Luka (Florence - Lucca)

Yes, dear reader, it's a transit day. Spoiler alert, all went smoothly. Our hotel, the Mercure Firenze Centro had the very civilised check-out time of 12pm which allowed for a most relaxed start to the day. We commenced  packing prior to searching for breakfast. There were three easy options, a café towards the station where we had not been, the Mercato Centrale where we were regulars on our last trip or the café where we had breakfast on day 1.

It's a transit day so we opted for proximity and familiarity and strolled the short distance to the nearest café. The lady who served us last time was nowhere to be seen so we sat at a table outside and waited. Nothing. No noise. No movement. Someone else went inside, several people came and went and then we heard the sound of the coffee machine. The customer inside had been served. It was fortunate we were not in a hurry because no one had come near us. Jayne decided to investigate and discovered that there was no food, just coffee. Curious. We set sail for the Mercato just around the corner.

Unlike our visit at lunch time earlier in the week it was much quieter. We wandered around to see what options were available and had a French style breakfast of pain au chocolat and espresso. In my case two double espressos. The lady who delivered the caffe offered sugar and when Jayne declined she said "I like you". The seal of approval from a local. Given we're competing with thousands of tourists, the bar is probably not set that high.

Back at the hotel we finished packing, wasted some time, checked out and walked to Santa Maria Novella for a 12:37pm regional train to Lucca. Regional trains are not fun, dear reader, because they have no walk-in space like NSW trains. There is an open area, without seats and either end of the carriage that has stairs to the seating area. The middle section has an upstairs and downstairs section. There is no storage area for suitcases. The luggage racks above the seats can take a small backpack or bag but even a carry-on suitcase would be too large. Fortunately our train was not crowded and we scored a seat at the beginning of the downstairs seats where the aisle is wider. Jayne sat on the aisle and held onto her bag to stop it from rolling away and I jammed mine in front of me.

Arty shot.

The train was about 10 minutes late arriving in Lucca and, as instructed, we gathered at the station bar and waited for Drew and Alex to turn up with the transport.

Not our villa.

The villa is set on a hill about 15 minutes from Lucca itself. Unlike many villas in the area, the render is not painted Tuscan gold but is a salmon pink colour. Drew told us on the drive that it has a 'wow' factor and it certainly does. The views across the valley are stunning. The downstairs area has the kitchen and lounge area as well as massive dining room and eating area off the kitchen. The two floors above contain the bedrooms, all with en suites, and other sitting areas.

The dining room.

Downstairs lounge area.

We had drinks al fresco before a delicious dinner of pork belly and baked veggies, before retiring for the night. I woke to the sound of thunder rolling across the valley. Breakfast was fresh fruit, muesli and toast with tomato or ham and cheese. It is impossible to go hungry on one of Matt's tours.

Al fresco drinking.

Al fresco dining.

Cooking classes in Spain last year were cramped due to lack of space. The kitchen in the villa is able to accommodate the 18 guests as Matt talks us through different dishes. Today we made a series of dishes that would be used throughout the week. Basil parfait, caponata, the sauce for chicken cacciatore, basil oil, gluten free orange almond cake, chicken ballottine, confit garlic, basil panna cotta, chicken liver parfait and other things I can't remember now.

The centre of the action.

The first community prepared meal.

The weather, which has been brilliant, turned this morning; rain and low cloud accompanied the thunder, so spending the morning in the kitchen wasn't a bad thing.

After enjoying the fruits of our labour for lunch, we all had some down time before the scheduled afternoon/evening activities in Lucca, including a wander around the town and a Puccini concert, a mandatory experience given this town is his birthplace.

The gate to the old town.

We loaded into the trucks and were transported the 15 minutes into town. Like many of the towns in Tuscany Lucca has a perimeter wall and the old town is enclosed behind. The town itself is deceptively large and our walk through and wander around didn't really do it justice. The streets are narrow and cobble stoned and lined with shops of all ilk. In the area we walked, via Fillungo, they were mostly name brand. There were churches on every corner and piazzas and restaurants and bars everywhere.

How unusual, a church with fresco.

