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Our next excursion was to visit the Christmas market in Villefranche-sur-Mer, the pretty little town on the other side of the cape from Nice. My research indicted it had a small but festive Christmas market, either in the little park near the bus stop or down by the Citadel and the port.

We took the short bus ride to Villefranche-sur-Mer and alighted at the park to see exactly nothing. Luckily the tourism office is right there, so we walked in and asked where their market is. The agent explained that they don’t have a Christmas market in their town and pointed us to a hefty brochure that listed all the festivities on the Cote d’Azur. She counseled that Nice is the big attraction, which of course we already knew, but suggested we keep going to St. Jean Cap-Ferrat a few kilometers down to see their market.

So back to the bus stop we went and caught the next bus. We didn’t even have to pay, because we were still on the original fare. My navigation told me to take the bus all the way to its terminus at Port St. Jean, but for some reason, we sort of panicked and bolted off the bus at Pont St. John instead, at least six stops too soon. Once I realized my mistake, it was back to the bus stop for the next one, which we boarded and this time stayed until the end at Port St.Jean.

And there we found their Christmas market, more of a large petting zoo than anything else. PETA would have gone crazy with large horses and cows penned in tightly so that kids could feed them hay. Another pen contained a gaggle of geese and ducks, two of which were stuck in a bucket of water without a way to escape. So they just flapped around in the bucket while their fowl companions drank from what they splashed out. It was fairly entertaining, actually, but again PETA would vociferously object.

And that was pretty much it. No booths selling candy or sausages in a cup. No Ferris wheel or rides of any kind. Just a temporary petting zoo and some basic Christmas displays.

By now we were hungry, so we started looking at restaurants. As usual, the ones surrounding the port were elaborate and expensive. Experience told us to walk back or around a block to find something more local, and there it was–Sea Side cafe, just steps from the port area. And inside were two workers in their yellow vests having lunch. This was our kind of place.

The menu was simple–burgers, pizzas and a daly special, all at bargain prices. I ordered the 14.50 special of stewed meat with a rich gravy of vegetables over potatoes, while Lynn had the half-pizza and side salad for 12.50. Both dishes were wonderful, hot comfort food for a winter’s day. The proprietor spoke fine English and suggested a pichet of rosé instead of two glasses, since the price is about the same. that too was just fine and tasty.

And then it was a pleasant, scenic bus ride back to Nice, followed by naps, a stroll to the Christmas market (third time), a ride on the Ferris wheel, a cocktail at Wayne’s, then dinner at Acchiardo, the century-old institution in Vieux Nice.

Reservations are absolutely required at Acchiardo, as the supplicants line up at the front door at 7 p.m. to be beckoned into the sanctum sactorum of dining. We were given a table in the middle of the action, as we watched the wait staff (almost all family members) race up and down the multi-story building with heaping plates of food stacked from hands up their arms to their shoulders.

Acchiardo’s food is plentiful, tasty and a bargain. It is a legendary restaurant with a huge local and tourist following. It is worth a visit for the experience and the cuisine, even though many restaurants in Old Nice offer more inventive menus. Just be sure to make a reservation.

Menton sits right on the French border with Italy. For some reason the few miles up the Riviera give Menton an even milder climate than Nice. In fact, Menton is considered the lemon capital of the Cote d’Azur, and it’s easy to see why just walking down the streets. Lemon trees are everywhere, and at Christmas the clementine trees are loaded.

Menton also presents a Christmas market that we wanted to see, so we took the tram to Nice Ville train station and walked past the now nearly completed stark modern glass building that we have watched under construction the last few years. Somewhere else, the angular structure would be an interesting addition. In the middle of historic Nice, it looks incongruous. But at least now the sidewalks are completed, and we don’t have to walk in the street from the tram to the train station.

Our round-trip tickets cost all of 25.60 euros for the regional train that runs about every half hour. I accidentally dialed up Italian on the ticket machine and had to abandon. French I could handle, but Italian was too much in a rush. A train was ready to leave in just a couple of minutes.

Inside, the train was all but empty, so we chose two seats facing forward on the right side of the coach. (I hate going backwards.) The rule of thumb is to sit on the right side heading east and the left side heading west, so you look out over the Mediterranean the entire trip. Along most of the route, the train tracks run outside the highway, so the view is unobstructed and stunning.

