Tom & Lynn's Excellent Adventure

Our palace is just a bit off our traditional beaten path but not so far we can’t walk all over the central historic area of Florence. (Actually, all of Florence is historic; we are just accustomed to being closer in by a couple of blocks.)

But like any first day in a city, our first chore was grocery shopping. So off we marched to Mercado Centrale, the marvelous, expansive fresh meat, fish and produce market in the middle of Florence surrounded by the booths of leather goods for sale on the streets.

Before entering Mercado Centrale, we stopped in at the Medici Chapel for a visit to Michelangelo, but it was closed on Tuesday, so that will have to wait for another day. It’s my favorite museum in all of Florence, with a lower room full of gold religious reliquaries around the tombs of the lesser Medicis (mostly female) and upstairs the wondrous works of marble by Michelangelo for the various senior (read: male) Medici tombs.

Lynn was looking for the small leather lipstick holders she had bought a few years ago. Then they were five euros each, and after six years, hers is wearing out. But they were hard to find. None of the leather sellers stocked them until we found one right at the entrance to Mercado Centrale. He wanted 10 euros a piece but would take seven for three. We passed up the offer, figuring we might find something better later.

Once in Mercado Centrale, we walked through the stalls of fresh food, stopping first at the chicken counter, where my iPhone translation of chicken thigh was none too accurate. The butcher understand we wanted to cut (taglio) the leg from the thighs; he didn’t understand that we wanted the thigh and not the leg. We finally communicated successfully and gladly paid a couple of euros for three huge thighs that would cost at least twice as much in the U.S.

Then it was off to the produce stalls, where Lynn found the same seller she has purchased from the last three times in Florence. We filled a bag full of garlic, zucchini, lettuce, lemons, mushrooms and tomatoes for the princely sum of a little more than six euros. Then it was off to the cheese counter for a large slice of gorgonzola that set us back another 2.10.

Finally, we stopped at the wine merchant in the center and picked up two extremes–a bottle of Toscana for about 4.50 and a bottle of Rosso di Montalcino that would have cost twice as much as the 13 euros they charged here. The bottle of incredibly inexpensive Toscana would prove to be just fine. Can’t wait for the expensive stuff.

After hauling the goods home, we set out again for exploration. Our goal was to find the leather market near Piazza della Repubblica, where I remembered Lynn buying her original lipstick holder. Our second objective was to find San Ambrogio restaurant just down the street from out last apartment and in view of the simple but important Renaissance church by the same name.

The first objective was a success. We wandered through the stalls of the leather market until–lo and behold–we found the booth selling lipstick holders. The merchant wanted five euros each, exactly the same price Lynn had paid some six years ago.

We grabbed a handful and walked across the street to a friendly restaurant named MaMMaMia, where we enjoyed very good salads, healthy food just for once. Feeling so virtuous, I made a vow to have a Bistecca Fiorentino, the signature steak of Florence, before we leave. Our salads came with frosty mugs of Moretti beer and a bag of Tuscan bread, which is traditionally unsalted and therefore more or less flavorless. But they are proud of it and it is served everywhere.

Filled but not stuffed, we walked off to find San Ambrogio. After a few long blocks through streets that we recognized, we finally found the church. But not the restaurant. We searched for blocks up and down three streets that converge on San Ambrogio church but never could find the restaurant. We found a couple of empty commercial spaces that may have once contained a restaurant but now nothing, just vacant. San Ambrogio, our favorite, was gone.

After a very long walk back to the apartment, I looked up the restaurant online and pretty much concluded that it is indeed gone. The last review I could find was late 2019. That pretty much told us it was a victim of Covid. Remember that Florence and Tuscany are not far from Milan and Lombardy, where the plague first manifested itself in Europe in very early 2020. RIP San Ambrogio. We will miss your twice-grilled octopus and donkey carpaccio.

We had planned to eat at home anyway. Lynn made her crispy French chicken in a skillet with sautéed zucchini and mushrooms. That was as good a meal as we would have the entire sojourn in Europe. Well, except maybe for the cheeks at Bar des Oiseaux. Or the Onion Wellington at Citrus.

We awoke early and were ready to leave Venice and the Piccola before 9 a.m. for an 11 a.m. train. But we had to cool our heels for just a few more minutes so the desk clerk could show up at work around her appointed time of 9 a.m. When we took the handy but very deliberate lift downstairs, we left our keys at her desk, where she was now on station accompanied by a very, very young assistant. We said “caio” and were off to the vaporetto, which we found in one try, thanks to Lynn’s unerring sense of direction.

The tide was rising already when we boarded the vaporetto with our fellow passengers, many of who were heading in the same direction to the Ferrovia and out of Venice. I was almost knocked over by a round young person wearing a backpack that was rounder than she was and totally oblivious to the trail of destruction she left behind as she swung herself and her huge pack around the center of the boat where we all stood.

A few stops later, the boat’s mate commanded her to take the thing off. She complied but with the air of “what’s your problem here?” She did not understand the problem was that the crew did not want any passengers swept off the vaporetto by a young American girl swinging a near-lethal weapon.

We arrived at Santa Luzia in plenty of time to grab an Italian croissant filled with creme and wait on our train that would stop at a lot of the high points in Italy–Bologna, Florence, Rome and finally Naples. As we walked down the length of the train to board our first class car, we followed–wouldn’t you know it?–our backpack toting American vaporetto companion all the way down the length of the train. Luckily she kept going to car 1 and we boarded car 2.