As we walked into one piazza we could hear Billy Joel's Piano Man being performed by, we assumed, a busker. As we came closer we could see that the performer was dressed as Spiderman. While it wasn't overly hot he must have been melting in his suit. Piano Man on unaccompanied guitar. Interesting, but he made it work.

You had to be there.

Lucca looks like a town worth much more time than we have to offer this time around. There is a great deal to explore and a relaxed lifestyle to go with it.

The Puccini concert was a pianist and two singers, a soprano and the program said baritone, I thought tenor. The performance space was a church so the acoustics were amazing. They performed 9 pieces in all from different Puccini operas. He remains the most performed opera composer in the world. Impressive I guess. While I can appreciate the talent and the training and practice required, opera is really not my thing. That said, I wouldn't have missed it. You can't visit the birthplace of one of the world's most famous composers and not attend a recital of his work.

Back at the villa it was time for more food. A "light" dinner and a few glasses of wine before bed.

It's been a big two days. The best news is that we do not need to plan anything for the next week. Matt, Drew and Alex have everything covered.

Oh, I almost forgot the title of today's post, Suzanne Vega with Luka from 1987. Yes I know dear reader Lucca and Luka are not spelt the same, but hey, after 540 posts sometimes inspiration can be hard to find.

Alla Prossima.

Pressure (Valencia - Alicante - Cartagena)

And so, dear reader, we have arrived at another transit day. In an attempt to break up the drive from one destination to the next, we are intending to explore places along the way. It will also help justify having the car and not travelling by train. The scheduled stop today was Alicante with its Castillo de Santa Barbara.

Using Apple Maps proved to be a better option than Waze, up to a point, but we are not at that point yet, dear reader. The map guided us on and off particular roads, dropped us onto a toll road where we had the joy of two tolls within 10km of each other on a fairly average road. It is what it is when you don't know what to expect or where to go.

We had a few interesting moments in and around Alicante where we were directed from the main road to rejoin it within a couple of kilometres and we did successfully arrive in Alicante. I may mentioned previously that signposting is not a strong point of the Spanish and so it was proven again today.

Driving blind, so to speak, and following instructions never fills me with confidence, but we were turned onto the beachside drive through very touristy Alicante, with the words "your destination is in 1.8km". At no point did the words "you have arrived at your destination" reach my ears. The next instruction, "complete a U-turn," filled me with dread. How? Where? The traffic on the other side of the road was bumper-to-bumper, even though we are definitely into shoulder season now.

U-turn successfully completed, we headed back the way we had come. Again, no comforting message to say we had arrived. At some point I was able to pull over. The Castillo was towering above us but we had seen not one sign denoting its entrance or the recommended free parking area we had put into maps as our initial destination.

The Alicante waterfront.

Finally Jayne resorted to putting the map coordinates into one App and was able to discern where the car park was. Off we went, confidence flagging with the rising heat. One more wrong turn and a correction and we were in car park B. Read vacant land being utilised by locals to park their cars. Whatever. Car parked and locked, we set off in search of the lift that provides access to the castillo, perched above the town.

It wasn't quite The Man from Ironbark stuff, but we wandered here and wandered there, following Google Maps this time. We had risen above sea level and eventually had to get back down to the main road where we espied people milling around. Jackpot! We had found the lift entrance and were only about half an hour behind schedule.

Apparently you can walk up to the castle on the other side, but beachside access requires the use of the lift at the end of a very long tunnel, dug into the hill underneath the castillo. We joined the relatively short queue and the guy in front of us asked if I was over 65. Yes I replied. No need to queue, entrance is free, head straight in, he said, lamenting the fact that he is only 61. Cool. We checked with the attendant as we reached the front of the line. Yes free entry - no proof, except our aged visages, required. Excitement. We saved €5,40.

Looking back toward the lift.

We walked to the end of the longish tunnel to abruptly come to a halt outside a lift door which suddenly opened and an operator invited us to go up inside the castillo. We found ourselves expelled into a complex of stone halls decorated with family crests of those who had occupied the castle from its earliest iteration in the 16th century. From there, we stepped out into brilliant sunlight in the castle compound with its turrets, open areas, seating and of course, the ubiquitous gift shop.  