When we arrived in Menton about 40 minutes later, Lynn discovered that the train station has no bathroom. When asked, the ticket agent simply said “no,” either use the train or find one in the city. Lynn was astonished and outraged. It was too late to return to the train. And she had no idea where a facility might be in town. But she soldiered on.

The Menton Christmas market actually occupies two sites. The first from the train station is set on the wide neutral ground that stretches from the imposing Palais de l’Europe down to the equally imposing Cassino Barriere on the waterfront overlooking the Med. The Palais was already advertising the Fete des Citron that will launch during Carnival season.

This “market” was actually a succession of kids’ attractions, including a little train that ran throughout the displays, riding cups in the gigantic Christmas tree, an oversized bounce house, large animated displays of animals gathered in the “snow,” and of course, ducks, all accompanied by music to help the mood.

We walked along the kids’ attractions and down into the casino to take look at the premises (very interesting as casinos go), and Lynn availed herself of the WC before anyone could notice the we were most definitely not customers. From there, we walked down Menton’s shopping street and to the pretty pedestrian mall that would take us to Esplanade Francis Palermo, the site of the main Christmas market of food booths, souvenirs and an ice rink.

The market was relatively small but had all the usual booths selling little gifts, candy, sausages, beers, mulled wine and assorted beverages. Hungry by now, we settled at Cafe du Parvis, which is a permanent building inside the boundary of the market. I enjoyed a pretty good salad Nicoise, and Lynn had a standard pannini, which she declared just fine. We ate, we watched the ice skating for a few minutes, and then we left. This was no Nice.

We were eager to get back home, as dinner was to be at Bistro d’Antoine, Mr. Crespo’s signature restaurant and one of the legends of Old Nice. It did not disappoint. I couldn’t resist my usual–pork cheeks in a creamy polenta with a sauce so rich it looks like paint. Lynn chose the St. Jacques, a rich, spicy mixture of scallops and seafood in a delicious broth. We finished off with a dessert of mille feuille, crackly sheets like glass layered over a chocolatey filling. So light, so decadent, so good.

As happens frequently, a couple sitting at the table next to us was visiting for the weekend from Holland. They had kept a house near Nice for years and finally gave it up as they aged and did not want to maintain the upkeep. But they still fly over, rent a car and stay p the mountains. Some people never really leave Nice. Like us.

Christmas dawned, and we were up with it. The sun doesn’t appear at this time of the year until near 8 a.m., and we wanted to get a start on the day to make sure we would be at Ste. Reparate cathedral well in advance of the 11 a.m. Mass.

We walked down the street to the cathedral, and–lo and behold–the baby Jesus was in his manger in the square.

The church was packed, but we were early enough to snag good seats. The Mass went on in full high solemnity with much singing, much incense and much preaching in French. An hour and a half later, we were out and back to the apartment for our own Christmas celebration.

As we drank our morning champagne (the real stuff, which is just about all that is available at the wine store), I surprised Lynn with some new, larger diamond earrings. They seemed to be well received. After all, they are still a girl’s best friend.

It was indeed a Merry Christmas.

It took a couple of days, but we finally overcame the jet lag, settled into our apartment, ate at Bar des Oiseaux, walked the Promenade, visited Wayne’s, grabbed a pizza on the street and enjoyed Lynn’s splendid sausage and peppers at home.

By Saturday, we were ready to rumble.

First, we bought tickets to the ballet at the Opera and paid extra for better (we hoped) seats. The ticket agent recommended seats way up in the third or fourth balcony, but we wanted something lower, even if it meant looking over the people sitting in front of us. After all, there were only two rows in the first balcony. How bad could it be?

Then it was back home and off to Castle Hill, climbing the 71 steps that start right behind our apartment. We stopped for lunch at the cafe on the second level adjacent to the playground overlooking the bay and the port. (Some kids have it all.) As we ordered our lunches, we were disappointed to learn that La Citadelle cafe would be closing down December 22. The English-speaking attendant explained that a new owner would be taking over. She was visibly sad, and so were we.

Lynn had an open faced chèvre chaud toast that she declared delicious, while I enjoyed a hot dog in a foot-long bun toasted on a panini press. Actually, there were two dogs inside the bun, which was slathered with spicy mustard and a bit of ketchup. No chili here, but it was mighty tasty as we warded off the huge seagulls that dove bombed our table in search of stealing our meal, which one had done last year.