We had no sooner settled in our very comfortable seats than a South Asian family of five, two parents, two loud boisterous kids and one crying newborn, boarded our car. As I prayed they would keep walking to the back of the car, they settled right in the row directly behind us. This would not be a restful journey. Thank goodness it was only two hours. The first class car offered complimentary water soft drinks and snacks, but no real food nor real beverages like wine and beer to dull the pain of the high-pitched loud voices just inches behind us. And there was no club car that we could find on this train. And they call themselves Italian?

We hopped off the train at Florence’s Santa Maria Novello station, and I grabbed a quick sandwich wrap, not knowing when we might have time to eat again. I summoned Uber to pick us up at McDonald’s across the street but could not get a driver to respond, so we had to retrace our steps and get into the regular taxi line. Our driver took us the short distance to our palazzo on San Gallo for a charge that was not much more than Uber would have been. But his fare included 4.80 euros for our two bags, which is customary in Europe. That’s one reason (credit cards are another) I prefer Uber, but I have not had good experiences of late with ride sharing programs.

And there we were standing in front of San Gallo 74, a true palazzo. Our hostess Allegra greeted us in just a few minutes and led us up the wide stone stairway to our palatial (not an exaggerated term) apartment.

This is truly a palace, built by Cardinal Pandolfini, who served Pope Leo X, aka Giovanni de Medici, the second son of Leonardo de Medici. That dates the place to about 1500 or so. Allegra allowed that this place has been in her family for some 500 years. It’s a small palace, she explained, since her ancestor the cardinal lived alone here in the 1500s. (Actually, history has a different story; cardinals were in no way celibate or single in those days just a couple of years before the Reformation.)

Today the palace is still a family residence. Her parents live on the same floor as we are, Allegra herself lives downstairs, and another sister lives upstairs. We will be the last AirBnB guests for a year, as an Australian couple plans to make up for lost Covid time Down Under by living in Florence for a year or so. Lucky them.

Aside from a couple of technical glitches with the TV and the washing machine, we settled in comfortably to spend the next week in the midst of palatial Florentine history.

And you know what that means. The search for the Sunday Bloody Mary.

It started in frustration. First, we walked over to Al Theatro, which served breakfast and drinks on the deli side of the restaurant. They had promised me the evening before that they could make me a Bloody Mary Sunday morning.

But when we arrived, the place was crowded, noisy and somewhat chaotic, as there was no discernible line at the counter. And right when we were ready to ask the server about fixing our Sunday concoctions, an American tourist tried to hold two tall caffes perched precariously on saucers with the inevitable results.

The one that hit the floor smashed and splashed on the bottoms of our pants, and we had to tip toe around the mess to avoid stepping in the thick sugary, creamy wet remains sprinkled with glass shards. That was enough for us. We left and made forth to San Marco, where we could catch the vaporetto (we thought) to Murano and pop into Harry’s Bar for our Bloodys, knowing we would pay a fortune.

But once we reached the Piazza, much of it was shut off by barricades, and Harry’s would not open for another 15 minutes or so. Frustration was building. The barricades were there for the Venice Marathon, with nearly 3,000 runners stretched out over miles that would take the entire day to finish. Piazza San Marco is the very end of the course, so the walkers, half marathoners, 10K runners and the professional competitors all wound their way through the piazza, which was barricaded off from crossing.

We were cut off from the main part of Piazza San Marco and the very vaporetto stop we needed to go to Murano. But we were right in front of the elegant establishment where we had enjoyed Bloody Marys six years ago. So with no better choices, we took a table outside in the sunshine and watched the runners go by.

As expensive as it is (18 euros!), the Gran Caffe does a nice job serving Bloody Marys. They don’t make them for you. They bring out a tray with two glasses of vodka, two bottles of tomato juice, a bottle of Worcestershire, a bottle of Tabasco, a shaker of salt and a small pitcher of fresh squeezed lemon juice so you can make them yourselves to your taste. Brilliant.

Throw in a bowl of potato chips, and we were just fine to sit and watch the runners go by for most of an hour.

And go by they did, in a never-ending stream. We realized that crossing Piazza San Marco would be impossible all day, so we caught the nearest vaporetto (actually the only one we could) and moved out in the opposite direction to Ferrovia, where we transferred to the Murano boat taxi. We weren’t the only ones who wanted to go to Murano on a beautiful fall day, so we had to wait on the next boat to board.

The ride took us through the Grand Canal and into the Lagoon for the short crossing to Murano. By then we were pretty hungry, so we stopped at the first restaurant we saw and enjoyed a fine lunch of pasta with anchovies for me and a thick cassoulet-type soup for Lynn full of sausage, beans and pasta bites in a rich sauce. My pasta with grilled onions and anchovies was essentially pissaladiere with pasta instead of baked into pizza dough, as it is in Nice.

From there, we walked the length of Murano’s inside canal, marveling at the splendid creations in glass from the major studios. As you walk farther into the town, the shop offerings become more trinkets than art, but the first hundred yards or so display works of vitreous art that would grace any home.

