Roman (and Florentine, Venetian) Holiday with la Principessa
 

She's not really a principessa. She's my daughter, therefore comes from what I consider sturdy peasant stock. Calvin Trillin once wrote that he referred that way to his wife when traveling to get extra respect, as in "La Principessa would like a canal view table." I never actually remembered to call her that, just as I forgot to use my hands when talking. But we had a lot of fun anyway, and our last night there she bought me a little refrigerator magnet with that photo of Gregory Peck looking so cool on a scooter with Audrey Hepburn behind.

She's been living in London for a year and a half, thrilled to land a job with a river view, and I hadn't seen her for a year. Her visa status added tension: was coming, then not, then unexpectedly arrived. So we got to leave the UK, and after my time in London we spent ten nights in Italy.

I flew UA for the first time, STL - IAD - LHR, and was delighted both ways overseas to have an entire 3 seats to stretch out. The food was good, planes were new. Would definitely go that way again.

GLOBAL ENTRY, ha, AND THE AIRPORT I NOW DISLIKE A LOT: IAD
Now my rant. In early spring 2016, when they were predicting hours-long TSA lines all summer, I had just endured lengthy Border Control at ORD and had three domestic trips planned between May and late September. Easy decision: I applied for and paid the $100 for Global Entry, thinking how nice it would be to flounce past the shuffling proletariat with that fancy card. When I got the date for my interview, the soonest possible was two days after returning from my last summer trip. Oh, well.

This trip, TSA security in STL was lovely. Border control at the UK had a shorter line than usual at noon on a Wednesday, and the agent and I had a friendly little chat. Border Control at Marco Polo was downright charming, and when I got patted down leaving Rome it almost felt like a backrub. LHR security rightly judged me to be entirely benign.

Then I got back to the good old USA and Dulles. When you deplane they send you down one of two Arrivals chutes, depending on whether you're making a connection. Finally, I thought, my Global Entry will pay off. I entered Border Control, a huge room where I was the only passenger. There I was "randomly selected" for a customs check, my passport trapped in an orange box. Three officials so far had dealt with the threat posed by me, and I was waved to a third. He opened my suitcase and looked at every item inside. " What's this?" "Those would be fancy Italian candy bars for my husband. He likes chocolate." "What's this?" "That is a Mason Pearson hairbrush, also a gift for my husband." (He peered at and practically sniffed the box, but did not open it.) "And this?" (Here he attempted to wrench open the John Lewis box containing a truffle-filled Easter Egg, sealed as purchased. I offered to break it open. He declined, apparently disappointed.) This went on for several post-Atlantic flight minutes. He asked probing questions. Finally I was allowed to stagger away.

Now, to my surprise, I encounter a TSA security station where nine agents lounged, waiting for the potential troublemakers. Since they surreally only had me, they had to make the best of it. Shoes off. I stood in the XRay thing with arms overhead, and emerged to get a very thorough and surly frisking indeed. When she told me she had to swab our hands (for explosives), I said, "Of course you do."

Can I be excused for lapsing into sarcasm? The poor thing was only doing her job. Should I have been glad that all nine of those idle agents didn't practice their malefactor-detecting skills on me?

As I walked down an empty hallway to my gate, I yelled, "I hate Dulles Airport!" It will be on a security camera somewhere.

I thank my lucky stars I'll never have to see Dulles Airport again.

Hi Stokebaily! I'm very much looking forward to your report.

I feel your pain, Stoke. it is the utter pointlessness of it that grates, isn't it? They simply do it [IMO] because they can.

anyway, I hope that it hasn't spoilt your memories of what sounds like a stellar trip and I'm looking forward very much to reading your TR.

Yes, StCirq. What is it with the place?

Thank you, marigross.

Ann, thank you. I just wanted to get my whining out of the way early.

I like staying in hotels when traveling by myself. We did rent an apartment for our five days in Rome, to give Hannah some elbow room. We liked every one of these reasonably priced places:

First, my dear old CELTIC HOTEL (formerly St. Margaret's) in Bloomsbury. Since Hannah lives in W14 she wanted me within walking distance, but I stayed my first two nights at the Celtic for the ideal tourist location and for the warm hospitality of dear Mrs. Marazzi and her loyal staff. Also the breakfasts. I had a single room with shower on the first floor, liked it just fine. Half a flight up to toilets, never a problem.

http://www.stmargaretshotel.co.uk/W_e_l_c_o_m_e.html

Next, to be closer to Hannah for five nights, the GARDEN VIEW HOTEL. Halfway between the Earl's Court and West Kensington tube stops. I had a single room ensuite on the first floor, overlooking quiet and lovely Nevern Square, one of those blocks of Edwardian white porticos. Easy walk to some good bus lines. Probably a little far out for the first time tourist, but very reasonably priced, comfortable, clean. It was fun to stay in a different, more residential part of town.

http://www.gardenviewhotel.co.uk/

We had one night at the PREMIER INN North Gatwick to avoid a frantic morning rush to the airport. What can I say? They run a taut ship.