The it was back down the hill on the other side of the park past the Mediterranean epicerie where I had found horseradish the day before for the princely sum of $1.50. The proprietor didn’t even know what it was. In French, horseradish is raifort, which apparently is the term used in just about all countries where English is not the first language.

We parked ourselves back at the apartment for a rest. By then we had walked a few thousand steps, according to our iPhones. But after a quick breather, we took off again to visit the Christmas market in the Paillon. This time, the crowds were much larger, the queues were much longer, and the security much more careful. I got wanded when I could not get every single coin out of my pocket.

But crowds of kids and parents and young people are what make the Christmas market so much fun. In Nice, the market spreads out the crowds, so you never feel claustrophobic like you do in Paris. I couldn’t resist a cup of sliced sausage from the Mannekin Piss Belgian booth. We had plenty of time before our dinner reservation at Atelier du Carnivore, the local steak place right around the corner from our apartment.

And the Atelier did not disappoint. Lynn ordered the small filet, and I had the Black Angus Picanha at the recommendation of the proprietor. Otherwise known as the sirloin cap in the U.S, the picanha is most popular in Brazil. It has a large layer of fat on the outside, which cooks more flavor into the meat. Although I cut the fat layer away and stayed with the meat, a number of resources recommend eating the fat with the meat.

Our steaks same out in a cloud of smoke from the huge Big Green Egg that cooks all steaks at the Atelier. As the waiter served steaks all over the room, it was obvious that we were pikers–some customers dined on more than one steak on their plates.

The small front dining room filled up rapidly, and management started sending customers without reservations to another room in the back. Meanwhile, the BGE smoke that was not sucked up by the vent kept billowing out of the kitchen, creating a wondrous, cloud like, beefy atmosphere in the place.

As we dug into our steaks, an attractive dark haired woman in her 30s walked in, chatted with the waiter and took the little table next to us. She waited there for several minutes until a large, swarthy man walked in and sat down across the table from her. He was something out of a bad gangster movie–silver rings on every finger, shirt open at the neck to show off more silver necklaces, multiple silver bracelets on both wrists, black hair slicked back over his head and an arrogant attitude. He spoke English but instructed the woman to speak either English or French; it didn’t matter to him. They were later joined by a third person, a thin man in his 40s who clearly was the hit man of the three. We were not sorry to see them leave for the back room to order dinner and who knows what else.

But that did not detract from our steaks, accompanied by a delicious bottle of Cote du Rhone. Lynn declared them to be the best we have ever enjoyed regardless of the restaurant. I could not disagree.

Normally, we would have done our basic chores on Tuesday afternoon, the first day upon arrival. But thanks to Delta Airlines, Tuesday disappeared. So our basic chores would take up Wednesday morning–Monoprix for groceries; Cours Saleya for vegetables, cheese and flowers; sausage from the small boucherie around the corner for a future home-cooked meal.

We started later than normal Wednesday because we were so jet-lagged, we got up later than normal. So wine would have to wait until the next day, which is not a problem when you keep a couple of bottles in the owners’ locker for just such occasions.

But first things first–dinner reservations at Bar des Oiseaux for our first conscious night and New Year’s Eve reservations at Citrus.

By evening, we took our first walk along the Promenade heading west to Place Massena and the Christmas market. It was already in full swing–lights twinkling everywhere; booths selling candies, cheeses, sausages, stuffed beignets; rides for the kids; the huge Ferris wheel; souvenirs of all manner and a full section of floating ducks for toddler catching. Our favorites are the booth selling nothing but nougat, and the booth selling cones of sliced sausages.

And then there is the oyster booth. We stopped there first for a half dozen on the half shell, shucked in front of us by the attendant, who also poured tasty Chablis in paper cups. As I have reported before, French oysters are nothing like the ones we eat at home. They are translucent, with edges that creep right up to the edge of the shell. And they are briny, really, really briny. Just delicious. The only criticism was the wooden fork we were forced to use to pry the delicate meat away from the tough muscle characteristic of French oysters. I suppose growing in the colder waters of the Atlantic makes these delicate creatures more fit and less willing to disengage from their protective home to be consumed by greedy humans.

We really had not eaten much lunch, so I also stopped for an order of six stuffed beignets to take us to dinner later at Bar des Oiseaux. That did not hurt our appetites once we arrived at our favorite restaurant.