We didn’t need to stay all that long. The vaporetto ride back was pleasant, taking us across the lagoon and through the Guidecca Canal past the pretty, leafy Arsenale park where the Venice Maritime Museum is located. That was also the end of the Venice Marathon course, complete with the requisite village of tents and festival atmosphere, with runners, walkers and staggerers finishing to cheers of family and friends.

It was late afternoon when we disembarked from the vaporetto in San Marco, but the police guarding the route still had to open a small space for the public (us) to cross between the last of the stragglers and access the Bridge of Sighs, which itself was cordoned off in the center for the competitors. That just congested the walking traffic even more.

Once we reached the main part of Piazza San Marco past the Doge’s Palace, we were allowed to cross the race path one more time so we could make our way back around Harry’s Bar and head home for the evening.

Murano makes a perfect day trip. Our last day in Venice had been pleasant, if frustrating at times, but there’s nothing like a Bloody Mary and a boat trip to calm the nerves.

With only a weekend remaining in Venice, on Saturday we turned to simply exploring and preparing to leave. I bought a day pass on the vaporetto, a mistake it turned out, because had I bought the two-day pass for 10 euros more, it would have covered us all the way to the train station Monday on the same pass. As it was, I had to buy a second day pass for Sunday and Monday morning. Bad judgment and arithmetic on my part.

We walked to the St. Angelo vaporetto stop to practice our route there for departure Monday morning. A little prep in Venice can be most valuable when time is critical.

As part of our rehearsal, we took the vaporetto all the way to the Santa Luzia train station. Nomenclature here can be a bit confusing. The name of the stop is listed as Ferrovia, the generic term for train station in Italian. But the station itself is named Santa Luzia. So it is possible to see two different names for the same place. That actually happened to us the last time we were in Venice, and I was concerned that we had booked train tickets from a different station.

Along the way, we noticed the tide had risen over the first level of steps and plazas of most of the buildings. It was higher than we had seen before, but not a true aqua alta. However, signs on the boats warn passengers in English what happens to the routes when the aqua alta hits. Autumn and spring astronomical tides are most likely to result in an aqua alta, and the platforms are staged all over town just in case.

Once we did the dry run to the train station, we took the vaporetto back to the Rialto, just to see the madness. This is late October, and the place was packed with tourists.

Lots of Americans, Brits, French and Asians of some indeterminate country (certainly not China) milled up and down the famous bridge and its surroundings. The crowds were Mardi Gras size. And as I mentioned, this is late October. I wouldn’t want to see this place, much less San Marco, in the middle of the summer.

We escaped the worst of the crowds by slipping over to the Rialto market, where vegetables, meat and fish were on display. We compared prices to what we remember from the Cours Saleya in Nice. There, a huge head of lettuce sells for 1.20; here at the Rialto a head half as big sold for twice as much–2.50.

The rest of our Saturday was spent walking the streets, splitting a pretty good pizza for lunch, then walking down to San Marco again. It too was packed but not as bad as we had seen it before. Piazza San Marco is so big that it can accommodate huge crowds without seeming too full. We took the walk around Harry’s Bar and down the street of luxury brands back to our apartment, a lot more pleasant in the middle of a Saturday than it had been at 1 a.m. a few days ago.

For dinner we dined at a promising place in our neighborhood named Anonmio Veneziano. Our meal was fine, as good as we have had here. I ordered a plate of sardines that Lynn refused to taste but were very lemony and not fishy as you might think. Our main courses were veal scallopini for Lynn and lamb chops for me. Both were fine if not great. Once again, my lamb chops tasted like lamb but without any sort of secondary flavor that seasoning adds.

Everything was fine until we finished. The busboy cleared our table and we waited for the waiter to offer coffee and dessert, perhaps a limoncello that we had seen other tables receive. But nothing. He never came back. We waited perhaps 15 minutes and nothing happened. Other patrons got their checks, paid and left. We sat there as if we had disappeared.

Finally, we simply got up from our table and walked to the front to get the bill. It was only then that the server asked if everything was all right and did we want anything else. By then, I just said no and no. We paid and left.

We are accustomed to casual service in Europe where waiters do not present the check until they know you are ready to leave. But we had never encountered a situation where the waiter didn’t want to upsell coffee and dessert. So that was that, but we made a mental note not to return. The food just wasn’t that great to endure that lack of service.

It was a short walk to the Accademia Bridge, one of only two that cross the Grand Canal. We wanted to visit the museum there to see Venetian paintings from medieval times through the Renaissance masters Veronese, Titian, Tintoretto and others. The building has been somewhat expanded since we last visited, because the actual Academia art school, has relocated, opening up the ground floor to more exhibits.

Lynn also wanted to see the contemporary glassworks of Ritsue Mishima, a Japanese artist who now lives in Venice, home of exquisite glass. Her exhibits are scattered around the ground level, many in reference to the sculptor Canova, whose bicentennial of death is being celebrated this year as part of the Venice Biennale.

We actually found our way to the bridge without much difficulty, a relative rarity in this city for us.

The Academia was interesting as a gallery and as history. I actually had to give them an ID to get the audio guide, the first time I have shown an ID not in an airport since we left home.

We went through the entire place in about an hour and a half, then decided to walk down to Santa Maria della Salute, the church with the huge dome that is so prominent from Piazza San Marco. It was built in the 17th century to guard off the plague, which was about as effective as Covid “vaccines.”