Weathered limestone in the wall.

Again, the place was not overly crowded so we wandered around to take in the 360° views of Alicante and the seafront with its sandy beaches which make this place a huge drawcard in summer. The castillo was constructed in three eras and the architecture reflected this. It did not take long to traverse the grounds so it was then time to depart, not via the lift but through the gift shop and down the pedestrian path that leads into the top of the old town. 

Looking down on the city.

The view from the top.

The aim was to follow a suggested walking route that took us to various points of interest, all the while working our way down the sloping old town site to the beach level. On the way, we saw the church, a square complete with fountain and old fig trees and a street that has been rejuvenated by the installation of large statues of mushrooms that sport faces (think Alice in Wonderland), with various insects sitting atop them. Unsurprisingly it is now called Mushroom Street.

Mushrooms. Magic.

Leaving the old town precinct, we headed back along the foreshore towards our car, via the Avenue de Espana. This is another well-known Alicante point of interest, not because of its fountain or palm trees, but because of the path itself which is a wide promenade, tiled to create the optical illusion that the surface itself is undulating. Rather off-putting to walk on something that looks like it is curving to find it is flat as a tack.

Tricky. Watch your step.

Anyway, once this was negotiated, we located the car that was happily still where we had parked it. It was now time to resume the drive to our next destination, Cartagena; specifically our hotel, the Puerto Cartagena. What should have been a relatively easy exercise to put the name into Maps, turned into a 15 minute guessing game as the app would not recognise any variation of the hotel name. 

We started to doubt if the hotel existed, but eventually we put the side street address in to Maps to at least bring us into proximity of where we thought we should be and drove out of Alicante in a far less frantic manner than how we had arrived.

Again the suggested route seemed to avoid petrol stations. This will be a problem on the next leg of our journey. The roads continued to be good with light traffic and we were soon driving down the waterfront of the port of Cartagena to an unknown destination. The map deposited us outside the AC Hotel, not a name we were familiar with.

Given I was in a no parking area, Jayne ventured into the hotel to see if this was where we were staying. She returned minutes later. Yes this was our hotel, apparently known by many names. Momentary relief. And I mean momentary. You need to go inside, the receptionist needs to know how big the car is ... parking is via a lift. WTAF! Seriously? Oh, yes, dear reader. As if trusting your life to automated mapping systems and driving on the wrong side of the road (in a manual car) wasn't enough, I now had to negotiate a car lift.

Someone else driving into the lift.

Inside I went, produced the passports  and informed her that the car was considered a 'compact' one by the car hire company. Okay, she said, level -2 when parking. Park anywhere. As the keys were with Jayne because we had parked in a 'forbidden area', I returned to the car while the lift door was opened.

Hmmm. Define tight fit, dear reader. Middle-aged men in skinny jeans? A pair of leather pants a size too small? Anyone in Speedos? Not pretty pictures and neither was the one I had in front of me.

The sides of the lift were marked by the misjudgements of previous guests. I have no room for error, it's a hire car with an horrendous no claim bonus. In we guide the car, pull the side mirrors in manually, and continue in a cold sweat. The lift begins to move and after a minute or so shudders to a stop. The doors open and the first thing to greet us is a sign, "the swinging of cats is not allowed". Clearly, I thought, there is not enough room. I edge the car forward, still sweating and survey the available car spaces in the garage. It may have well been designed by Gaudi. Straight lines were scarce, car spaces were at strange angles and there were pillars supporting the building above just about everywhere I looked.

We selected a spot that was vaguely angled toward the lift we had just exited and performed a complex, but graceful 27 point reverse to park the car. No pressure. Thanks to Billy Joel for today's title, Pressure  from 1982. High on adrenaline and paranoia, I re-parked the car move the nose in about 2cms. "Pretty sure we'll be exploring Cartagena on foot," Jayne quipped as we searched to locate elevator to reception.

Check-in completed, we went to unpack to discover our west facing room had the curtains open and no air conditioning on. I dialled the air con down to 19° and the fan to maximum and closed the curtains.  Unfortunately the bed, although comfortable was covered in a doona/duvet that would not look out of place in a Norwegian winter. This is not the first time we have encountered this issue. What a day! We headed down to the bar for a nerve calming beer. 