Julie took us straight to our favorite table where we could watch the open kitchen work their culinary magic. Another familiar face was the dishwasher, who used to work at Cave de Cours. He greeted us and allowed that he was permanently at Bar des Oiseaux, likely a step up for him, since the restaurant is a full time job.

We shared the toasted calamari appetizer, then Lynn enjoyed the spinach-stuffed ravioli while I dove into the veal confit, one of my favorite dishes there. We both cleaned our plates, and to celebrate our visit to our favorite city, we ordered dessert, a chocolate chip cookie topped with raspberry compote and creme fraiche. It was decadent and we should know better, but it was our first night.

We love this place.

Getting there was not half the fun. In fact, it was a day-long torture. We completely lost our Tuesday after leaving home Monday morning.

Our good friend Glenn Knoepfler offered to bring us to the airport on a rainy day, so our journey to Nice started auspiciously. We left a bit early to make sure the rain did not get heavy and flood, so we had some extra time in the Delta lounge for a quick snack before our journey. 

It would be the last food we would eat for the next nine hours. 

Our landing terminal was all the way across the Atlanta airport from our departing terminal, so we had less than an hour to make our connection for our flight to Amsterdam. Even though it was next door to our gate, there no time to pop into the Centurion Lounge before we boarded our overseas flight.

Our plane backed away from the jetway pretty much on time, then stopped on the tarmac just yards from the gate. And we waited. Finally, the pilot announced that some sort of electronic equipment was malfunctioning, and if they could not reset on the tarmac, we would have to go back to the gate so a technician could make the fix.

Two and a half hours later, we finally taxied to the runway. We would miss our connection in Amsterdam. But then, nearly everyone else on our flight would miss their connections too, so there was some solace in numbers.

Worse, there was no food or beverage service. For whatever reason, there was no service of any sort for at least another hour. We were between Annapolis and New Jersey when the first cart started moving down the aisle. Thank goodness neither of us is diabetic.

To round out the trifecta of torture, an infant in arms squealed ear-piercing sounds just a row away from us. So, there we were for the next eight hours, hungry, cramped and deafened by incessant screeching at a pitch that would break glass.

Finally, the drink cart appeared—not for us yet—at 8:45 p.m. I would have taken the entire bottle of wine if they would have allowed. Lynn was none too cheerful either in her hangry mode.

Sure enough, we landed more than two hours late and missed our connection to Nice. Delta and KLM both sent e-mails rescheduling us on a flight that would not leave until 8:30 p.m., which would have stranded us in Schiphol airport for nearly 12 more hours. Clearly that was unacceptable.

Delta texted that a red-coated agent would meet us at the gate to direct us to a different flight. But when we walked into the terminal, the only agents to be seen were sky-blue clad KLM personnel. We were directed to gate T-4, a transfer gate. There, we were sent to passport control, then to T-2, another, more elaborate transfer station studded with self-serve kiosks. I explained our dilemma to the live agent at the kiosk, and she sent us off to a row of more live agents who could perhaps find another flight.

But first we had to go to the kiosk to pull a ticket to secure our place in line. We were E250. After a wait of perhaps 30 minutes, we were called up to an agent who gave us the bad news that the mid-afternoon flight to Nice was full. But somehow she magically spun out two boarding passes for the 2:40 p.m. flight that would get us to Nice at 4:30. With luggage, no less.

She also gave us seven-euro vouchers for food and beverages, then sent us on our way to gate B-4. We diverted our journey to the gate and went to the Priority Pass lounge for a quick lunch and rest, then walked back to our gate well in advance of the flight. By now, I trusted no one, fearing that we might be on a bump list. 

No bump list for us or anyone else on the plane for that matter. Our Group 4 was called to the gate where we boarded a bus with Groups 1-3 and later Group 5 until the bus was packed and we headed off through the bowels of Schiphol airport to the distant parking lot packed with smaller KLM planes that did not merit a jetway. These were the “City Hopper” jets that flew only within Europe; ours would take us to Nice, on time, even though five hours late for us.

Our luggage miraculously made our flight, so we grabbed the bags and walked out the door right into a waiting tram to take us to Place Garibaldi station.

The tram ride from the airport was crowded but uneventful. I actually gave instructions to a fellow passenger who tried to get off before the Grand Arenas stop. Pretty good for my first hour in France.