As European churches go, it is fairly interesting, because it is round, perhaps the first of its kind that it so prevalent today. But it is notable for the Black Madonna above the main altar. You don’t see too many of those.

Our explorations finally took us to the circus that is Piazza San Marco and the famed basilica of the same name. The lines were long, the shit sellers were out in force, the scene was nearly chaotic. And this is late October. I shudder to think what summer will be like next year.

Back in our room, I tried to get reserved “skip the line” tickets to tour the church and the museum on the skip the line, but it was too late. The next available day was Monday, and we will be on the train to Florence. Too bad. Maybe next time. Maybe next time we will do some semblance of advance planning.

By now, we felt like pros in our explorations of Venice. We rarely walked more than a block out of our way before realizing we had turned in the wrong direction. We knew the route from San Marco to our Piccola apartment after enduring it the first time on deserted streets at 1 a.m. We could walk from our place to the Accademia in ten minutes or less.

For our little cocktail hour, we walked over to the mother hotel, La Fenice des Artistes and ordered a glass of wine in their little sitting area/library. Our server came with two glasses and then walked back to the kitchen, when we heard a thunderous clash of glassware shattering on the floor. I jumped up to see if everything was all right, and he answered in the negative. Everything was a mess. He had placed the bottle of red wine on an upper kitchen shelf, which immediately collapsed, tumbling everything off, including the bottle of red wine. He began cleaning up, and we quickly finished our wine to go back to our apartment, feeling like the guilty parties.

We finished up a fine day with a fine dinner at a little place on the other side of Theatro La Fenice, appropriately named Al Theatro. I ordered a steak, really an entrecôte, and Lynn had the Milanese vitello, which is really paneed veal. Both were just fine, especially accompanied by a really fine Chianti. So far, this was the best meal we had enjoyed in Venice. We planned to go again Sunday night before we leave the next morning.

After the torture of travel the previous day, we slept late in our apartment at Piccola La Fenice. This place is funky and quirky.

Our “apartment” on the first floor is accessible with a tiny semi-open elevator, which was a blessing, because the first floor is higher than most. Hauling luggage up two flights of stairs at 1:30 a.m. may have been more than we could have accomplished.

Piccola portends to be an apartment equipped with a rudimentary kitchen, which I suppose is technically true. In actuality, the small refrigerator is in the clothes closet, and the microwave and kitchen utensils are located in a pantry next to the bathroom.

A kettle for boiling water and a pod-style coffee maker are provided–but no coffee. This is the first hotel of any sort I have seen that does not offer coffee in some fashion. Even hotels in New York City where space is at such a premium they don’t have in-room coffee makers at least offer coffee in the lobby every morning. (Think of the Iroquois, where we will stay in January before leaving on the Queen Mary 2.)

But the Piccola is spacious and the bed is comfortable. Maid service comes three times a week. We would also learn the next day that the cleaning service did not include changing out glasses and coffee cups.

In Venice, you are never more than a couple of alleyways or blocks from a square or “campo.” Ours–Campo St. Angelo–is right down the alley past the Biennale posters on the construction wall. (There is always a construction wall somewhere nearby.)

One of the posters on the plywood wall promoted La Scuola Grande di San Rocco, a place we had never seen before but one that looked fascinating. The “scuolas” dated back to the 13th century, generally lay fraternities of middle class but prosperous citizens who worked in the trades and professions. Because they were not part of the aristocratic oligarchy, they devoted their efforts and resources to benefit their own groups, the less fortunate and ultimately the entire city.

One particular scuola was the group devoted to St. Roch, the patron saint of plague victims. The group actually acquired St. Roch’s remains in 1485, and it became a popular destination for people to visit during Venice’s numerous plagues to give alms and pray to St. Roch to spare them. As a result, the Scuola Grande di St. Rocco got rich; in fact, they became the richest of their type in all of Venice.

And so they built their own place in 1515 and commissioned the renowned Venetian artist Tintoretto to decorate it. He took on his assignment with a vengeance–he painted a series of more than 50 canvases that took 23 years to complete and did for Venice what Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel did for Rome, according to the Welcome Venice web site.

Indeed, the building is spectacular. Three spacious floors of walls and ceilings completely covered by Tintoretto’s paintings are stunning to view. It’s not that each painting is great, because most are so big it is hard to make out any details. But the total effect on three floors is overpowering.

It took us nearly an hour of walking from campo to campo to find the Scuola, sometimes retracing our steps when we chose the wrong Calle off the square. But it was worth every step and every penny of the eight euros they charge to wander through the place.

The Scuola di San Rocco still exists, by the way, some 300 members strong, still doing charitable works and overseeing its splendid artistic heritage.

Hungry from the rigors of travel the day before, we grabbed a quick lunch of pasta at a little restaurant named Osteria Al Carmine just off one of the squares near the Scuola. It was the type of restaurant that locals frequent, just steps from the tourist-oriented places on the square and priced for the average working guy.

In fact, two laborers, one covered in plaster dust, sat in the table just behind us and proceeded to polish off each a plate of pasta followed by a steak accompanied by a pichet of white wine and all the bread in the basket. Once the plates were cleared, one of the men used his breadstick to sop up the rest of the shredded cheese in the container on the table. One can only assume that would be their only meal of the day.

