Tom & Lynn's Excellent Adventure

By Thursday, Lynn had had enough of our terrible apartment. I felt responsible, but if I had correctly understood the layout, I would never have rented this one. And what we could not know without actually living in it, was how poorly it was equipped. The kitchen had an oven but no oven pan to cook food. The skillet had lost most of its Teflon coating, which is downright dangerous for human consumption. The bed has only one nightstand; the other side is a basket.

The owner was clearly offended that we didn’t like the place but offered to credit our last night, since we planned to leave a day early. Incredibly, this place is rented all the way to November. And it has no air conditioning. And the next day, the undersized water heater ran out while Lynn was showering, even though we had been away the entire day.

So for the second time in a row in Lisbon, we would move to a hotel for the last night of our stay. This will be the last time we stay in Alfama.

Thursday morning we walked down to the hotel that is actually located inside the Santa Apolina train station and reserved a room for Saturday before we leave by train Sunday. We can spend at least one night in the comfort of having the bathroom and bedroom on the same level.

We also scouted out the “trendy” restaurants across the street and made a reservation for a last dinner in Lisbon at what looked like a promising establishment. It looked trendy, anyway, facing out over the river. Hopefully, the food will match the view.

On our walk back from the train station, we stopped in at the imposing Baroque building across the street that houses the Portuguese Military Museum. The admission is one euro each for 65+, and they don’t take credit cards.

Inside is a most impressive and expansive museum in an ornate 19th century building that dates to 1876, the oldest museum in the country.

The exhibits span the centuries from Vasco da Gamba and Prince Henry the Navigator all the way up to the 20th century and the wars in Angola. Artifacts, armor, uniforms, paintings, frescoes, sculptures and scores of cannons are on display spread all over 34 ornate rooms in the vast building. Many of the explanations are translated into English, which immensely helps understanding of the significance of all the stuff on display.

It’s not as sweeping or historical as the Maritime Museum across town in Belem, but it’s still an impressive collection in an even more impressive setting. We enjoyed a full hour or more of walking through the rooms that are set up in chronological order from the 16th century Age of Discovery to the present day. In truth, the Maritime Museum has much more history, but the Military Museum is worth a visit, especially at the price.

From there, it was off across town to the Time Out Market for lunch in the crowded, bustling center of hip cuisine. We caught the bus along the riverfront where we spied a new cruise ship that had just pulled in, then marveled at how these huge buses can navigate the narrow streets of downtown Lisbon.

The rest of the afternoon was pretty inactive, as we climbed back to our apartment for laundry and other quotidian chores. By evening, it was back up to Miradouro Santa Luzia for a glass of wine overlooking the river and our dinner reservation at Farol S. Luzia directly across the street.

Farol was one of the first restaurants we ever enjoyed in Lisbon, and it is still one of the best we have found. The only problem was that Lynn did not want to eat an entire main dish, so she ordered an appetizer of their wondrous mussels and the fish chowder.

As clearly as we could explain, we wanted the mussels to be served first, followed by the soup at the same time my steak was served. It’s a very American way of ordering, but completely incomprehensible to Europeans.

Sure enough, the mussels and soup were deposited in front of Lynn minutes later all together at exactly the same time. While she went through the mussels (they were great!) and worked on her soup, I sat and waited with an empty plate in front of me, steak-less.

By now, the restaurant had filled up with Americans who obviously had found out about Farol too, so the tiny staff of two were running back and forth serving the rest of the customers. Lynn finally got the attention of one of the servers to ask where my steak was. She was answered with a blank stare. Clearly, they were not ready to bring out my dish until everything else on the table had been finished.

Patiently, we explained again that we wanted her soup to be served with my steak. That is, at the same time as my steak. The light bulb finally went off on our senior waiter, and he profusely apologized. My steak appeared in less than two minutes. It was delicious, swimming in a Worcestershire-based sauce, rich and flavorful but not overpowering the taste of the beef.

Lesson learned. Lynn figured out the work-around. Next time, we will order the mussels as a shared starter, then her soup as a main course to be served with my steak. Right?

Except that’s exactly what we had just done. Or thought we had. It’s all in the translation.

We last visited Sintra two years ago in January on a cold, windy, misty and generally miserable day. This time in May, the weather was more promising.

Trains to Sintra leave from the Rossio train station that was formerly the main station for Lisbon but now sends trains only out to Sintra and the surrounding western suburbs. Opened in the late 19th century, the station’s architectural style is considered Neo-Manueline, which is to say that it resembles Beaux Arts that would be familiar to Gaudi, a contemporary just a country away.

Inside the station, we quickly realized we were not the only ones going to Sintra, as long lines snaked through the ticketing area. The machine lines looked longer than the staffed queues, so we chose the main ticket window, figuring that the humans behind the glass would be more efficient than a bunch of tourists like us fumbling through the machine process.

