s main hub and has been quite modernized.

Our entry through passport control was automated; we simply placed our passports into the green lighted machine and looked up at the overhead screen to be registered. The gate opened automatically, and we entered England. A large crowd gathered to wait on the Stansted Express train, but surprising to me, we had room for our large suitcases and found seats easily. Lynn chatted up a young man sitting across the aisle who was returning form surfing in Biarritz with his board carefully stowed in the luggage rack above.

Our taxi ride from Liverpool Station took us through the heart of London’s financial district and fabled Fleet Street. Traffic was heavy all the way to Royal Thames and what had originally looked like a short ride turned into a 30 pound journey.

The Thames welcomed us warmly, addressing me by name before I could even identify myself. We settled into our room and made plans for dinner at the Italian restaurant we had recalled from previous years.

Except it was the wrong restaurant. Osteria Romana is a small intimate Italian establishment right around the corner from the club. We had mistaken that for Signor Sassi, where we had dined several times over the years. But our mistake turned fortunate–Osteroia Romana is a better place.

Our waiter snipped basil leaves directly from the live plant at our table, then

muddled them with their precious olive oil for our bread. My ox tail stew was pungent with flavor, and Lynn’s pasta Gricia was rich enough with cheese that she couldn’t finish. We washed it all down with a pichet of delicious Montepulciano, one of the better and pricier vintages on the wine list. The days of 20 euro wine are over; this pichet was 38 pounds, and the entire dinner set us back 93.15 pounds, the most we have spent on dinner the entire trip.

But it was worth it, and it was good to be where we all speak more or less the same language.