Cartagena is surrounded by fortification.

There was little left to do but explore a little of Cartagena before dinner. We walked along the waterfront and discovered a burger competition sponsored by Uber Eats. It was a little early for any self-respecting Spanish person to be out dining but there were a few tourists checking it out. We didn't buy anything but it smelt really good. Back near the town hall, a protest on behalf of Palestine was gathering with a series of speakers; it was a peaceful protest with a minimal police presence.

Arteries harden while reading the menu.

We wandered around the town to see where things were located and then eventually settled for dinner around 8pm at La Taranta. The waiter spoke a little more English than we speak Spanish but dinner was ordered and it was lovely. The star of the show a local dish of octopus. Highly recommended. We sat outside the restaurant because it was such a lovely night.

There are some beautiful buildings.

The walk home was less than 10 minutes. The room was cooler but still on the hot side. It would be a night of wrestling with the doona, on again, off again.

Why are transit days so routinely difficult?

Until tomorrow.

Uptown Girl (Zagreb)

We were warned on arrival by Luca, one of the Art'otel workers, that Zagreb is the capital of Croatia but it is "not big like Canberra". In essence, dear reader, it is divided into the original old town areas of Lowertown and Uppertown and then there is new Zagreb, built after the 1960s. Luca maintained we could see it all in one day. Perhaps, but we don't like to rush. Yesterday, most of the day was spent on foot exploring our end of town, Lowertown. Today we are going all Billy Joel and visiting the Uppertown, or as he would say, Uptown Girl. That song was released in 1983, goodness, time flies.

Flowers everywhere

I'm still not comfortable with the breakfast culture here, but we purchased our pastries at Mlinar and then located a table at a nearby café and ordered our coffee. Again, the coffee was excellent. My pastry not so, half of it remained stuck to the bag. I blamed the sour-faced person who served us. She had one of those faces that made you think you were serving her. While we were enjoying breakfast, a very heavy rain shower swept across the area to the surprise and bemusement of the many locals seated around us.

Outside the Cathedral.

The Uppertown area is not as large as Lowertown and everything is significantly closer. Once the rain had stopped, we set out for Zagreb Cathedral. As you can see from the picture below dear reader, it was closed for renovation. Major renovation it would appear. The old town ramparts next to the Cathedral were also inaccessible. A pity, they looked quite interesting. Apparently many of the renovations are due to the earthquake from March 2020. It also explains the many buildings that have cracked and missing render.

The Cathedral under wraps.

From the Cathedral, we moved to the open air markets. In Ljubljana, they would be called covered markets because they used the same umbrellas to protect the stall holders from the elements. Again the produce looked a picture, fresh fruit and veggies as far as the eye could see. There was a stall of dried and candied fruit that was attracting every wasp and bee in the area.

The ramparts.

As we walked through the markets, I noticed a café that offered breakfast and brunch. Duly noted for tomorrow's breakfast. There was also the ubiquitous coffee and alcohol service next door. Like Slovenia they seem to start drinking early here.

The markets.

The map we scored at the Visitor Information Centre was not totally accurate in that it didn't show every street or even name them. The result was some educated guess work and a blending of information with Google maps.

A peasant woman at the markets.

We continued beyond the markets and came across, 'eat street'. It was the other side of the old wall that separated an already divided community. The street was lined with restaurants. Obviously this is the place where people come to eat. At this time of the morning there was very little open and those places that were, were serving alcohol of course. 

The dividing wall.

The street itself used to be a stream and was once lined with watermills. These are long gone but, in a link to the past, there are gas lamps in this area, around 200 of them, that are still hand lit every evening. We wandered down the quiet street; it would obviously come alive at night. We already had dinner reservations otherwise we would have returned here at night.

One of the gas lamps.

Next we crossed the "Bloody Bridge" which is no longer a bridge but a street. It was the site of many battles between the two opposing communities. The bridge is gone but it's name has remained. From there our map led us to a statue of St George and the slayed dragon. I'm tempted to read up on St George as I'd always associated him and his fictitious exploits with medieval England. However, it appears he is very popular in both Slovenia and Croatia. To Slovenia's credit, their St George actually battled a pretty scary looking winged dragon. The Croatian version slew a giant salamander - well that what the statue look like.