Indeed, we reached the front of the line with two minutes to spare before the 10:01 train would be leaving for Sintra. But the attendant at my window decided to get chatty with her colleague and dawdled, while I drummed my fingers watching the clocks change from 9:59 to 10:00. She finally ended her conversation and sold me the tickets as the clock flipped from 10:00 to 10:01. We ran to the train, at the moment it pulled away. We would have to wait on the next one, due to leave at 10:41.

Problem was that we had already scanned our tickets through the admission gate, so we couldn’t go back out to the Starbucks or any of the other concession stands. All we could do was wait in the open platform space for the next 40 minutes.

But when the 10:41 did pull up, we were among the first to board so we were able to grab two seats facing forward for the 40-minute ride.

When we arrived, the Sintra train station and bus depot area was teeming with tourists of all ages and nationalities, mostly Germans and Americans. The scene was chaotic, with full size tour buses pulling up two and three at a time, dozens of tuck-tuck cabs, tour guides with brochures, everyone hawking their particular flavor of Sintra tour.

Despite our hopes, the weather was cool, cloudy and misty at the top of the mountain where the Moorish castle stands guard. Sintra is a city in its own right, with hotels, restaurants, museums, art galleries and stately homes. No fewer than six major castles and palaces dot the area, with the Castle of the Moors at the very top, realistically unaccessible except by motorized vehicle.

Before visiting anything anywhere in town, we needed to eat lunch, since we had missed the earlier train. We found the little wine gallery and restaurant where we had enjoyed an excellent meal last time, and we were their first customers of the day at the stroke of noon. The 15 euro lunch special included a salad or soup, one of three main courses, dessert and a glass of wine. Lynn chose the soup, which was a creamy green bean soup, not unlike split pea soup but prepared with haricot verte. I chose the salad, which surprised me with slices of mozzarella mixed in to create quite the tasty caprese salad. The 1.75 we spent on bread was well worth it.

Both of us ordered the hamburger, which came out between two “buns” of polenta, thick and savory, topped with smothered mushrooms. The burger itself was plenty enough, but we soldiered through both the meat and the polenta. All of it was quite good. And at 15 euros for the meal, including wine, it was a bargain.

Our target this visit was the Quinta de Regaleira, a huge palace and gardens built by one of the richest coffee barons in Portugal during the early 20th century. The walk from the transit hub chaos to the historical center of Sintra is about 10 minutes along a route lined with alternating sculptures and souvenir sellers.

We grabbed a map from the tourist office, where the friendly guide showed us the walk to the Regaleira gardens and palace, about 10 more more minutes, she claimed.

She wasn’t far off, but the route was bit more steep as we worked our way up the mountain toward the complex. It teases you, because you approach from the garden side, then along the courtyard outside the palace, then the exit before reaching the entrance. When we finally reached the entrance, we are pleased to see that the ticket line was long, but the electronic ticket line had no one.

I had purchased our tickets on my phone while riding the train, so our admission was electronic. We walked up to the attendant, he flashed his reader at my bar codes and–to my horror–explained that these were tickets for a different palace.

My fat, stubby fingers had hit the wrong attraction while riding on the lurching train.

Back up to the line for the ticket window, the queue moved rapidly, and soon we were climbing through the expansive gardens, marveling at the buildings, sculptures, fountains, flowers, trees, paths and courtyards, all man-made and man-designed. Much of the look was Gaudi-esque, not surprising, since the two architects were contemporaries and from neighboring countries.

By now, the sun had burned off the mist, and the weather become nearly perfect for walking through jungly gardens that would have been a perfect setting for a Jurassic Park movie.

The gardens include a deep well, essentially an inverted tower that we gingerly walked down,

marveling at every landing. For at least an hour, we wandered the garden trails using the most helpful electronic audio guides I had added to our tickets for an extra euro. they were most informative and easy to operate.

Finally, we reached the palatial home itself, which was pretty impressive in its own right. But after marveling at gardens that could have been the set for a Jurassic Park movie, the house was certainly lavish but somehow less overwhelming. The tour takes only a few minutes and only on the first floor, so even with the helpful audio guide, we were in and out in about 30 minutes.

By now it was time for the walk down the mountain to the town center and then on to the transportation terminal. Lynn by now was struggling with the terrain, but she gamely plodded on. This time, thankfully, we caught the waiting train back to Lisbon by less than five minutes, proving once again that life evens out.

Back at Rossio station, we found our bus at an adjacent square and rode back contented with a productive, enjoyable day, despite Lynn’s climbing fatigue. Thirst made us stop first at Miradouro Santa Luzia to enjoy cold beers and watch the action on the riverfront and the cruise ship terminal.

For dinner, we went super local to a little tiny place right down the street from our apartment, Casa da Tia Helena.

It doesn’t get much more local than this. On this meal, we reversed, and Lynn ordered the grilled daurade, which came out as the whole fish, unsliced. She carefully pulled back the bones and enjoyed the delicate white flesh right down to the skin.