In Venice, found on Tripadvisor and booked almost last minute when we found we could visit after all, LOCANDA AI BARETERI. A lovely place with a family-run feeling. Luca carried our bags up, and his young daughter carried one of them down, over my protests, when we left. Our room was on the fifth floor, so more than a few stairs, but it was perfect for us. I'd been concerned about the central location between the Rialto Bridge and San Marco, since it was Carnevale, but crowds became intense only on the Saturday morning we left. Very quiet at night, on small side street. Lavish continental breakfast, cappuccino made to order.

http://locanda-ai-bareteri.all-venicehotels.com/

IAD is the closest international airport and I hear you about their border staff. There are a few good ones but most bark out order like a rejected prison guard.

In Florence, partly because so reasonably priced and centrally located, and partly because Hannah and her sister loved it when they were teenagers traveling on their own, HOTEL BAVARIA. The lobby and breakfast room are three long flights up. One afternoon walking down we passed a couple of young men coming up with backpacks, and half a flight down a father paused with huge suitcase and dismayed expression. Formerly a palazzo I think, frescoed façade with coats of arms, and ceilings are very high. When we asked to switch rooms after one noisy night, we got a lovely courtyard room with shower, bathroom down the hall. 40 euros/night, including a good continental breakfast.

http://hotel-bavaria.florencehotelitaly.net/

In Rome, we had an apartment three minute walk from Vatican Museum entrance and in a residential area, DOMUS VALERI. Three blocks from Ottaviano metro stop and two blocks from the excellent Mercato Trionfale indoor market. Good bus lines nearby. Comfortable, spacious, classic furnishings with nice antiques, fourth floor with elevator.

http://www.domusvaleri.com/eng/

Last night, just for me, one night at THE CAPTAIN COOK, Fulham. 20 minute walk to Hannah's. Cozy comfort, and a fun pub downstairs that has Sunday Quiz Night.

http://thecaptaincook.com/

Ha, emily71. Thank you for validation. I wondered whether it was new TSA "shackles off" or proximity to DC, or what. One surreal part was all that manpower and entire lack of fellow passengers. Just a fluke, I guess, and I think they face a big budget cut.

all your accommodations looked very good, Stoke - and I particularly enjoyed the claim on the website of the locanda ai bareteri that they are 10 minutes from the airport "by car". Sounds like an interesting journey.

Funny, Ann. I missed that. They might as well offer free parking while they're at it. I loved having no millstone of a car on our travels.

After emerging from Russell Square Tube Station and checking in at the Celtic, I took a pair of shoes down to Sicilian Avenue, where last time I had found my favorite shoe repair shop. Dark and empty storefront.

Sorry, will have to pick this up later.

oh dear - what a shame that your favourite cobblers has disappeared. We are very lucky to have a branch of the shoe repairers Timson in Truro - did you know that the owner deliberately employs ex prisoners? I'm not sure about the antecedents of the chaps in our local branch but they are certainly friendly and efficient.

Keep it coming when you can.

Great so far. Looking forward to more. I had a pat down visiting Parliament in London a few years back while going through their security. She asked me "what's this in my pocket?" It was a used tissue. Seriously! I was the only one in a big group going through security randomly chosen to be pulled aside. My husband and son were next to me but I was pulled over. Sorry you experienced that with TSA.

Yes! for hiring ex-prisoners, Ann. I'd take my shoes to Timson, if I could. Getting to a shoe repair shop in my town requires a 15 minute drive, then paying a hefty sum for new heels or whatever, then a 3-5 week wait. I was delighted the next day to find Michael's Shoe Care on Proctor St. near High Holborn. He said, "By lunchtime?" and meant it, charged a very reasonable fee. London gets its moneys worth out of shoe leather.

Funny, novice. Do they pick the most innocuous-looking person to prove that they're not profiling? In the case of IAD that evening, any randomness necessarily involved me, 100% of the incoming throng. We should be grateful, of course, and bear in mind that they're doing their job, but it's difficult not to take the intimate patdown personally.

Speaking of shoes, I fret more about which pairs to take than any other thing. My intended activities included muddy Hampstead Heath paths, the opera and plays, and many miles of uneven city pavement. My suitcase had to be EasyJet size, and as light as possible. I ended up bringing lightweight Clark's oxfords, black leather Dansko clogs, and taking -- then abandoning -- my beloved Marylebone High Street Oxfam 12£ tall wellies. The sandals I only used in hotel corridors at night I should have left home.