Meanwhile, we couldn’t finish our single plates of pasta. But we did drink all the wine and water.

After our lunch and visit to Scuola di St. Rocco, we made our way back to the Piccola for a rest and search for a suitable dinner establishment. The food in Venice is good but not great. Just about everything is a bit more expensive than other cities like Nice and Florence, likely because everything has to be shipped in by boat and delivered on hand trucks that are designed to climb the steps of so many bridges. But we have enjoyed some good meals in Venice; it’s just a bit harder to find the good restaurants.

For instance, we sat out at the Galileo Trattoria on the square for two glasses of wine that cost six euros each for no more than two ounce in the glass. In Nice, a glass wold be twice as big for half the price.

But we found Ristorante La Feluca right around the corner. It was reasonably priced and looked fairly elegant with dark wood chairs and decor inside the dining room. We split a pot of mussels, Lynn ordered the lamb chops and I decided on the gnocchi with duck morsels. All were good, although Lynn’s lamb chops could have used a bit more spice, and duck in my gnocchi was hard to differentiate from any other type of meat sauce. And they were pretty proud of their relatively small wine list. Our bottle of Valpolicalla, something we haven’t had since the old days of Charlie’s Steak House, was 30 euros, a bit dear for that grape when we have become accustomed to paying in the 20s for French wine of much higher grades in Nice.

Surprisingly, they did not charge a coperta, the cover charge just about all Italian restaurants add to your bill that usually–but not always–includes the bread, whether you want it or not.

We had made reservations for 7:30, fairly early but just in time, because between 8:00 and 8:30 the place filled up. We finished up, and our waiter cleaned off our table but never returned to ask if we wanted coffee or dessert. That had never happened before, anywhere we had ever dined. Usually waiters look hurt and personally offended when we skip the coffee and dessert. This was a first.

But all in all, there were no big complaints. A good meal washed down with a pretty decent bottle of wine. Considering it was our first dinner in two days, it was just fine.

Never in my life have I experienced an episode of travel as miserable as our day going from Nice to Venice. What should have been a simple one-hour flight late in the afternoon turned into a marathon of misery that finally put us in our hotel at 1:30 a.m. the next day. Everything that could have gone wrong did, but the major blame belonged to EasyJet, whose one-hour flight to Venice was delayed no fewer than three hours.

The day started relatively benign. We ate the last of Lynn’s delicious sausage and peppers dish for a hearty lunch, knowing we would be in transit during the evening and would probably have a late dinner. Little did we know that we would have no dinner at all.

We packed and left the apartment at 2 p.m. so the cleaning crew would have sufficient time to get the place ready for the paying guests who would arrive at 4 p.m. But when I summoned Uber to take us to the airport, the best they could do was to pick us up on blvd Jean Jaures, a walk of a few blocks, fortunately all downhill.

Getting to Jean Jaures was not a problem–until Lynn realized we had left our jackets in the apartment on the coat hooks hidden behind the door. So off I hustled back to grab the missing outerwear before the cleaning crew showed up.

Once again at Jean Jaures, we needed to cross the tram tracks and position ourselves to be picked up, which took a bit of maneuvering and more walking down the street. Finally, our driver Amina, the most beautiful Uber driver I have ever seen, pulled up and off we went to the lovely Nice airport.

There was little traffic to the airport, so we arrived a bit too early for check-in. EastJet is strict about not allowing check-in more than two hours prior to the scheduled takeoff, so we had to cool our heels and let others in line go past us until the clock struck exactly 3:35 p.m.

As we walked from the check-in toward security and the terminal lounge, I saw a message from Marina at Smart BnB asking about the second set of keys they had given us when we arrived last week. I replied that I thought the keys were ours, and she said no–these were the ones for the tenants! I had misunderstood Marina’s directions at arrival, as she gave me one large set of keys and told me how to open the lockbox. I thought the second set belonged to us as well. Oops.

The only alternative was to take an Uber back to the Smart BnB office to return the keys and then come back to the airport. Lynn stayed behind to go through security and get to the Priority Pass lounge to wait for me to return.

My Uber driver Ahmed picked me up and we started to return to town as I explained to him that I wanted him to wait at the office, then return me to the airport. He sensibly replied that he could simply deliver the keys on my behalf, which made perfect sense and would save me a second fare back to the airport. So we called Marina to confirm, Ahmed turned around to bring me back to Terminal 2, and that crisis was defused. The Uber charge to go one way from town to the airport was 25 euros; the tab for delivering the keys was 40. Expensive lesson learned.

Security was as quick and easy as any we have ever encountered. We relaxed in the Priority Pass lounge with a glass of wine and a straight Scotch for me until it was time to head down to the gate for our flight. When we arrived, we learned that our flight was delayed by an hour.

In fact, when I checked EasyJet’s app, they had notified us of the delay some seven hours ago. So they knew something was wrong with this flight much earlier in the day.

Not too many minutes later, the app said the flight was delayed two hours. And the gate had changed. Things were not looking up.

Not too much later, the app reported that the flight was now delayed three hours, they could not give us a firm time, and the gate was taken down. This was clearly going in the wrong direction.

The EasyJet representative then announced that due to the delay, all passengers would receive a voucher for food. We lined up and each of us received a voucher with our individual ticket number written by hand, so you can imagine the process was not quick. The voucher was for all of 4.50 euros and was not good for alcoholic beverages.