I ordered the pork stew, which came out in a bowl of chips, sauce, onions and mushrooms. The pork was tasty, but as before a bit dry. For some reason, every pork dish I have tasted in Lisbon has been similarly dry, maybe because of the cut of meat or the type of pig or just the way it’s prepared. All in all, our meal was good, solid, local food. Not bad by any means, but nothing great.

Oddly, for such a local restaurant tucked away in the warrens of Alfama, two tables inside were taken with more tourists. A woman traveling alone from Australia had already seen 25 countries on this trip sat toward the back of the room, and we chatted about opening up her country again. Just after that, three young women from Canada took the table directly across from us. They had just arrived and had no idea where to go for the next couple of days.

We offered some ideas of main attractions, especially the Portuguese Maritime Museum, perhaps the best in the world. That’s what we do now, experienced Lisbon visitors that we are.

Our first full day in Lisbon was a day of walking the steep hills of Alfama, not much to Lynn’s liking. We started by walking down from our apartment toward the flat shoreline of the Tagus River. Even though we are in a slightly different location, we started to see familiar landmarks.

We also passed by a few clearly local, neighborhood restaurants that looked interesting and inviting.

As we reached the river bank, we saw both the Disney ship and another Norwegian Cruise Line ship berthed right behind. Together, they would pour an estimated 5,000 day-trippers into Lisbon.

Our purpose in our morning walk was to determine whether we could in fact take our luggage down the hill to the train station at Santa Apolonia to head to Porto on Sunday. I counted 62 fairly easy steps with many landings, so the walk would not be terribly difficult. Most of the journey downhill would be on relatively gentle slopes and streets that would be pretty easy to navigate even with luggage.

Santa Apolonia train station really was fairly close to our apartment, more than the 10-minute walk our hostess and Google Maps promised, but not much more, even dragging suitcases behind us. And the station itself is wide open, easy to navigate.

It also includes a relatively large grocery store, no Schwegmann’s by any means, but fairly well stocked with semi-prepared main dishes that would reduce the amount of work for Lynn on the tiny counter space in our apartment. We picked up enough provisions for the next few days, planning to eat out more often than in.

On the way down and back, we noticed a restaurant just down from our apartment that looked promising, so after putting away the groceries, we walked back. Morgadinha de Alfama turned out to be a simple but fine neighborhood restaurant, offering a varied menu of fish and meat at extremely low prices. And no photos of food, as the restaurants on the adjacent square showed.

The proprietor spoke little English, but with the help of his iPhone translator app, Lynn ordered the bacalhao, a traditional Portuguese codfish made in a variety of stewed versions. I opted for the grilled daurade, which in their English translation was “Golden Eyes.” (Huh?)

Both our choices were delicious and filling. My fish was 9.50 and Lynn’s dish was 9.00. Two beers set us back another 5 euros. Actually, my grilled fish was as good as any I have had anywhere. Once the bones were peeled back, the delicate white flesh of the daurade came out in delicious, generous, tender bites.

Flushed with the thrill of accomplishment, we retired to our apartment for naps, ready to venture forth down Alfama in the other direction to the huge commercial plaza of downtown Lisbon.

The walk to the huge square only takes about ten minutes along the river, routing past the House of Spikes museum and the frontier of major tourist areas. We walked through, comparing notes from two years ago about what was still open and what was not. Then we kept moving along the river to the Cais de Sodre station, where we will board the train later this week for Cascais. And right across the street is the Time Out Market, half a regular produce market, the other half a hip, bustling group of restaurants that we had enjoyed last time.

We found our favorite and greeted the owner, telling her we would be back later in the week. The menu looked pretty much the same as 2020, and we picked out our favorites for the next visit.

Then it was back to Alfama, this time on the bus. We made it to the Cathedral de Sé, where the crowd waited on the trolley aka streetcar. The yellow trolly in Lisbon is about two-thirds the size of the St. Charles Ave. streetcar and packed to the gills wit tourists so much that the driver doesn’t stop until enough passengers have deboarded to make room for more. It runs right up to the top of Alfama, but we chose to take the regular 737 bus, which deposited us at Miradouro Santa Luzia and the neighboring Miradouro do Sol.

Lynn grabbed a table, and I patiently waited in line at the kiosk to order drinks. The server called me over to the side, and as soon as I walked over, someone barged in and ordered for himself. The server gave me a “what can I say” look and poured the asshole’s four beers as fast as possible. I finally grabbed our drinks, and we sat down to watch the Disney ship depart Lisbon and head off down the river to the Atlantic.

Cocktails consumed, we walked down to our apartment for wine and a homemade dinner. Lynn prepared the pork skewers we had picked up at the grocery, and we both agreed they were not the best she had ever prepared. We blamed it on the quality of the goods and not the quality of the chef, for sure.

As disappointing as it is to leave Nice, it was worse to hear from our Uber driver that he could not access our apartment, when other cars were rolling right up to our doorway all morning long. After a number of phone calls (thank God he spoke English), we wound up walking across most of Vieux Nice to meet him at the corner of the Opera where we had just meet Florent the day before.