That first midday I ended up carrying my shoes to meet Hannah and a friend for lunch near her office. I had two hours, so decided to walk from Sicilian Ave. to the Southbank as I'd done before. This time I dawdled, stopped for coffee, realized that my phone was not ever going to give me internet access with the lunch spot location. I got as far as St. Paul's, jumped on a westbound bus and then off at London Bridge. It started to rain and time got shorter. I decided that a taxi would be my best bet for finding the place, so hailed one on the northern end of the bridge. He looked the cafe up on his computer as we crossed the bridge, told me it was "just down there" past the London Bridge tube stop, didn't charge me anything, waved his hand in a vaguely eastern direction, let me off. I liked that. Fueled by caffeine and desperation, and through the kindness of strangers, I made it to Cinq just a few minutes late to reunite with my daughter.

Stoke - I have never heard of a London cabbie not charging, not even for the shortest of runs. You were lucky! It sounds as if there is a real need for more shoe repairers in your area if they take 3-5 weeks - like the London firm you found, typically our local Timsons will do heels or other simple repairs in a couple of hours, or while you wait if you are desperate. and the dry cleaner's does a drop off service with a 2-3 day turnaround. perhaps americans don't get their shoes repaired any more.

I'm afraid not, Ann. Buy cheap and discard is more common in this neck of the woods.

There's another London driver I'm still grateful to, on the 59 bus back to Bloomsbury after lunch. When I alighted at Southampton Row, I realized I didn't have the umbrella I'd bought last year at the beautiful umbrella and walking stick shop on the edge of Covent Garden. The bus had pulled away from the curb but was stuck in traffic, so I struck a pleading palms-pressed-together dramatic pose, and he opened the door. I dashed upstairs, and there my favorite London souvenir lay. Thank you, kind driver. "You're a good man." I called as I jumped back off.

I love London buses. The next day after good Celtic Hotel breakfast I caught the #168 to Hampstead Heath. Last year in walking shoes I couldn't get very far for the deep mud. Wearing my Oxfam wellies now I followed my nose up past the bathing ponds and ancient oaks, beeches, hollies to Kenwood House. Swans. Another duck-like fowl with short neck the thrusts its head forward with every swimming stroke. Wood ducks, mallards.

Kenwood House is wonderful. How can they let us just wander in, sit on the couches? http://www.geni.com/projects/Kenwood...-England/29424

I scraped my boots thoroughly, then headed for the room with the Vermeer, Hals, and Rembrandt. It's best to read the explanatory cards in each room, I think, before looking at the paintings. This not only gives you interesting background, but also a chance to eavesdrop on what the volunteers are telling other visitors. Then you can sidle up afterwards and get them to expand on it.

The man in this first room that morning was especially good; he clearly loves the art, the building and its history. I heard some fun gossip about loose women long dead, and got a recommendation for the Emma Hamilton exhibition at Greenwich. An architect volunteer discussed the library and what it is about the design that makes it so effective. Another treasure of a volunteer in the last northern wing said she's been coming there since she was a little girl, when Lawrence's Miss Murray was her favorite, and we gossiped some more about Emma. These are not mere guards.

The combination of the walk, the art, and conversations with fine volunteers made it as satisfying a day as I could have on my own. Walking back down the Heath to the bus stop I was able to talk to a TMobile tech who helped me figure out how to get internet access.

Hannah and I rendezvoused at the Old Vic for the perfect end to that day: the play Art. Funny, touching, well-acted. The week I was in town was half-term holidays or something like that, and seems to be an in-between time for plays with some things just closing and others about to open. The Almeida was doing Hamlet with that Irish heartthrob from Sherlock, sold out months in advance then rave-reviewed so inaccessible, the NT had Peter Pan and other kid-aimed plays, and Hedda Gabler on days before and after I was there.

The funky Cuban restaurant a block away from Old Vic was jammed, but we found a table out of the rain for quick refreshment. I had walked from the Celtic to the Old Vic, hoping to buy movie-based postcards from the great selection at the British Film Institute gift shop. The last time I was in town on the way to the War Museum I was an hour too early, and this time the shop was closed for renovation. Maybe next time.

PS: I love how Kenwood House puts crossed thistle heads on furniture where they don't want you to sit. Subtle but effective.

A little bit more London culture: ROH Adriana Lecouvreur was a little disappointing, partly because of the Upper Slips seats. Extremely false economy, or I'd made a just plain ordering mistake months before. Lower Slips seats and standing room always work just fine. As I waited for Hannah in the lobby I chatted with a young German man waiting for a friend and having trouble getting his tie just right, possibly because I was distracting him. He said he'd paid a lot to hear the title role soprano whose name escapes me right now. I am not the big voice critic, but I did notice that she sometimes could not be heard over the orchestra.

We could often not see which character was singing, which made the complicated plot not seem worth following. The bright spots were the third act ballet, wonderful, and the two intermissions where we always enjoy chatting over a glass of wine and people watching, and where we now know where the water jugs and glasses are kept (far left-hand corner from the staircase). We left after 2nd intermission, both a little tired.