We were stuck. We couldn’t retreat to the Priority Pass lounge, because we might have missed the call when the flight would ever arrive. All we could do was sit and wait in the terminal and move from gate to gate as we watched flight after flight land and take off, mostly on time.

I kept monitoring the time, because our boat ferry’s last run was at 10:55 p.m., and we were getting uncomfortably close. The Venice airport has an extremely long walk from the terminal to the boat docks, so you have to give yourself at least 20 minutes after you claim your luggage. We were getting closer and closer to missing the boat, and there would be no refund.

Finally, we took off at 8:35 p.m., exactly three hours late. The only reason given was vague “technical issues,” but the app alluded to air traffic control problems in Paris. And they had known about it, according to the app, for at least six hours. Either someone really didn’t know or someone was lying.

When we finally landed right at 9:35, I could see we were right on the edge of the boat schedule. But the Venice airport has virtually no jetways, so we had to wait on the plane for the ground crew to bring the truck holding the stairs to the aircraft door. Then we had to board a bus that traveled the length of the airport to deposit us into the arrival terminal. Thank our lucky stars for the Schengen Zone, which allows travel between EU countries without passport control.

Luggage for the few passengers who checked bags was excruciatingly slow, so that by the time we set off out of the terminal and down the half-mile walk to the water bus station, we were down to just a few minutes.

But we made it. Sort of. With just a few minutes left before the last orange line boat left, I tried to check in but was told to go back to the ticket window with my voucher to get printed tickets. That took a few more minutes, while the rest of the passengers piled on the orange line boat. We finally jumped into the back of the line as the last of the passengers boarded with their baggage.

Just as we were stepping on board, the attendant stopped us, the last two people in line. He refused us boarding, because he said the boat was full. Our only choice was the blue line route, which would not leave for another half hour. Our protests in English went unheeded by Italian officials, so all we could do was wait another half hour.

Only problem was that the blue line takes a completely different route around Venice and would not take us to the San Marco dock for an hour and a half. It starts at the airport, then goes all the way to Murano for its first stop, around the main part of Venice in a clockwise route, stopping even at Lido, far off the direct track. Sure enough, the San Marco stop was a full hour and a half later. By the time we disembarked, it was 1 a.m.

We followed the map to La Fenice Hotel from San Marco, rolling our luggage around the corner of Harry’s Bar and down the deserted streets lined on both sides with high-end luxury names like Cartier, Hermes, Gucci and the like. Clearly, this was the high rent district of Venice.

Finally, after only about 10 minutes we reached La Fenice Hotel and checked in with the friendly night clerk who gave us directions to the Piccola La Fenice Apartments a couple of blocks away where we had booked. His directions were accurate but not complete.

We tried three times to get to the Piccola, but the first two times, we simply could not find it tucked into the alleys of Venice. I walked back once and called a second time. Finally, he left his desk and walked us around the corner to the front door, which was located another turn around another alley that he had not mentioned to us earlier.

It was now past 1:30 a.m.

We were finally in Venice nearly 12 hours after we had left our apartment in Nice. We could have gone back to the U.S. in about the same amount of time.

EasyJet cost us three hours, and the Alilaguna boat line cost us an extra two. We hope never to ride on either one again.

After a weekend of work (sort of), we had most of Monday and all of Tuesday to enjoy Nice. Our most important task on Monday was to meet with Marina at Smart BnB to sign their management contract and discuss a few items of our ownership and rentals. For instance, who owns our pillows? Turns out we do, but they own the pillow cases and all the rest of the linens.

And of course, another trip to Monoprix for more household goods like new smaller pillows, an iron and a bottle of wine, since the Cave is closed on Mondays.

The Cours Saleya market on Monday turns into a massive flea market selling every used item imaginable. It’s the day off for the vegetable and food vendors. We walked through the maze of tables that displayed everything from little tchochkes to paintings to furniture. Collectibles of every sort were scattered across the dozens of displays that ran the length of the market.

Notably, we saw a collection of old jazz vinyl records that would have fetched a fortune in New Orleans, as most of them featured old jazz masters from our home of the genre. Unfortunately, there were way too many to even consider shipping back to the U.S. But it was a thought.

The same held true of a lot of art. We saw a beautiful antique long print of a map of Nice that would have looked great in our Perdido condo, but there was just no safe way to get it home undamaged.

For dinner that night, we planned on something simple, because our last meal would be at Bistro d’Antoine on Tuesday. So off we went to Wayne’s for a cheeseburger and soup. Wayne’s make a thick, hearty soup that is closer to a stew than to a soup, and Lynn could barely finish her large bowl. Wayne’s cheeseburgers are not world class, but they pass the taste test. We enjoyed a couple of glasses of Wayne’s finest Cotes du Rhone and listened to the excellent band playing soft jazz and standards that evening.

Tuesday was to be our first full day off, so we planned to explore the two hills we had not touched–Cimiez Park and Castle Hill. We started off to Cimiez as usual–we couldn’t find the right bus stop. And to make matters worse, the transit app gave us the wrong bus, 33, instead of the regular bus the 5. They both go to the same place but by different routes and from different origins. After wasting nearly an hour looking for the correct stop, we made our way up the hill to Cimiez Park.