Another block, and we could have just taken the tram to the airport. And we still had rides left on our transit card. To really salt the wound, Uber charged me more than 6 euros for waiting time.

But we finally reached the airport in plenty of time, and we entered Terminal 1 for the first time. it seemed like the older terminal, a bit smaller and easier to navigate, since EazyJet, the dominate carrier in Nice, operates in the other terminal.

Check-in was pretty uneventful, thankfully. The TAP agent checked our passports and our vaccination cards and sent upon our way with our boarding passes. We passed through security and made our way up to the small Priority lounge to grab some breakfast, have a Bloody Mary and wine for Lynn and wait on our flight. Heading downstairs to board, we waited until the last minute and walked into the jetway to stop still for about ten minutes. No one was boarding for some unknown reason, even though we had all been cleared. By then, we had shown our passports at least four times before entering the plane.

Finally, the line moved, and we boarded, only to be told that we had to wear a mask on the plane. Portugal does not follow the new EU guidelines that went into effect today. So we suffocated for two and a half hours, broken only by sipping slowly on glasses of wine and water.

Otherwise, the flight was relatively smooth and uneventful in our full Embraer 190. We landed on time and began taxiing around the Lisbon airport, just feet away from huge jets that were moving back and forth before takeoff and after landings. We felt very diminutive in our little Embraer, passing literally under the wings of the behemoth jets.

Finally we stopped in the middle of the tarmac in the middle the airport in the middle of nowhere, it seemed. From there, still masked, we boarded buses that took us on a winding journey through the bowels of Lisbon International, again under the wings of huge jets and their jetways. After what seemed like miles, we were finally deposited at a nondescript door and sent off on a long walk through the innards of the airport toward the terminal and our baggage claim.

Luggage in hand finally, we made our way through the Customs line, at least in theory, as only a few security guards in their yellow safety vests stood by, perhaps to nab smugglers with too much perfume from the Nice airport duty-free store.

We emerged into a cloudy day in Lisbon to a multi-line queue cab stand that was far more efficient and faster that the one at Laguardia. It wasn’t too long before we were ushered into a cab with–that rarest of the breed–a local driver who spoke English. I contacted our hostess Marietta via WhatsApp, and she gave him directions through town to the meeting place among the winding, hilly, narrow streets of Alfama.

Marietta jumped into the cab and told the driver where to go and how to get as close as possible to our apartment, which turned out to be not all that close. We still had a few hundred yards to walk over ancient, irregular cobblestones and down the hill to reach our apartment at 33 Rue do Castelo Picão. Wherever that is.

Marietta opened the door to reveal an apartment that I swear if I had known, I would never have rented. She called it a “duplex”; we called it a disaster. Lynn hated it from the moment we walked in.

The tiny kitchen was pretty well equipped with a nice size refrigerator and freezer, an Ikea washer-dryer combo but no coffee maker. That’s the best part of this apartment.

At the end of the narrow room is the bathroom.

Upstairs is the “living room,” essentially a couch at the top of the stair landing, and the bedroom. So now learn that the term “duplex” means the two essential rooms are separated by stairs.

And the apartment is not air conditioned, which somehow again I did not notice when I booked it.

Marietta spent a good half hour explaining the area, how to get around the narrow streets (none of which we could comprehend) and the sites to see in and around Lisbon. She was quite the enthusiastic hostess and guide, but she could not overcome a terrible apartment.

As soon as Marietta walked out the door, Lynn declared that she hated the apartment, and her meniscus-repaired knee could not tolerate climbing the steep hills of Alfama. After some awkward unpacking, we decided to head out for a walk to explore the neighborhood and figure out where we were.

Once around the corner, we realized we were very close to the old ‘hood, and easily found our way up the hill to the twin Miradouros of Sao Vicente and Santa Luzia. Just for the record, I confirmed that the cursed elevator that did not work two years go, forcing us to haul luggage up and down steep stairways, was now back in operation, with new digital controls. Two years too late for us.

Now that we were in familiar territory, we walked down the street to find our favorite restaurants from our last visit. Two of the three are still there. The third has become a pizza parlor, disappointing, because it had been a pretty fine dining experience on our last trip.

But our favorite Petit Cafe was still there, and we made an early reservation for the evening, since we are still an hour ahead. Then it was off to Santa Luzia and a cold beer to slake our thirst from the dusty trail, so to speak.

As we worked our way through the crowds–and they were huge–at Sao Vicente, we watched a Disney cruise ship pull into the port. That will just deposit even more people into Alfama by morning. Clearly, tourism is returning, masked or not.

Our meal at Petit Cafe was good but a bit disappointing as well. We started with an excellent grilled portobello mushroom, big enough to be an individual entree for Lynn. It was perfectly prepared and well seasoned. We had no complaint.

Lynn ordered the duck confit, which was quite good, if not quite the level of the French version. I eagerly ordered the grilled octopus, which unfortunately had been overcooked to the point of tough and tasteless. I should have guessed, when I noticed the little tendrils at the end of the tentacles had been cooked to a crisp.