From the tram, we walked through Place Garibaldi past empty outdoor tables at Café Turin and then up the deserted streets to our apartment. I hauled the suitcases up the steep stairway, dropped them to the floor and turned on the lights. It was 5:30 p.m. and dark.

At last, staggering by now, we were home.

Staggering or not, we walked down to Wayne’s for our traditional first-day lunch, now dinner, of cheeseburger and fries. Oddly, all the staff was new, but the band was familiar, Lynn’s favorite, Sons of Guns. Lynn the ultimate groupie greeted Dave the band leader and promised we would return the next night when we felt more human.

We walked out to Bar de Oiseaux, and there we were welcomed with hugs from Julie the manager, while we eagerly made reservations for dinner the next night. And as we walked out the door, there was owner Armand Crespo himself. I related that my Colita t-shirt sporting the painting over the door of Cave de Cours generated compliments all over. He seemed truly delighted.

It was good to be home.

Sleek, blonde and new, the Viking Mars highlights the heritage of its Nordic owners on every deck, every stateroom and every venue. Only two years old, our ship gleams: pristine varnished rails, blonde wood in the cabins, unblemished white paint outside, art on virtually every wall around the ship. Viking heritage is displayed in a special exhibition on Deck 1 near the boarding area. New age music plays overhead all over the ship. The atmosphere is soothing.

Food and beverages are everywhere.

For the most part, the food on the ship is quite good without being exceptional. The two main dining rooms are situated on Deck 2 for more formal meals and Deck 7 in the World Café where the double-sided buffet draws large crowds for breakfast and lunch. The more formal restaurant on Deck 2 is named, unromantically, The Restaurant. That’s the best they could come up with?

Two other specialty dining rooms are Manfredi’s for Italian food and the Chef’s Table, offering a different tasting menu each night. During our week aboard, the tasting menu was almost exclusively Chinese, so we passed on that in favor of one night of Italian cuisine at Mafredi’s. It was good but not memorable, so we stayed with The Restaurant and our delightful bartendress Karen from Peru.

We generally ate breakfast in the World Cafe, where the two-sided spread with a central kitchen included Eggs Benedict on either salmon or Canadian bacon, a personally prepared omelette of choice, eggs prepared to order any way you want or offered scrambled on the counter. All the accompaniments are available, including pre-cut grapefruit halves among a large fruit selection; a separate section of breads alone that tragically included a whole grain croissant with sesame seeds. The French would go to war if they ever saw that. The ship actually offered grits on Thursday. Unfortunately they lacked butter, garlic, salt and flavor.

Beyond the main dining areas, a smaller pool grill offers burgers and hot dogs. In addition, small food stations on Deck 1 and Deck 8 at the Explorer’s Lounge provide a variety of snacks so no one is far from food.

Nor is anyone far from a bar. They are scattered all over. Our favorite was the little bar inside The Restaurant where Karen rules all. We visited every night before dinner, regardless of where we were dining. The wine list covers Europe, offering selections from France, Italy, Spain, Austria and Portugal. Beyond these are selections from Argentina, Chile, South Africa, Australia and of course the U.S.

Karen also works at the Deck 1 bar in the mornings, and makes a mighty fine Bloody Mary.

Staff is universally extremely friendly. They greet with a hearty, cheery good morning/afternoon whenever we approach, and the wait staff is generally prompt and quite efficient. They don’t seem to be on drugs, so I have to believe they are extremely well trained and happy to be here.

And then there are our fellow passengers. We used to think the voyages on the Queen Mary 2 represented God’s waiting room. The Viking Mars is well past that–older, slower, fatter and much more American. Anyone who has traveled abroad can understand the last. There are more canes and walkers than I can count. I know we’ll be there one day, but I hope not soon.

Art is everywhere. The walls of the stateroom halls are lined with large photographs of various places around Europe and Asia, taken by noted Norwegian photographers. Each has an explanatory nameplate, and many show the number of the audio guide that you can call up on your phone’s Viking voyage app. We enjoyed pointing out scenes of cities we have visited, like Porto, Naples, London and Barcelona. In addition to the photographs, the works of Edvard Munch are displayed all over the ship, especially in the Explorer’s Lounge on the 7th and 8th decks.