Another play, another night: An Inspector Calls, down the block from Sherlock Holmes Pub near Charing Cross/ground zero. Inventive set, but the plot struck me as maybe a little safe and dated. It was fun, anyway.

I took the Thames Clipper to Greenwich, especially fun on a sunny day, to the National Maritime Museum. Love that place. Had soup on the cafeteria terrace, then took my time in Emma Hamilton: Seduction and Celebrity. (Still on a couple more weeks, till April 17.) Well worth lingering. What a beauty she was, and what a story. There are several Romney portraits; so much better in person.

Thames Clipper back to town, just in time to decide, disembark, and dash across Millenium Bridge for Evensong at St. Paul's. Monday's guest choir day. This time Chad's College choir, heavier on discordant organ than I like, but heavenly vocal harmonies.

Staying at the Garden View, near Earl's Court tube, would not have been my first choice as a first-time tourist, but it was fun to stay in another part of town this time. Good bus routes run nearby, interesting ethnic shops around North End Road.

Hannah and I rented Boris Bikes (OK if I keep calling them that?) on Sunday, rode down to Hammersmith Bridge and down the path on the other side, then around Putney. We stopped in for a bite at The Duke's Head, a lovely riverside pub. The neighborhood was heaving with male football fans until it suddenly emptied across Putney Bridge to Fulham.

I spent one day resting up, reading newspapers and watching TV: high quality history programs and others with a real estate fascination. I don't watch TV news at home, but could not get enough of the fresh madness unfolding daily in Washington DC.

ITALY!

VENICE

I was glad we spent the night at the Premier Inn before our 0930 EasyJet flight. Transit backups had abounded the night before.

I abandoned my Oxfam Shop wellies in the boarding area when told I could have only one bag, not carry my purse. (I miss those boots now it's spring garden season; may have to break down and spend real money on a pair.) Hannah had her suitcase jammed into the metal thing they use to measure maximum volume. She, a couple of EasyJet agents, and two young men worked hard on getting it back out. Room for improvement in that design and in both of our packing habits.

On arrival, the non-EU queue was short and painless. As we waited, a young Asian-looking man walked through the Do Not Enter doors to the outside and set off an alarm that no one in authority seemed to notice.

I'd stopped studying my Italian weeks before the trip, thinking we were staying in the UK, missed out on a crucial language-cramming period. When the handsome border control man waved us over, I offered a "buongiorno" and "madre e figlia" to break the ice and state the obvious. Was rewarded with a handsome Italian smile. This might work out after all, I thought.

We had bought shuttle bus tickets on board the plane, a good move. After customs and a quick stroll to the bus area we were shepherded aboard for the ten minutes, more or less, to the Ponte della Liberta where we could catch the vaporetto as our host had suggested. Hannah, phone GPS in hand, told me that our hotel was only a 20 minute walk, a phrase I was to hear more than a couple of times over the next ten days, and we should definitely walk. We were in Venice! Where else could we even take a vaporetto? I compromised by grabbing a restorative and delicious cappuccino at the little stand by the shuttle stop, then we set out on foot. It was a charming walk, really, until we got to steep bridges like the Rialto where luggage made it less fun.

Another play, another night: An Inspector Calls, down the block from Sherlock Holmes Pub near Charing Cross/ground zero. Inventive set, but the plot struck me as maybe a little safe and dated. It was fun, anyway. >>

Stoke, it probably is safe and dated now, but at the time it made a terrific splash, and was really quite subversive. JB Priestley has pretty well fallen out of fashion now, and this is about the only work of his that anyone can name. We saw it in Truro a few years ago with our kids and they were very impressed. Shame that the ROH performance did not impress over much, but I envy you having access to all that theatre, even for a short period. I never made the most of it when I lived there and have been kicking myself ever since. Also the chance to see the Emma Hamilton exhibition which I would be very interested in, and singing at St Paul's. Apart from a school friend getting married there [in the crypt] I've never been there for a service, worst luck.

please continue to call them Boris bikes [it sounds better than Sadiq cycles] and i admire you for using them. I've never cycled in London and wouldn't dream of starting now.

Shame about the wellies and the lugging of bags across the bridge. I hope that you didn't have to carry them up as many stairs as there were between ground level and my room, last time I stayed in Venice!

Back to London culture -- and you're right, Ann, I felt lucky to have access to so much -- I want to do it all when I'm there, and regret what I can't squeeze in. There were a couple of alternative plays I thought I wanted to see, but they might have ended up being over my middlebrow head after all. Sunday night we saw such a fun band at the Blues Kitchen Brixton. Kind of rockabilly/Texas swing, and I never did catch their name. No cover charge. Next time we'll have dinner there, too.