But the wine our server recommended was just fine, a Douro from Porto, where we will be heading Sunday, not a day too soon. Lynn wants to move into a hotel.

Sunday was to be our last full day in Nice, and we wanted to accomplish a few last but crucial things before we left.

First, we needed to meet with Florent at 11 a.m. to formally accept the counteroffer and officially agree to buy 3 rue de la Condamine.

That precluded my Bloody Mary but not breakfast, which Lynn expertly made from four eggs I had purchased earlier for 2.40 euros at the Cours Saleya market earlier in the morning.

Along about 10:45, we strolled the Promenade to meet Florent at the corner of the Opera, then grabbed a nearby table at the restaurant right there on the opposite corner.

We signed the paperwork. We were now officially agreeing to purchase our home away from the U.S.

Over coffee, water and his lemon-line Schweppes, Florent regaled us with his tales of learning and now teaching English, skiing in northern Italy and traveling around to London, Viet Nam and other countries. By then, the restaurant was encouraging us to leave our coffee so they could set the table for lunch, which commands much higher tickets than the few euros we were spending on morning beverages.

My own Sunday morning beverage still awaited, however. We left Florent and walked, almost ran, around the corner to Wayne’s for our last Bloody Mary in Nice or at least mine. Our Russian bartendress understood how to make a good one, and I prompted her to add more horseradish, even as Lynn passed in favor of a Mimosa. After all, we had just purchased a tiny apartment that cost more than the house we now live in when we bought it in 2006. That deserves a toast.

Or something.

So we set off for a climb up Castle Hill from the street where our new apartment is located. Lynn counted 65 steps up, more than she was hoping for. But up we trudged up until we reached the Cascade, the manmade waterfall on the town side of Castle Hill.

From there we walked across to the lower concession stand in search of a lunch, but did not find anything of interest on the menu. So we made our way around and down to the elevator that deposited us back to the Promenade and into Vieux Nice, now in some elevated search for lunch.

Essentially, we made a big circle back to Place Rosetti, where our new apartment is located, and found Le Clocher, a restaurant off the square that offered salads. Lynn ordered the chèvre chaud, which she had been craving for a week, and I had a Caesar salad, prepared the Nicoise way with lots of anchovies and liquid dressing. Both were just fine, washed down with a pichet of delicious Provencal rosé. Our only complaint was that it took three requests to get a carafe of water. The rest of the meal, including the Brazilian gymnastics team performance, was just fine.

One thing we have not now or ever have done was to enjoy a gelato from one of the three stands that ring Place Rosetti. Since it was our last day, we indulged.

A single scoop of chocolate mint was enough for us as we walked back to our apartment for a much deserved nap and the start of preparation to leave the next day.

Properly napped, we walked out for our last stroll along the Promenade with a few thousand others who had the same idea. The beach was crowded, the Promenade was packed.

We watched in awe as the roller bladers navigated little cones cross-legged for nearly 100 yards. These guys (and girls) were good.

Meanwhile, the sand volleyball courts on the beach were as active as ever, with teams playing back and forth, some of the women with uniform tops that listed their numbers. Lynn marveled at how anyone could play volleyball on a sandy beach dressed in a thong. I just marveled at competitors playing in a thong.

Finally, the last stroll was over, and was time to return to our apartment for packing, last dinner and last bottle of delicious wine.

Nice, we must leave, but we will return, next time presumably as property owners and part-time residents.

And by the way, the last dinner was just wonderful, with leftover sausage and ravioli, baked chicken breast and the remains of our lettuce and tomato from the Cours Saleya market.

Au revoir until next time.

Before the momentous occasion Saturday, both Lynn and I embarked on individual adventures in Nice.

When we had visited Club Nautique Nice the day before, I noticed an interesting t-shirt with the club name embroidered on the chest and a multicolor stripe around the collar and cuffs. And it was offered at a most reasonable price of about 19 euros for non-members. But the office was closed when we finished lunch, so I planned to return Saturday morning.

Up and out Saturday morning, when I reached the stop at Promenade des Arts, I checked the schedule and realized that I had missed the bus by no more than a minute or two. This being Saturday, the schedule was much reduced, and I would have to wait for at least 30 minutes for the next bus.

I figured I could walk in that much time, and it was a pretty day, so off I strode around the Port and down to CNN. As a matter of fact, I reached the clubhouse at almost the precise time the next 38 bus would have picked me up at Promenade des Arts.

The little French lady staffing the office was most helpful, although the shirt I wanted was not in stock. I settled for a similar shirt with the club logo but without the ornamentation the collar and sleeve. It was also two euros less.

Knowing that European sizing is significantly different from American, I made sure to try on the shirt first. It was an XL that fit me just fine, even though I wear a Medium in the U.S.

I noticed that the club has different pricing for members and non-members, something to remember when I get home to suggest to SYC leadership.

CNN t-shirt in hand, I waited a few minutes for the 38 bus to return, but this time I got off at the Port Lympia stop where the tram Line 2 leaves for the Nice airport. I wanted to check personally to see if we needed Covid tests before boarding and if so, was there a Covid test site inside the airport.