Ooh, a salamander. I mean dragon.

The old city gate.

Our path continued around the brave knight and his dead salamander to the a city stone gate that dates back to 760. It has become a place of pilgrimage for religious locals. In the alcove is a altar dedicated to Mary. There is a counter where you can buy a candle to light and place on the altar. The walls are lined with what look like funeral plaques, many commencing with the word "hvala", Croatian for thank you. That's pretty much the extent of my language knowledge so I have no idea what the rest of the inscriptions read.

The altar at the shrine.

In an attempt to find another point of interest, we discovered St Mark's. The surrounding streets were cut off, some by renovation work of nearby buildings. The roof of the church is covered in vivid glazed tiles depicting the Croatian coat of arms. Quite spectacular.

Impressive.

Given the street closures, we decided to head back towards the main square in search of some other attractions that were marked on the map and happened across the Museum of Broken Relationships. Our intention had been to visit in the afternoon, but since we were at the door, we went in.

The explanation for the museum.

The museum is small, maybe five rooms and the exhibits are generally small, but it is well worth visiting. Each exhibit is accompanied by an explanatory story mounted alongside. There are stories from many places, mostly Europe with a few from Asia and three or four from Australia. Read Melbourne. Now what does that say about Victorians? Every story, bar one perhaps, tells the story of a relationship breakup. Some involve the death of a relative or friend, but most are about romantic break ups.

One of the exhibits.

There were never look back stories, tales of still broken hearts, unrequited love and my favourite ones, the vindictive, cathartic revelations of destruction. There was a video tape of a second wedding and the children of the first marriage smashed, shot, drove over and set fire to the tape. I'm not sure they had moved on.

While we were in the museum, it turned 12pm and the earth moved. The Tower fires the cannon everyday at this time as it has done for centuries. It is extremely loud and frightening if you are in proximity and unprepared for the noise.

Around the corner was a viewing platform. We think it was near St Catherine's but aren't 100% certain. This provided limited views over Zagreb. It was then time for our regular rest and review so we adjourned to a café for a beer.

Locks are as common as funicular.

Our next target proved elusive and the street not so safe. It was narrow with little protection afforded to pedestrians and the cars sped along within centimetres of us. We turned and headed back down to where we had been and followed a set of stairs down to another street looking for the 'tunnel'.

The tunnel entrance.

The Gric tunnel is 350 metres in length and is a former air raid shelter. It is now used to link different parts of the city. It is also used as an exhibition space at times. We had looked for the tunnel earlier, unsuccessfully. and when we emerged at the other end we noted that we had walked straight past it. The entry appeared to a covered walkway into an ante area in front of a building. 

The tunnel.

The funicular and Tower that were next on our list were near to there so we returned to the tunnel and retrace our steps to the only side exit that remained open. This deposited us on the main street, close to the funicular and the Tower. The afternoon was wearing on and we had little to do tomorrow morning so we decided to head home. The funicular ride, the shortest in the world at 64 seconds, would be the highlight of tomorrow morning. Zagreb is the fourth city we have visited this trip and this will be our fourth funicular ride.

We stopped at the a bank on the way home to cash up before the Croatian coastal cruise commenced (I love a bit of alliteration). I tried one bank yesterday and they were going to charge me over €5 to withdraw money from the ATM. Today I tried a different bank who were also going to charge in excess of €5. $10AUD to make a withdrawal. Ridiculous. Especially if you're bank was then going to charge an overseas transaction fee. Fortunately my bank doesn't, but I'm checking Google for the cheapest rates. The remainder of the afternoon was spent blogging, processing photos and watching the Vuelta as unpredicted showers developed, happily endorsing our decision to head home early.

Coffee? No food.

Dinner that night was in the hotel at Yezi, a dim sum restaurant with a fine dining twist. The food was exquisite. Dim sum like I've never had before. It certainly was in contrast to our experience in Hong Kong. Who'd have thought we'd eat dim sum in Croatia? Once again the food was reasonably priced, dinner for two with a bottle of wine was under $200AUD. I'd eat there again.