Each stairwell landing features an oversized photo of a section of the Bayeux Tapestry, which in its entirety is some 70 meters long, but only 50 centimeters high. It depicts the story of William of Normandy conquering England in 1066, including the history going back two years before then. It was probably embroidered in 1086 possibly to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the Battle of Hastings when William successfully invaded England. The ship’s resident scholar Michael Stone gave a walking lecture twice a day, stopping at 16 landings to explain the depictions on the tapestry. Next to the Canal itself, I found this the most fascinating tour of the voyage.

And then on our last afternoon, we were given a one-hour tour of the bridge. OK, this became the second most fascinating tour after the Canal itself. Our captain explained the workings of the ship, navigation, powering, anchoring. They back down on the anchor toast it, and they trim the bow down for speed when underway. Basically, it was all the same as we do on our little Albin 32+2. Just bigger. A lot bigger.

This was the bucket list. The reason we voyaged. And the Panama Canal did not disappoint.

Truly one of the all-time, historic engineering marvels of the world, the Panama Canal cuts through the continent using two sets of locks on either side of the country and the natural elements of the Churges River and Lake Gatun. The history of digging the canal is fascinating, and we had taken advantage of the museum in Panama City, so we already knew quite a bit.

But nothing tops actually seeing the Canal with your own eyes from the vantage of a ship in transit.

The Canal is not really a canal at all. It is cut through the jungles of Panama using the natural features heavily modified by human engineering. The trip winds through lush jungle and into the massive Lake Gatun, then out the Churges River to the Caribbean and the Atlantic Ocean. Except for the locks on either end, it looks natural. The Harvey Canal it ain’t.

We left Panama City at 7:30 a.m. to reach the Miraflores Locks for our assigned time of 8:00 a.m. It took about an hour to enter the series of locks and fill them before moving on to the nearby Pedro Miguel locks, where we would reach our final height of about 85 feet above sea level.

From there, we sailed through the Gaillard Cut to massive Lake Gatun and the Gatun Locks, where we entered a little after 2:00 p.m. and emerged back down to sea level after 4:00 p.m. bound for Colon on the Atlantic/Caribbean side.

All that sounds so simple, but we were accompanied by a number of pilot boats all along the way, and three little locomotives in each lock to hold us steady between the high concrete walls. The toll for the transit runs anywhere from $250,000 to $450,000. It makes perfect sense when you see the number of workers and the amount of equipment used in a transit.

Some eight hours later, our transit was complete but our sail continued. As we dined, we could feel the motion of the ship at sea. Curious, I fired up my GPS to learn that we had sailed far out into the Caribbean, making a great loop of more than 100 miles, not to return to Colon until 7 a.m. I was happy for the ride but wondered why our ship would make such a useless trip, using untold amounts of fuel.

I was told the next day by the hospitality director that Viking times its legs so that they want the ship to dock in the morning. That way the passengers can watch the docking process. I appreciate the show.

The transit was everything I expected. Highly, highly recommended. One item off my bucket list.

We ventured out for breakfast with the intentions of just grabbing a croissant or something like that, as we do frequently in Europe. But we walked into the friendly confines of Al Alma Cafe near our hotel and were compelled to gorge on a real brunch breakfast to fuel us for explorations of Panama City. Lynn had the avocado toast lathered with cream cheese, chicken and eggs, and I enjoyed the large fairly American scrambled egg meal complete with more toast than I would ever eat in a month, sliced avocado and several strips of bacon.

Now we were ready for exploration. Our first stop was the Metropolitan Cathedral, built in the 18th century to replace the church that had burned down in the 17th century. When the “new” Panama City was laid out after Morgan’s destruction of the original, the founders placed no fewer than eight Catholic churches in a small radius around the main cathedral.

The “new” cathedral is sort of Spanish Romanesque architecture with a central stone facade flanked by two white towers. Inside, it is all Spanish Baroque. Simple and relatively small in church architecture but elaborate in decoration, the altars and statuary were most impressive.

Across the main square stood the Museum of the Panama Canal, our major objective. The museum is only $7.50 for seniors and is limited to only one floor. But it tells the stories of Panama and its canal. How the Panama land mass was formed alone was worth the price of admission, because once the bridge between the two continents was open water.