Once in Terminal 2, I found the Covid testing site (antigen available for 29 euros each!) but could find no trace of TAP airlines, the Portuguese carrier we were to fly out on Monday. A pleasant but not terribly helpful Delta attendant could not answer the question either. After all, it’s not their airline.

The next day, when I checked in for our TAP flight, I learned that we would leave from Terminal 1. I had gone to the wrong place.

The tram trip back into Vieux Nice was amusing, as one American and several British travelers boarded from their incoming flights, not knowing which line they were on or where they would be taken. I assured them they were indeed on L-2. In truth, the transit line is not particularly well signed, although it is the only one at the airport. And the Lignes D’Azur transit app doesn’t list L-2 at all, just L-3. All of this could use some improvement for first-time visitors.

The ride back was pleasant, as I hid behind a partition since I was not wearing a mask in violation of French regulations. If we don’t have to wear them in the U.S. anymore, we had decided not to wear them in France unless we got busted. And if that happened, I would speak strictly in English to sound like the illiterate American that I am. By the way, this will all change on Monday, when France drops mask requirements across the board, based on EU guidance. Thank the Lord.

Meanwhile, Lynn ventured forth on her own, walking the Promenade by herself, then to the Paillon and actually made her way down to the beach within two feet of the water. Her constitutional included watching ballet dancers practice in front of the Opera and a stroll through the Cours Saleya food and flower market, fully occupied on a Saturday morning.

By the time we both returned, we were ready to head out for lunch and our next meeting with Florent. It would be a momentous day.

That’s us.

Florent had received permission for us to view the apartment one more time between check-ins to take some measurements and more closely examine the appliances to determine their operation.

What we have learned is that this apartment is newer than we had thought. It only went into holiday rental service a year ago in July. So the revenue it has generated only covers a nine-month period. That’s promising for our future.

It also means that the appliances are newer than we had thought. They are all top of the line, bright and shiny. The washing machine looks like it may never have been used.

The microwave, dishwasher, refrigerator and other kitchen appliances look the same. The kitchen has no oven, but the microwave is a convection combination with a single heating element on the top of the tiny cabinet. Very efficient and very flexible.

As we walked toward the front door, I asked Florent if the owner had responded to our offer. Florent replied that he had indeed countered, and I simply said, We will accept that.

I don’t think poor Florent was prepared for that answer, but we had arrived at exactly the price I had projected. There was no need for further discussions. Let’s just sign the papers and get the process moving.

After taking some measurements and poking into what closets we could, we made some notes of minor items that needed attention and then left the apartment so the next tenants could move in by 3 p.m.

I felt like the dog that chased the car and got it. Now what?

We were about to become home owners in Nice.

Family and Friends, contact Smart BNB at https://www.smartbnb.immo and ask for Marina. Then ask her for our apartment.

Our viewing was sandwiched in (sorry) between lunch and our planned walk up Castle Hill two blocks from the apartment at the end of rue Rosetti.

We had enjoyed a pizza and escargot at La Pairolerie before, but neither was on the menu this time. So we “settled” for a citron chicken for Lynn and the lamb confit for me. My lamb was excellent, but Lynn graded her chicken as only “okay.” It wasn’t a bad meal by any standards, just not to the level of what we have enjoyed elsewhere. Our glasses of Chablis and rosé were just splendid, however.

We then followed up our inspection meeting with Florent with a drink on Place Rosetti to celebrate, another glass of rosé for me and a Chardonnay for Lynn. I could see where this day was going. By the time we polished off our celebratory wine while hearing some of Florent’s varied background as an English teacher, a betting parlor worker and now a real estate agent, we decided to postpone the hike until Sunday. Castle Hill will still be there.

One dangerous attraction just around the corner from our intended apartment is a little dress shop named Even that offered scores of spring outfits in floral patterns on light cloth at reasonable prices. Lynn had bought one two days earlier, and now she wanted another that was displayed on the street. She purchased the second dress, but discovered that it was one size too small, so after trying it on in our apartment, she marched out to exchange it while I napped.

By the time she returned with the proper size, it was already time to begin preparations for dinner at Comptoir du Marché, another of Mr. Crespo’s restaurants. The dining room is tiny, so the outside tables double the restauarant’s capacity. The noise level rises fairly high inside the small dining room with tile floors and wood paneled walls, so it was hard to carry on any sort of conversation.

Our meal was a bit of a disappointment by Crespo standards. We ordered the grilled calamari starter, which was prepared with slices of grilled artichokes. Lynn found the artichokes very bitter, although the calamari was quite good. So we had to eat around that.

She ordered the beef cheeks, which were served in a black iron pot swimming in broth with vegetables. We thought they would be daube-style, but in fact the cheeks were served more as confit formed like a hockey puck. A delicious hockey puck, mind you, but not the rich sauce we had expected.