Tomorrow we have the funicular to look forward to before a transit day to the Rovinj on the coast where we board our boat, the MV Lady Eleganza.

Until tomorrow.

Somewhere along the line (Paris, part 3)

Once again, dear reader, this post will be short on words and populated with pictures. Well, that is the concept at the top of the page. Let's see how we go. I am writing this from the Qatar Business Lounge at Charles de Gaulle airport. As usual, my posts are a few days behind reality. I am hoping to complete this on the plane and then post at our layover in Doha. I've flown Qatar previously, but in economy. Business is very smooth and will definitely feature in my last blog for this trip.

The Parisian weather has settled into a pattern and is forecast to be unchanged for the next two weeks or so. It is around 5° below the average temperature for this time of year. Jayne is back in the snow coat and I’ve resurrected a thermal top, mainly to keep the wind at bay. 

And we're off, heading towards the Tower.

Today began on the Seine with Vedettes, a company that advertises live commentary in French and English as you cruise the Seine to take in the sights of Paris. This turned out to be a recorded commentary in French only. Not that I believe we missed much as far as the commentary was concerned. While it provided some background to the sights, it was mostly ‘on your left is Notre Dame’, ‘on your right is the Eiffel Tower’.

Pont Neuf and its tree of literature.

We were there because, before our first visit to Paris in 2003, we were stranded in London as a result of a wildcat strike by British Airways employees. All because they didn’t want to swipe in and out of work. You can’t have your employer know where you are or what you’re doing during work hours. Anyway, we missed a couple of days in Paris which included our pre-booked cruise on the Seine. So, here we were, 21 years later, sitting at the quay at Pont Neuf on Île de la Cité. The numbers began to swell in the waiting area so we moved down ready to board and distance ourselves from the strollers and numerous children.

Musée D'Orsay.

It was cold on the water, as expected, and the breeze was quite chilly which was exacerbated by the movement of the boat. We had assumed seats upstairs in the wintery sunshine in the belief that the children would mostly stay downstairs. Happily, this proved correct.

Someone dropped a keyring.

The Seine was still flowing quickly and the surface of the water was chopped up further by the breeze. The boat with its not-live, single language commentary did the predictable circuit down towards the Eiffel Tower, then back to just beyond the shrouded hulk of Notre Dame and back to port.

Yeah, I don't know. It was on a boat.

The whole trip occupied 45 minutes and checked off the Paris landmarks of Pont des Arts, or the love lock bridge, Musée D’Orsay, the 1910 Exhibition centre, Alexander III bridge, Eiffel Tower, the Liberty Flame and Notre Dame. 

More civil disobedience.

As early as it was, there was constant traffic on the water. The cruise was just long enough, given the cool temperature. I was beginning to feel the cold as we returned to the pier. Our next stop was the Palais Garnier, the Paris Opera House. The 30 minute walk would allow me to warm up again.

The phoenix.

The Palais may be approached from several streets, but the best view is obtained from Boulevard L’Opèra. Usually. Not at the moment. I have often remarked on our previous trips about the French ability to take a beautiful scene for granted by sullying the view. They are masters at this and the vista might be destroyed by a poorly placed car park, signage, garbage bins; it really doesn’t matter, they will find a way.

A most picturesque advertising hoarding.

The front of the Palais Garnier is covered in scaffolding, as is much of Paris pre the Olympic event. Or as it has been described, the moment where all nations come together to sweat (paraphrased from Charles Emerson Winchester III, Mash 4077). Today that scaffolding was supporting a massive advertisement. I suppose they have to make as much money as they can to help defray the ridiculous cost of the international sporting event.

The grand staircase.

We negotiated the many pedestrian crossings required to get to the access point of our pre-booked, self-guided tour. There were two lines. One for those who had already purchased tickets, the other for those fools who like to take the risk and purchase as they are about to walk in. Or else get turned away. In another typically French move, the very serious, I-have-the-power, man-in-charge of the lines allowed the non-ticket-holding-buffoons first access. Liberté, égalité, fraternité. We know where the emphasis lies, exercise power when you can.