Hannah had seen the You Say You Want a Revolution at the V&A, enjoyed it a lot, so she took me there on her work ID. Far out. I wanted to tell someone I was having an acid flashback, but it would have had to be just the right person. Exhibition was about the cultural upheavals of the 60's and 70's, with headphone music and commentary. Ended the day after we were there. Interesting concept, well done.

One culture-related luggage tip just between us, in case you ever find yourself checking out of an Earl's Court hotel in the morning and have an evening event at the House of Lords followed by a late evening train to Gatwick North and you're not certain whether it will be Waterloo Thameslink or Victoria Gatwick Express. It's possible to check a suitcase at the National Portrait Gallery cloakroom for the entire day, as long as you're actually in the gallery. I can easily spend a day. Nominal charge.

VENICE AT CARNEVALE

Our room was up several flights at Locanda ai Bareteri, but we had arranged a rough ETA and when we rang the bell we were expected. Our host Luca came down to meet us, and insisted on carrying both bags up. Our room was two floors up from the breakfast room and office, and was spotless, with modern bathroom, windows overlooking the quiet side street. The hotel is between Ponte di Rialto and Piazza San Marco, but could be a little tricky to find.

Well, almost anything in Venice could be tricky; our first night, in the San Lorenzo area, a young British couple heard us speaking English, asked for directions to Santa Lucia. They thought they were on the other end of the island. Hannah had her GPS, and I followed her like a puppy dog.

We wandered into the student area the first afternoon. Artistic exuberance, light reflected on water, atmospheric decay and refusal to succumb to decay. Romance and mystery in the air. It was the Thursday before what we'd call Mardi Gras, and every few minutes you'd see someone in an elaborate costume and mask. Some posing, some seeming to be hurrying somewhere.

We had two nights in Venice.

Thursday evening the air turned blue and then grey in a light mist. We bought glittery masks and put them on. I had been afraid that our last-minute hotel location would be too loudly central, and had originally booked a B&B in Cannaregio. But that night, as we walked down to an almost-deserted St. Mark's Square, I wondered whether Carnavale Venice was going to be too empty and quiet. The center of the Piazza held a temporary wooden stage that sprawled out into what looked like empty shops or displays. A few people drifted around the edges.

We headed over to what Luca said was the student area around San Lorenzo, and things got more lively. I think it was Campo San Lorenzo where an outdoor costume market was set up in extravagant variety. We found a bar, Margaret Duchamp, a duo called Black Coffee performing American oldies. Later we ran across Café Noir, with its casual young crowd, snacks spread out on the bar, beams, bricks, art. The barman made me a masterpiece Bellini, giving me a chance to cry Bellissimo. We decided this was our Venice local.

Hannah's just finished her master's studies and is pinching pennies to live in London, so the cheap, young and casual suits her just fine. She tends to eat a late afternoon apple and then not be particularly hungry for supper. Me, too, normally, but when in Venice I wanted at least one real Venetian meal. We had peeked into Luca-recommended Antico Pizzo, down a little side alley north of Rialto, Thursday a little too late for lunch, were waved away. Luca described it as looking bad on the outside and with a grouchy proprietor, so we decided to give it another try on Friday lunch. Loved it. The waiter's English was even more minimal than my Italian, but he won my heart even before he called Hannah "la bella signorina." I went for the pescato della giornata. He came back to explain they'd run out of the fish of the day, but would do their best.
Wow. Grilled monkfish, squid, shrimp with grilled vegetables, all so fresh and perfect. A couple of tables full of Italian families ordered course after course, and a northern European couple tried to bridge the language gap with English. A proprietress, young and friendly, came in later with her excellent English and made sure everyone was happy. I certainly was.

I like it that Italians don't bother to learn much English. They have a perfectly beautiful language.

I don't normally want things, particularly, but our first day in Venice I found myself craving some really beautiful shoes and a purse, plain but made of excellent leather. And a fine woolen coat. Could it have been the shop windows working on me? I didn't get any of those things, for packing among other reasons. By Florence the fit had passed.

Friday we toured the Accademia, found it beautiful, decided that the martyrdom of Saint Sebastian gave painters the excuse to depict a naked young body. Museums in Venice didn't seem necessary, with all the beauty on display outside. More -- and more elaborate -- costumes filled the streets and posed on bridges. Louis XIV, Casanova, Pierrot, immense skirts, huge beaks, an Ent, I think, walked among us.

in case you ever find yourself checking out of an Earl's Court hotel in the morning and have an evening event at the House of Lords followed by a late evening train to Gatwick North and you're not certain whether it will be Waterloo Thameslink or Victoria Gatwick Express>>>>

should that eventually ever arise, I will be sure to bear that tip in mind, Stoke. lol! and lol the acid flashback, not to mention the Brixton Band venue! i assume that it was the principessa who found out about that event ...or?

i too have fallen foul of the craving you describe; I gave into mine and somehow managed to squeeze into my luggage a beautifully colourful and rather modern print of Venice which adorns the wall above our fireplace, and in Florence a purse [english meaning!] which i bought at the airport for ¼ of what I'd seen them going for in the city. but there is no way to compete with those beautiful carnival costumes, is there? I think I came across that square with all the costume stalls, though sadly I missed out on the Cafe Noir. Next time!!! One of my favourite paintings of all time is in the Accademia and I would happily pay the price of admission just to see Veronese's "Feast in the House of Levi" again, which I love even more every time I see it.