Cimiez, for those who have followed this tale, is a park of many attractions–Greco-Roman ruins; a monastery and church, which displays two paintings by Brea, an early Renaissance artist; an extensive garden; a cemetery where Matisse is buried and Musee Matisse, which was unfortunately closed for preparation of a new exhibit.

But on a Tuesday in mid-October, Cimiez was eerily quiet. There were no school children on outings, few parents with babies, not even old men playing pétanque under the trees near the entrance to the park. We strolled along the elliptical walk with alleys named after American jazz greats like Dizzy Gillespie and Miles Hampton, making our way up to the garden outside the monastery.

By this time of the year, as in Giverny outside Paris, the gardens have pretty much been turned over to wildflowers. Even this late, however, some of the hundreds of rose bushes still sported a few late fall flowers, all full in their solitary glory. And, as always, the view of the city below all the way to Castle Hill and the Med is worth the price of admission (it’s free).

One of the two Brea paintings in the church is still out for restoration after at least two years, and the other is covered in rice paper for preservation. But none of that detracts from the beauty of this small monstery church that dates back at least five hundred years. In fact, some parts of the church were built in the 13th century, and it has survived destruction and rebuilding ever since then.

We departed the church and gardens, walked along the Roman ruins and stopped to watch two very old ladies play boules, using a powerful magnet on a string to pick up the metal balls so they don’t have to bend over. Clever. Two elderly gentlemen began play as we walked out through the gates and asked Lynn if we wanted to join them. She politely declined, because it as obvious these guys were good. Really good.

The bus stop across the street was for the 5 bus, which we boarded for the ride down the hill and back into town. Unfortunately, I was sitting backwards and was unable to see our stop, so we went all the way to the end of the line, which let us off near Place Massena and the huge Nice Etoile shopping mall. Just for once on this trip, we had nothing to buy or return, so our walk back was uninterrupted by a retail encounter.

Knowing we would feast at dinner, we split a pizza for lunch at Le Clocher just on the corner of Place Rosetti. Technically it does not break our rule about no eating at places that face a square, because Le Clocher is situated on a side street but in view of the square. We were entertained by a violinist playing for tips in front of St. Reparate Cathedral and also intrigued watching two British families with teenaged children sitting on either side of us. At one table of three, the matronly mother ordered an entire pizza that we had trouble sharing. At the other table, the family of four went through appetizers and four entrees, then walked over to the glacier and ate third-party ice cream at their restaurant table.

From there, we walked through the Cours Saleya and to the Promenade for a last quick stroll and the elevator up to Castle Hill. We took the easy walk around the recreational area, watching young boys playing soccer and young girls playing some sort of game with a Frisbee. Then it was up to the Cascade and back around and down to our apartment to prep for dinner at Bistro d’Antoine. We had enjoyed a two-fer of parks for our last day in Nice.

Dinner at Bistro d’Antoine lived up to our expectations. I ordered the stewed octopus in a rich sauce, and Lynn decided on the pork cheeks in a sauce so dark and thick it resembled paint. She spooned out the cheeks from the heavy iron pot to her plate of smooth polenta, and I eagerly finished off what she couldn’t. Of course, the Languedoc wine I selected was out of stock, so our beautiful server upsold us to a Catalan from the same region. It was delicious.

And it was our last night in town, so we splurged on a dessert of chocolate mousse, actually two rounded dark chocolate portions on either side of white chocolate ij the same shape. More decadence.

Exactly what we expected from one of the restaurants owned by Armand Crespo, who surprised us that evening by waiting tables. We exchanged greetings and pledged to return in a couple of weeks. Who wouldn’t for this level of dining?

Actually, it’s been a working week, searching and buying stuff for our apartment like tea towels. (You would be amazed to learn how hard it is to find just the right ones that meet Lynn’s specs for our apartment.) But we managed to “work” in some leisure pursuits as well over the weekend between trips downtown to search for apartment “stuff.”

Notably, on Saturday we took a stroll along the Promenade toward the Port to ogle some of the big boats in the harbor. Along the way, we stopped to watch the start of a Laser race. From our perch overlooking the Med from 100 feet or so, it was easy to pick out the stragglers in the fleet as a few got locked in irons at the signal boat in the light-air start. The rest of the fleet rolled on up the weather leg while the poor laggards were still trying to cross the starting line. I could sympathize. I knew the feeling all too well.

We walked farther along to the Port to look for the mega yachts, but at this time of the year, all the biggest ones have retreated to Barcelona for refits and repairs before heading down to the Caribbean for the winter.

There was one boat with mentioning, however. Elements is “only” 80 meters (262 feet), which wouldn’t make the front row in Barcelona’s marina. But it’s close. And it’s new, finished in 2019. And it is for charter at 800,000 a week plus expenses. And it is for sale for a mere 112,000,000 euros. With the euro being so low, that is less than $110,000,000 US.

Seems that the owner, a Saudi billionaire named Fahad Al Athel, also owns the shipyard in Turkey that built the boat. It was originally ordered by someone else who reneged on the deal (a Russian oligarch, perhaps?), so Fahad finished the boat and took it for himself.

Farad’s shipyard had built only one other mega yacht before, a vessel of 230 feet named Nourah of Riyad. The boat had five meters added to it in 2012 but capsized at the dock in Greece in 2020. Perhaps that was another reason the original buyer of Elements walked out on the deal.