Looking towards the entrance to the auditorium.

The self-guided tour using the supplied iPad-guide was a little confusing because the listed items on the screen were not in logical order of discovery across the 3 levels of the Palais. After recognising this and stopping to check where exactly each point of interest was, we reorganised our path.

The ceiling of the Grand Foyer.

You may recall our visit to the Vienna Opera House, dear reader. Yes, the Viennese take their classical music and opera very seriously and boast about their opera house. In reality, it is a suburban theatre compared to the Palais Garnier. This has been a recurring theme across much of Europe. The buildings that were inspired or provoked by Versailles or Palais Garnier. The students have yet to exceed the triumphs of the master. France will always reign supreme in this regard. Style and beauty. And champagne. A winning trifecta, no matter how hard the others try.

Grand Foyer ceiling and chandeliers.

From the Marc Chagall ceiling to the box of the phantom of the opera, to the breathtakingly magic Grand Foyer. Anything else pales into insignificance, as well intentioned as it may have been.

Chagall.

We decided to dine at a random bistrot on the walk home. This proved a more difficult task than first thought. Menus seem to have been homogenised since we last visited. Every café seemed to have the same range of offerings; it’s almost the Australian version of pub food. Tartare has become a major focus everywhere. Don’t get me wrong, I love a bit of raw food, but it doesn’t hurt to offer a few cooked alternatives as well. 

A side gallery. Not even the main event.

The closer we came to our apartment, the higher the level of desperation. Descartes Café was the winner although there was little philosophy or sophistry behind the menu. Fish and chips and a burger consumed, we continued on our way home.

The box of the Phantom.

We declared the next day, Sunday, a day of rest. You know it makes sense. Our only engagement was lunch at Bonnie, a nifty restaurant on the 15th floor of a hotel near Pont Sully. It is one of those American Express restaurants where I get a substantial amount refunded from the bill. Nice. The money back covered our champagne and wine. Euros hurt if you convert them to Australian dollars. Best not to.

Our waiter was a delightful young man from Kenya who was very well versed in how to manage his guests and engage them in conversation. Maybe I’m getting more cynical and he was genuine, or at least intent on doing his job well.

A rare photo of us.

It was reasonably quiet when we arrived but the table next to us was soon occupied. It was a group of four of varying nationalities. The American man amidst them leaned over and asked if we would recommend our red wine. As if a restaurant like this would serve a bad wine. Upon my recommendation, he ordered the same wine for his table. Oh, the pressure. It was a damn fine wine though from Bordeaux. He enjoyed it as much as we did. I know this because he told us so several times.

The restaurant is the top floor,

Lunch was delicious and expensive. The view was built into the cost. It is difficult to overestimate how warm and comfortable we felt as we watched a rain storm sweep across Paris. As has been the pattern, it passed quickly and the sun returned. It was quite fresh out on the balcony but we couldn’t resist the view or the photo opportunity. Sadly, I only had the phone for photographs. In close up, they look more like paintings.

Sacre Coeur in the distance.

Fortunately there was no rain on our walk home. On the inside door, we were greeted by a sticky-taped message. One of the residents had lost his fob. Unfortunate. He could get into the building via a pushbutton code and could access his apartment with his keys, but the door in between required a fob/swipe to open. Awkward. Apparently, he worked in the ‘monde de la mode’, would be home very late and requested the fob activated door be left open for him. The nice residents had acquiesced and a door mat was appropriately placed to allow him to get safely to bed.

The Tower and Notre Dame.

Before my final comments today's title is Somewhere along the line by Billy Joel from his 1973 groundbreaker, Piano Man. It contains the line, "It was a rainy night in Paris and I was sitting by the Seine. It's a pleasure to be soaking in the European rain". Not sure I agree; enough with the rain.

Interesting architecture.

As we relaxed into the evening and contemplated sleep, the clown upstairs, the soccer afficionado, ramped up his TV and his vocal support for whatever team he supports. Ole, ole, ole until after 11pm. I’ve never been much of a soccer fan. Tonight did not change that.

I hope they got thrashed.

Quite obviously I didn't post in Doha. Insufficient bandwidth to load photos.

À demain.