The design and building of the canal itself was equally fascinating. Discussion about digging a canal to connect the Pacific and the Atlantic through the narrow isthmus of Panama led all the way back to the 17th century. In fact, during the early 19th century, a train from one side to the other operated successfully until the U.S. finished the intercontinental railroad after the Civil War. Once goods and people could travel straight across the U.S., no one needed Panama anymore.

But the French did not give up on the concept of a canal. They had dug the Suez, and by golly, figured they could do the same in Panama. Except digging through mountains to connect the rivers and lakes in Panama is a bit more complicated and difficult than digging a ditch through the desert in the Suez.

The French finally gave up, but Teddy Roosevelt was interested. The Americans took up the charge and finished it themselves.

One of the most prominent French leaders who advocated for the Panama Canal was Ferdinand de Lesseps, one of the ancestors of New Orleans Mayor deLesseps Morrison. Unfortunately, Messieur de Lesseps embezzled some two million francs from the canal company and wound up in jail.

From the museum, we walked over to St. Joseph’s church right around the corner. Like the cathedral, it was relatively small and simple with elaborately carved and gilded altars and statuary throughout. As we started to walk out of the church, a young man gestured for us to walk through the sacristy into another room where the most elaborate creche we had ever seen took up two full walls of the large room. The creche told the entire biblical story of Jesus from the Annunciation through his presentation at the Temple. Hundreds of carved figurines placed in realistic natural settings created a stunning display.

I tipped our guide a few dollars on the way out, thinking he would then wander off to guide someone else. Instead, he gestured us to yet another church, Our Lady of Mercy, where we witnessed yet another astonishing creche scene behind the sacristy of the church, which–you guessed it–was simple, small but with elaborate Spanish Baroque altars and statuary.

By now, we needed to shake this guy or we would spend the afternoon walking through more churches. So we told him we needed to return to our hotel, and he followed us there. We ducked into the lobby and waited for him to disappear back to guide some other unsuspecting tourists.

Then we set out for lunch at La Fonda.This was a restaurant recommended by both our driver from the airport and by one of the hotel agents for serving authentic Panamanian food. So we walked the few blocks over to be greeted by a gregarious proprietor who sported a green parrot on her shoulder as she welcomed us into her “authentic” display of Panamanian culture. She perched her parrot on Lynn’s shoulder, but the parrot was having none of that and promptly pooped right down Lynn’s dress.

Our hostess led us to the Mardi Gras room, where we took a table facing an elaborate feathered, bejeweled costume splayed over an entire wall. It looked like a Mardi Gras Indian outfit pinned up flat on the wall.

The authentic cuisine in La Fonda was crap. I deliberately ordered the empanada to compare to what we had enjoyed the night before at Enigma. The La Fonda version was doughy with what amounted to a thin paste of meat on the inside. The tamale was much the same, with thick layers of cornmeal surrounding some shredded chicken than included two very large bones. But the beer was cold.

We did not linger to chat with our hostess but made for the hotel, right when it started to rain. We claimed our bags, waited a few minutes for our car, since we were early, and drove off on the Amador Causeway to the cruise ship terminal and our ship.

Lessons learned–Panama City is worth another visit. La Fonda is not. Stay at Hotel San Felipe. Eat at Enigma. Be wary of letting freelance guides take you through the churches. Unless you have a lot of time and want to see incredible displays of creches.

Transiting the Panama Canal has long been on my personal bucket list, and we are finally on our way to do just that. Viking offered the perfect cruise, starting in Panama City, Panama (not Florida!), through the Canal to Colon, then homeward bound up the western Caribbean to finish in Fort Lauderdale.

While the western Caribbean is not of great interest to us, since we were just in Isla Mujeres in May, the idea of nine days on a ship was salve to my soul. We needed the break after the Southern Yacht Club 175th Gala another stuff that intrudes in life. Good time to get away.

Except for hurricane season. This is the hurricane season that just won’t end. A tropical system is forecast to develop sometime in the next few days–right in the western Caribbean. Although it is expected to drift northeastward and away from us, the weather forecast is for rain all along our route up Central America. Our rain gear is packed.

United Airlines’ online service is none too user-friendly. It required a scan or photo of our passports, and no matter how much I tried, the images would not go through. I tried the images I keep in my computer, and they were rejected. So I scanned them, but UA doesn’t accept PDF files. Then I took a photo, but no matter how clear the image was, it was still rejected. I finally gave up, knowing that we would have to check in personally at the counter, since we had one-way tickets and Panama wants to know that we are not staying there. (Of course, it’s just fine if someone from anywhere else shows up at the U.S. border; they even get free shelter, food and medical care paid for by us.)