Eventuality, obviously.

Wow, yes, Ann. I have to admit I didn't pay special attention to the Feast in House of Levi, but hope to have another chance someday. Preferably in the week leading up to Carnevale, or better the few days before the weekend and the few days after Ash Wednesday, to watch the spectacle grow, flow, and ebb. I can see how people could become Carnevale junkies, come back every year, become amazing-looking and go to balls.

I have gathered courage to speed through this report, because she and I are thinking about our next trip, and I have many questions.


A BIT MORE VENICE

Mostly we wandered, looked, sipped aperol spritz, hung out and talked. I wanted to see the original Ghetto, now 501 years old and a quiet haven on the increasingly bustling Friday evening. We missed seeing a production of Il Servitore di due Padroni, the original of Richard Bean's One Man, Two Guvnors that we loved in London several years ago. I think it would be fun even without much Italian, and will insist if I ever get another chance.

The stationery shops are irresistible. Cards and notepaper, intricate scenes in lapis blue, gold on high quality paper. I bought my mother a birthday card that I wanted to get off right away, was told to buy stamps at one of the newsstands. Later, in Florence, I realized that the different privatized postal services require you to find one of their own mailboxes, which will be located at a newsstand several blocks from wherever you happen to be. I never did learn whether there's an Italian postal service anymore. 2.20 € for even a postcard stamp seems steep, and it took the birthday card close to a month to arrive in the US Midwest.

Saturday morning we enjoyed another leisurely breakfast at Locanda ai Bareteri, a family feeling sort of a place. I don't know whether the gentile Signora who made our cappuccino was Luca's mother, didn't want to ask. Luca's lovely daughter, maybe nine or so, was at breakfast dressed in a Spanish flamenco style dress, helping out with clearing tables. I took a cue from our Antico Pizzo waiter and called her "la Bella Signorina." When we checked out she insisted on carrying my bag down, which must have weighed half what she did. I would definitely stay there again, assuming can stay able bodied enough for steep climb to rooms. Quiet at night, tall windows with metal shutters against noise and light, everything done well.

I like to wake up early, go nose around when the city is waking up. I watched laundry boats with loads of dirty and fresh linens, boats with boxes of oranges and others with bags of garbage, speeding around tight corners and ducking under low bridges with reckless confidence. A short man walked by with a big white crate on his head. I headed north to Caffé Rialto on Merceria il Aprile, had gotten my cappuccino and started to write in my journal: "Venice 0720 Saturday. Drunken bum yelling at young Asian counter woman, demanding she put more Jack Daniels in his coffee -- they're arguing loudly. She goes to the door looking for Polizia -- he finally leaves after spitting in her face. She runs and hits him in the back as he leaves. I had been ready to intervene if necessary. She seemed so young and upset. They definitely don't pay her enough for that sort of thing.

On the way back to the Locanda, I followed a woman dressed all in pale fluffy blue like an American Southern Belle with wide ruffled hat, hoop skirts. I found her mysterious, never did see her face. Was she on her way home from the night before? She seemed confused, walking down dead ends and back, pausing as if perplexed in Piazza Rialto, finally faltered over the bridge.

After breakfast, Hannah and I made our way through the now packed streets to Piazza San Marco. One amazing costume after another. We walked along the waterfront past the Ducal Palace, watched more fabulous White Swans and Don Juans disembark from ferries. We sat in the sunshine, precious to Hannah after a winter in London, and listened to street musicians. Then elbowed our way back to the Locanda, rolled suitcases to the Rialto stop for our only Vaporetto ride -- full but not crazy crowded because going against the flow -- to Santa Lucia station and our Florence train.

Later, in Florence, I realized that the different privatized postal services require you to find one of their own mailboxes, which will be located at a newsstand several blocks from wherever you happen to be. I never did learn whether there's an Italian postal service anymore. 2.20 € for even a postcard stamp seems steep, and it took the birthday card close to a month to arrive in the US Midwest.>>

I fell for that one too, Stoke, in a shop in Venice where I bought postcards and she sold me "francobolli". As I walked away from the shop something alerted my suspicions [perhaps the price was wrong, probably too high as you say] so i looked and just as you found, they were stickers for some "private postal service". So I went back and said I asked for stamps not these bits of paper and after a bit of protest, she refunded my money.