My own leg of lamb came out as an entrecôte rather than a hunk. And it tasted more like pork than lamb. Again, there was nothing wrong with it, but it was not what I expected.

The night ended in a bit of frustration, as we tried to stop off at Wayne’s for a nightcap but could not score a seat anywhere inside because the band was playing by then. I wanted a Havana Club to celebrate our pending purchase, but it was not to be. Instead, we walked around the corner to Cave du Cours, but it too was packed to capacity.

So we went home mostly sober to ponder our prospects as part-time residents and full-time investors in Nice.

Club Nautique Nice (CNN) has been around since 1883, so is not some start-up yacht club. We have searched for it several times in previous visits but never quite made it around the Port for a visit. This time I was determined.

The trip turned out to be fairly simple, a single ride from Monoprix on the 38 mini-bus around the perimeter of the Port and to the opposite end, where the clubhouse stands like a fortress guarding the entrance to Nice.

CNN is an active organization offering sailing, rowing, motor boating and swimming. It has its own little beach open to the public where sunbathers and scuba divers alike gather on the smooth stones at the entrance to the building.

Inside, CNN is anything but formal or stuffy. It is known as a pretty popular public restaurant overlooking the harbor with a splendid view out to the sea. Patrons can dine inside or on the wind-shielded balcony watching the Opti classes go out to practice in the Mediterranean. We walked in without a reservation and were given the last table on the balcony, as none were available inside. No one ever asked for a letter or a membership card or even if we knew what a boat is.

And the place was indeed full. Several large tables of 30 and 40-something adults carried on loud, happy conversations, lubricated by bottles of rosé. These people were not going back to the office on a Friday afternoon.

We ordered salads, a Caesar for Lynn and the Nicoise for me. Both were large, both were excellent. Lynn’s was unlike any Caesar salad either of us had even seen. It offered all the requisite ingredients, including slabs of bacon, strips of chicken, slices of cheese, but in large portions of each. And all of those were served up over a bed of lettuce and tomatoes with the liquid dressing liberally ladled over the entire affair to give it the appearance of a regular salad unlike the traditional Caesar we are accustomed to. Regardless, it was quite tasty and more than Lynn could finish.

My own salad Nicoise was as good as these get in France. They use canned tuna, likely because the real thing is not available on this side of the Atlantic at any reasonable price. And the typical salad Nicoise in France layers on plenty of anchovies, much to my liking. I finished every last morsel.

But before we left for Club Nautique, we had met up with Florent at 10:30 in front of the Opera for a cup of coffee to discuss and make a formal offer to buy the apartment. We were taking the plunge.

Buying real estate in France could not be more different from the U.S. The entire offer sheet is barely three pages long. We simply filled out by hand our names and the amount we offered, with the contingency that the apartment be approved/authorized for holiday rentals. That’s it. In the U.S. the disclosure pages alone are the size of a small town telephone book.

Nowhere in the three printed pages is any mention or reference to a down payment, deposit or earnest money to be paid. But it will take anywhere from two to three months to complete the transaction, and at some point we will have to pony up some cash. But not now.

Florent took the signed pages to make a copy for us and predicted the owner would counter by the end of the day, as we planned to meet at 2 p.m. Saturday for another quick look at the appliances and some measurements for additional furniture.

And then he was off, and we were off, all of us somewhat confident that we would be making an agreement to become homeowners in Nice the next day. Club Nautique Nice awaited.

We had no fixed agenda for the day, just trying to find relevant documents on the apartment in order to make an offer. That meant much of the day needed to be spent not too far from my computer to be able to open documents and read them easily instead of on a tiny phone screen.

Our plan of the day was to have “dinner” of wine and munchies at Cave du Cours, which required a late large lunch somewhere in town.

We took a stroll around Vieux Nice to see that the Promenade du Paillon has been fully opened, with all the soccer viewing staging and screens completely removed. The splash fountain was back in operation, and a toddler showed no fear of water as he marched right into one of the gushers before his parents grabbed him from a thorough soaking.

For lunch, we decided to visit Mia Casa, a small Argentine restaurant we had noticed last time here. Inside, it looks like someone’s living room with unmatched tables and chairs scattered across the small floor, a sofa on one side, a small bookshelf over the counter that separates the tiny kitchen from the dining area and a cooler of drinks.

Their ´11.50 lunch includes a salad, rice, potatoes and either a pork chimichurri, baked chicken breast or paneed beef Milanese.

This is strictly a family operation. We later talked to the wife, who is from Finland. She said she and her Argentine husband have lived all over the world, but they plan to make Nice their final, permanent home. She thought Buenos Aries was way too big, and Nice is just the right size to have everything a person could need but on a more manageable scale.

We agreed on that, and agreed that the beautiful and convenient Nice airport connects you to anywhere you want to go.

We enjoyed our home-cooked lunch washed down with a glass of Chardonnay for Lynn and a delicious Argentine beer, Quilmes, for me. And then it was off to more wandering.