At the airport, a very friendly agent helped us check in. He admitted he could never get UA’s online site to accept his passport either, so he expertly navigated the kiosk, and in no time we were checking our bags.I explained that we didn’t have a return ticket because we were boarding a ship, and he didn’t even ask for our Viking boarding passes, saying our word was good enough. Good man.

New Orleans airport was packed at every gate, crowded with throngs of Swifties returning home after the legendary three-day concert extravaganza that approached the economic impact of a Super Bowl. Concert hoodies were everywhere. We dutifully lined up for Group 3 to board and work our way to the back of the full plane for the hour-long flight to Houston. No chance of a Bloody Mary on this run.

We landed in about 45 minutes, deplaned and found our gate to Panama in the adjacent terminal, then ventured beyond to the next terminal and the Centurion Lounge. The Amex lounge was spacious, quiet and uncrowded. It offered a single line of hot food and a full bar, which I took advantage of for Bloody Marys and glasses of rosé to go with our meals.

The food line included three kinds of salads plus an assortment of marinated tomatoes, cucumbers and artichokes. I put them all together to make a nice assortment to the bland stewed chicken, green beans and potatoes. All in all, an acceptable meal for the road.

Our flight to Panama was perhaps two-thirds full, so no one wants the middle seat in our exit row that offered spacious leg room. Comfortable indeed it was.

But when we were airborne and ready to order drinks, the flight attendant informed me that I needed a credit card on file, because the plane carries no credit card machines. I’ve never heard of such a thing. Even EasyJet and Southwest take credit cards. The attendant was apologetic and helpful, but there was no way for me to enter a credit card without knowing my United Mileage number and no way to get that without Internet access.

So it was a long, dry flight across the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean Sea for three and a half hours.

Passport control in Panama was prompt and easy, and our luggage arrived in two phases at least 10 minutes apart. Bags in tow, we walked to Customs, where usually passengers simply walk through a wide exit door under the watchful gaze of the Customs agents.

Not in Panama. We queued up again to pass all our luggage, checked and carry on both, through x-ray machines, where an agent in the other side picked up the customs declaration sheet. Our agent questioned what was Viking Mars that Lynn had written as our destination out, so we had to explain that we were boarding a ship. Lesson learned–don’t get specific on the customs declaration. Just tell them you are leaving by ship. If they need to know, you can explain you are sailing out on Viking.

Our taxi to the old town and our Hotel San Felipe was pleasant, as the driver pointed out in the darkness where the original Panama City, founded in 1541, had been located until the pirate Henry Morgan (aka Blackbeard) destroyed it. So the current Casco Viejo is actually the “new” old town, built in the 17th century to defend against the depredations of the pirates who roamed the Caribbean in search of seizing Spanish gold.

Our taxi deposited us at the door of Hotel San Felipe, and we quickly realized we had hit a home run in accommodations. Hotel San Felipe is housed in two 19th century buildings facing across the street from each other, both exquisitely designed with sleek ultra-modern interiors. Our room was spacious with a small balcony overlooking Avenida Centrale and the opposite San Felipe building across the street.

Our helpful desk clerk walked us to our room, where we simply dropped our bags and ran out for dinner.

By now hungry and extremely thirsty, we waited no time crossing the street to El Enigma, the rooftop terrace restaurant of the hotel. In the warm, sultry night, it was just what we needed to slake the hunger and thirst of a long day of travel. We ordered wine that was none too inexpensive, but who cares? We split a light dinner of delicious ceviche and a dish of beef and chicken empanadas. Ricky, our English-speaking waiter was somewhat surprised at our skimpy food order, as a large family sitting next to us was ordering virtually everything off the menu, including two mammoth lobsters and plate after plate of other selections from the large menu.

We finished off the evening with a nightcap of a glass of wine at the bar on our own side of the hotel. Interestingly, both wines had to be procured from somewhere else, as neither Enigma nor our lobby bar stocked wine in their own premises.

And then it was off to bed. We had been up since 5:30 a.m., and as benign as our travel had been, it was still tiring. Our bed was comfortable, at least from what I remember.