Yes the Italians do have a fully functioning postal service, with proper post offices, albeit some of their post boxes look as if they were last emptied before WW2. According to wiki a stamp for a postcard from Italy to the EU is €0.65 and to the US €0.85 so you were done.

Nice to see you back here. I too was fascinated by the revellers' comings and goings; I quite often got a vaporetto late at night so I was in company with many of the Carnival goers. The most noticeable to me were the couple who had a child's pram in which they transported their dogs, also in costume. Sweet!

See you in Florence!

It would be a gas to reproduce your travels, Ann, since I can't invite very well myself along. You always do fun things.

I expected beautiful Tuscan scenery from the Venice to Florence train. Wrong! After Bologna, which I hear is a lively city to visit, it's almost all tunnel. I sat by the window while Hannah napped, and no sooner thought, "At last! Tusc....!" when we plunged back into darkness. A second here, three seconds there, of light Admittedly better and far faster then creeping up and down mountain passes, but still. One thing I craved on this trip was setting foot in the countryside. Next time.

Both of our intercity city trains were Italotreno. New trains, comfortable, cheaper than trenitalia. At one point I had to call customer service from the US because the website would not accept my US address or something, and was transferred to a man whose broken English was the best they had to offer. I was just starting basic Italian, and preferred a transaction that I could understand. I seemed to be the last person on earth he wanted to talk to, but, without hand gestures, we had our tickets.

Hannah had been to Florence as a teenager with her sister, and they stayed at the Hotel Bavaria, loved it. We disembarked at Santa Maria Novella and rolled through the gritty streets, taking a line through the Duomo to the hotel. Florence seemed gritty at first, compared to the watery streets of Venice.

We'd had an early breakfast and no lunch, so started considering light dinner options that would be open at 1700 or so. Hannah's boss had loaned her a DK Italy guidebook that mentioned Trattoria ZáZá, not too far away, so we gave that a try. Fun interior. We ordered pizza and zuppa di verdure, watched the wait staff set tables for evening rush. Our meal arrived lukewarm, having sat under lamps as our waitress folded napkins, and I would have been fairly satisfied. Hannah, having hostessed at good restaurants in college, was having none of that, politely sent it back. Apologies! from the manager and soon hot soup and amazing hot pizza. Since then I sometimes ask myself What Would Hannah Do?

Since then I sometimes ask myself What Would Hannah Do?>>

by the sound of it an excellent way to travel - just like a princess in fact.

I agree that Florence can seem gritty after Venice but IMO it has its own charms, which are not always to be discovered in the major tourist haunts. I hope that it grew on you!

Yes, Ann, Florence did grow on me, but I really needed more time there. Three nights was not enough. I'd have ideally spent our ten Italy days in two cities at most. As my first visit there and Hannah's second after ten years, we settled on a buffet approach.

Later that evening we walked to the Oltrarno for apertivo at VOLUME. Lavish bar snacks with your drink. American 50's-60's cool music, young crowd. We were on the lookout for live music, never quite managed it even on a Saturday night. An Oltrarno coffeehouse seemed to promise music, turned out to be a political gathering for young people. We sat in a corner awhile with polite uncomprehending faces, then wandered on. Our first gelato tastes (another Hannah good idea) at a brightly lit gelateria just south of the river were a disappointment, so we decided to wait for the real thing.

Sunday morning we walked up to PIAZZALE MICHELANGELO, a warm hike even on a March morning. So worth it, especially fortified with a cappuccino at IL RIFRULLO, the sweet brunch spot at the bottom of the street. Climb the winding streets with staircase shortcuts to the plaza at the top. We sat on the steps taking in the view of the city, people watching as a bonus.

The UFFIZI was unlike any museum I've ever visited. Necessarily, probably, because of its popularity, you either book online, book a tour, or stand in an immense queue. We had prebooked tickets, so after trial and error I figured out where in the crowds to pick them up. Then, to go outside and join Hannah I took what seemed the most obvious way out. Wrong, forbidden from the crowd control point of view. A guard sternly asked what I thought I was doing. I'm afraid I blurted out a few times, in the stress of the moment, "Mi piace!" (it pleases me) instead of my intended "Mi dispiace!" (I'm sorry.) Here some pleading hand gestures might have helped. He let me off with a warning.

Entering the museum you're directed in a one-way river of humanity past the treasures. So worth it finally to see such long well-known beauty in person. I squeezed past the crowd up close to Primavera's dainty bare feet to admire the brushstrokes. Ah. Next time I'll keep museum fatigue in mind and breeze past works of lesser interest, saving my attention for the best. Still we got much delight from paintings we'd never seen reproduced.