As we continued our stroll along the Port, we looked over the usual crowd of 100-footers Med-moored, then decided to keep walking all the way around Castle Hill into town and eventually back to Garibaldi Square. It was a most pleasant sojourn that took us around Castle Hill without having to climb up the slopes.

Along the way, we window-shopped at several funky art places and one funky kitchen store that Lynn wanted to visit again. We would save that for another day, as cocktail hour was drawing near, and we had reservations at Citrus, the best restaurant we have found in Nice and among the best we have ever enjoyed in the world.

Citrus did not disappoint.

They offered their tatin tarte d’onion on the menu for starters, and we eagerly ordered one to share. This dish is a work of art. It is more or less Onion Wellington, a poached onion baked into a pastry shell lined with a layer of rich boudin. It is absolutely decadent.

For our main courses, I ordered the beef rump steak, essentially a sirloin tip in a rich au jus surrounded by a plateful of green peas, roasted fingerling potatoes, mushrooms and tiny tomatoes.

Lynn chose the leam fish, some version of filet-style white fish that came out encrusted in a pistachio and garlic crust. It sounded weird but tasted fabulous, crispy on the bottom and crusty on top. The fish was placed on a bed of the creamiest polenta ever served, accompanied by a small assortment of vegetables. Five stars by any standard.

Our meal was accompanied by a bottle of St. Nicolaus de Bourgueil from the Loire Valley, just light enough to complement Lynn’s fish and just tasty enough for me.

Final tab–94 euros or about 92 dollars. The wine was 25. Thankfully Citrus is on rue Rosetti, just a few blocks from home. If you ever come to Nice, do not pass on this restaurant.

Friday and Saturday were devoted to returning. We started with another trip up blvd Jean Medecin to Galleries Lafayette to return the monstrous curling brush and to Bouchara to exchange the cracked French press coffee maker. Both attempts were successful.

But there was more shopping to be done. We found sausages at one of the boucheries near Place St. Francois, where there is a line of meat markets on both sides of the street. Then it was back to Monoprix for one can of tomatoes to be cooked with the sausage for Sunday dinner at home.

Our dinner Friday, however, was planned for Cours du Cave, Armand Crespo’s incredible wine bar right down the street from our old apartments. But before leaving for the Cave, I decided to make our final travel arrangements for trains to Florence, back to Nice and finally our flight from Nice to London before heading home.

The train tickets were not a problem, although it was interesting that the route from Florence to Nice always went through Pisa and Genoa instead of Milan. Two years ago, I had to construct the Med route, because all the online services wanted to send us from Florence to Nice via Milan. Now the standard route is right along the Med, which is a beautiful train ride. Unfortunately, however, it looks like we will have to make a final train change in Ventimiglia, the last stop before entering France. Perhaps Italy and France are not as friendly as before.

But the flight from Nice to London to finish our trip proved to be more of a problem. Neither EasyJet nor Ryan Air nor any of the other low-cost carriers flew the day we needed to leave. As I searched around online, I found a site called CheapoAir.com that offered a British Airways non-stop for a most reasonable price at just the right time for us. Without thinking, I hit the button to buy, when I realized I should have gone directly to BA’s site to reserve the tickets.

Big mistake. $60 mistake, because CheapOAir is not cheap at all. And I knew better. I don’t generally even use Expedia for air reservations when I can go directly to the carrier’s site. What was I thinking? And time was running short, because we wanted to be at Cave du Cours right at 6 p.m. when it opened.

But there was no way to undo what I had done. At least I got CheapOAir to refund the $10 that I did not select for “Blue Ribbon” baggage service that duplicated the travel insurance I had already paid for.

A lesson painfully learned again–always go to the carrier’s site. Never use third-party sites, especially off-brand cheap-o operations like CheapOAir.com. Expedia at least has human beings behind their site.

So $60 poorer, we marched off to Cave du Cours, where we arrived before 6:30 and were given a “table” at a shelf along the racks of wine for sale. This evening’s selections were a delicious Bordeaux (7 euros) and a very good Pinot (6). Our server, who again remembered us from last May, brought the wine, then plopped down three dishes: a small round of boursin, slices of salami and a hard boiled egg swimming in a garlic aioli, with a bag of toasted baguette slices. If you remember our previous visits, the food is free as long as you keep drinking the wine.

Within a half hour, the small room was full, the outdoor tables were packed and patrons stood out in the street on rue Barrilerie.

We ordered another round, and with our second glasses came a plate of spicy sausage in long slices accompanied by a dish of burrata swimming in olive oil.

Our third round of wine was served with a plate of translucent salmon, which Lynn did not care for, so I ate the entire thing while she finished the burrata from the previous serving.

Meanwhile, the room filled to such a capacity that a fire marshal would have shut the place down and ushered us out. The long table in the middle hosted a large group of young people who were celebrating something or other, pouring wine out of a huge shoulder-held bottle, probably a jeroboam. This group determined to party on a Friday, and I remembered that a similar group in May was sending off a radio colleague back to Paris after a short stay reporting from the Cote D’Azur.

We old folks retreated a little after 8:00 p.m. Total tab was 39 euros for six glasses of wine and six plates of assorted appetizers. Plenty for us. Just starters for this crowd.