Our dining plan for the day was to eat our large, late lunch, then stroll around the corner to Cave du Cours for a few glasses of wine and their taste treats. After a short walk along the Promenade, we arrived at Cave du Cours right at 6 p.m. when they opened.

Within an hour, the place was packed, both inside and out. The smoking crowd took all the outdoor tables, and the indoor crowd filled the room. We sampled a few of the house offerings of both red wines, accompanied by plates of sausage slices; a small roll of chèvre; a large slice of a different French cheese (we forgot to ask) wrapped around another slice; a helping of country pat´´e and finally little squares of croque monsieur, a little sandwich of ham between slices of toast with cheese melted on top.

The wines were 5 and 6 dollars per glass. The food was nothing. Nada. But filling. By regular dinnertime, we were stuffed, so we rolled out to leave the Cave for the younger, later crowd. We made our way up the stairs and finished the night off watching Nadal lose in three sets in the Italian Open.

What a wild life we lead in Nice.

We had one more apartment to view, but by now, we were pretty much convinced that the one on rue Condamine is The One. But we have also learned that rules and regulations governing holiday rentals in Nice were changed a year ago and are much more stringent now.

We need two documents. The first is the Syndic de Coproprieté, which is permission from the other owners in the building for an owner to rent out the apartment for short term. It takes only one other owner to kill the permit.

The other critical document is the Reglement de Coproprieté, which is the permit or license itself for an apartment to be advertised for holiday (aka short term) rentals. Otherwise the apartment can only be rented to students, full-time residents or friends and family off the books. No rental agency will touch it without the reglement.

So we visited Smart BNB, the rental agency that handles the Condamine apartment for the German owner. Everything seems to be in place–a motivated seller (he is renovating a home up the hill in Cimiez) and a motivated buyer (us), assisted by a motivated selling agent and a motivated rental agency. All we need is the help of the local government.

Marina, the manager of the rental agency, was most helpful and informative when we visited. She noted that the apartment is fully rented through August. It would be highly unlikely the transaction could be completed before then anyway, so the current owner would be able to keep all the rental income as he renovated his new house in Cimiez.

On a related matter, we noticed that her firm now holds the listing for our old apartment on Cours Saleya where we stayed twice. It was sold two years ago right after we stayed there last. The new owner moved the listing from Pebbles to Smart BNB, which is why we could never find it again.

Marina and our agent Florent were trying to collect all the necessary paperwork currently at hand, but there doesn’t seem to be much current. The latest document we have in hand is from 2020, which was the change of usage approval when the apartment was first rented short-term.

Everyone agreed to continue searching for the relevant documentation. In the meantime, we planned to head up the hill to Cimiez Park for lunch at the little counter there.

In January, Cimiez Park was all but deserted. Not so much in May. The place was overrun with scores of children obviously on school outings.

Like all 6-10 year-olds, they were boisterous, energetic, noisy and fun. They ran through the open spaces, they bounced on the trampolines, they ate under the trees, they ran through the lanes named after jazz greats that surround the park.

We found a semi-shady table for a lunch of pissaladerie and a chicken pannini washed down with delicious cans of cold Kronenbourg beer.

Our objective on this tour of the park was to view the gardens to see the difference from January, when they were mostly bare of flowers except for the stands of wildflowers along the sides.

In May, the only real difference–but a big one–is the roses are now in full bloom. Every color, all sizes, all types from climbing to bushy. Some of the individual blooms were among the largest we have ever seen since Jardin des Plantes in Paris at the same time of the year.

After a quick visit to the monastery church of St. Francis to view the invaluable La Brea paintings, we took the 5 bus back down the hill to Vieux Nice, flaunting the obligatory mask rule posted on every window of both the bus and the tram. A number of locals did the same thing, and at least half of those actually wearing a mask did so with it drooping down around their lips or even under the chin. The rule is dumb and unenforceable, despite a threatened 135-euro fine. We found it universally ignored in the Nice airport, mostly ignored on public transit and completely ignored on Uber.

That night, the French government and the EU announced the end of all mask manatees on public transit effective May 16. That’s the day we fly from Nice to Lisbon. Praise be.

Dinner was back at Bar des Oiseaux, this time in our favorite table facing the open kitchen. We shared the cold veal salad, which was large enough to be a full dinner for Lynn. The veal was prepared in slices accompanied by horseradish sauce, lettuce and crispy gnocchi as only Bar des Oiseaux prepares.

Lynn ordered the bourride, which is a lighter, Nicoise version of bouillabaise, three different kinds of fish swimming in a savory sauce with a smattering of beans and orzo pasta. My order was Lynn’s ravioli agneau from the last time, confit of lamb surrounded by ravioli in a rich cream sauce.

We splurged for dessert, a rarity for us. I ordered the lemon tart, thinking it would be a nice small circle of lemony custard. Instead, the dish came out with little curls of lemon accompanied by equally little curls of toasted meringue over tiny pastries.

What a find. But that is typical of Bar des Oiseaux–inventive takes on the best ingredients.

Okay–we’ll come back for a third time before we leave.