Shopping at il MERCATO CENTRALE is a little like Borough: fun abundance but less hip, with just the right amount of crowds. We bought olives, bread and fruit inside, and then I got a pair of fine leather gloves in royal blue at one outside stall, a royal linen blouse at another. The leatherwork stall stitched up a small rip in the gusset while we sat in the sunshine.

We missed the start of a morning walking tour, wandered on our own.

One of my favorite finds was CAFFÉ VERONA, on the fifth floor of Museo degli Innocenti. Panoramic views above the city, Duomo level, sunshine, the hills beyond.

Perhaps we were lucky with the Uffizi, Stoke. We booked mega -early tickets by phone, endured the groans of our kids at being turfed out of bed at sparrow-fart [or stupid o'clock as DD would have it] and thus were inside the doors and well on our way round the treasures before the hordes caught up with us. Of course they did find us eventually, but their pace was faster than ours so they overtook and we had peace for a while before the next lot turned up. We rewarded ourselves with a late 2nd breakfast in the cafe, and then continued round the museum, our kids being rewarded for their patience by a wonderful temporary Leonardo exhibition in the basement.

Frankly, from what I have heard of the crowds I wouldn't bother again but would head for other delights such as the Museo degli Innocenti, of which I have never heard. Next time!

Keep it coming - I'm enjoying it very much.

What a thoroughly lovely report. The play Art that you saw rings a bell, was it about a young man who buys a painting that he loves but his two friends see only a blank canvas? If it is, then we saw it many, many years ago here in Sydney and loved it.

Our local shoe repairer is a lovely chap whose business is called 'Pete the Pom'. I don't take shoes anywhere else. He's incredibly honest and will tell you, in a most charming way, if your shoes aren't worth repairing and hand them back to you. Or he'll say, "very tasty, my lovely, they'll be ready on (insert a day)". I would say that he has a cockney accent but I don't know which part of London that is.

Looking forward to the next instalment.

I'd say your Uffizi result was due to excellent planning and execution, not luck, Ann. Second breakfast in the café was the master stroke there, along with coaxing everyone out at an indecent hour.

Aw, thank you, cathies. Yes! that is Art, and it was so fun. My sympathies shifted from one character to another. I sure wouldn't have paid that kind of money for a plain white canvas. And yes, a good shoe repair person is a treasure. I'd love to have a Pete in my town.

The Museo degli Innocenti has Brunelleschi loggia crowned with della Robbia plaques visible from the plaza opposite, and well worth a visit. You can enjoy the Café Verona to refresh yourself after the Accademia maybe, or Ss. Annunciata as we did, then visit the collection with some fine pieces, even a Botticelli, and no crowds. People could leave babies in a kind of orphanage turntable without fear of being detected. Renaissance values in action.

Ss. Annunciata next door is an amazing church, with Medici tombs, gilt, silver, brilliant frescoes, side chapels in different styles. Check closing times to avoid disappointment.

Great report, we will be in both Florence and Venice next May so I am note taking

Misstrav, thanks! I know you'll love it.

I would say that he has a cockney accent but I don't know which part of London that is. >>

technically a cockney is a Londoner who is born within the sound of Bow Bells, those being the bells of St Mary-le-Bow Church, Cheapside, which is in the City of London and therefore in what may roughly be called East London, though it is very much at the centre of the city now:

http://www.stmarylebow.co.uk/#/bow-bells/4535373284

Mr Doolittle, as played by Stanley Holloway gives a pretty good impression of a cockney accent in My Fair Lady; Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins gets it hopelessly and disastrously wrong.

Thank annhig for explaining and for the link.

As a little kid, Van Dyke sounded fine to me. I read that despite being surrounded by British people during filming, no one ever tipped him off that his accent needed work. Too polite? Someone should make a youtube video of him saying a few lines, followed by the correct delivery. I'm afraid my ear is still tin.

We had apertivo another evening at the SOUL KITCHEN, good deal for a light supper. €10 perfectly good glass of wine, hot buffet. The bar filled up quickly with the younger set who, like Hannah, watch their pennies. A student-looking German took up a 3-top table with his laptop and made many trips to the buffet.

We hadn't made plans that night, but walking past the TEATRO VERDI FIRENZE going back to the hotel we saw that Parsons Dance (NYC) was about to appear. We bought the only two remaining good €22 tickets, walked on in, found ourselves in a box with good sightline. There were some wonderful pieces (well, a few not much more imaginative than at the excellent COCA in St Louis where our daughters studied dance.) But the amazing ones! One had the theater completely dark, even exit lights off, and a solo dancer, long loose hair, dramatic lighting that became a strobe catching her at the height of her leaps so she appeared to fly. Blackness - jeté - black - jeté - black - pas de chat, etc. It was magical. Another humorous piece had darkened stage except spotlights on arms in a row; fun choreography. No intermission. As we left we saw several firemen in the lobby, I'm guessing as a precaution because of the darkened room. I'd love to see that show again.