European Honeymoon
Jerome feeds us leftover wedding cake from his car, we wrap wedding cake and we pick up our newspapers. We go to the airport, where we have lots of time until boarding. We have an early airport lunch at TGIFridays before boarding our honeymoon planes to Paris and Florence.
A man with a sign that says “Rasmussen” meets us at the Florence airport, and takes us to our hotel. He points out the fort along the way. He points out the new university. Monica asks, “how new?” The driver says, “New, Now.” We let it drop instead of saying “How Now?”
I would like to tip him, but have no Euros. The driver speaks to the desk clerk and says, “Monetary, three?, four?” I would like to give him three, four or five. Per the guidebook, tips are included in the price, though foreigners are expected to tip. We got here so quickly, we had no time to stop at the cash machine.
After a short nap, we find a tourist area two blocks from the Hotel Galileo. We walk past the St. Lorenzo cathedral. We find a cash machine, and shortly thereafter, we try gelato. We see sculptures next to the Uffizi-- The Rape of the Sabine Women by Bologne, a David or two. Machiavelli gives us a hedonistic look. There are street performers as statues and Cupid. Dante gives us a stern look at the Piazzi di Santa Croce. Monica finds a restaurant. I order antipasto and wine.
After breakfast, we look for our tour bus. Our ticket says 9:00 a.m. There are many buses, but not ours. I ask at a desk. “Wait outside,” is the response. Our 9:00 a.m. ticket is for the 9:15 city tour, as it turns out. The bus ride is nice. Lucia is a good guide. We go across the Arno and up the hills to a scenic overlook where Monica takes photos. We go through town until a parked Mercedes blocks our path. That’s where our bus tour ends and our walking tour begins a little early. We go past the Baptistry and see the Gates of Paradise. We walk to the Accademia Gallery and see all 18 feet of Michelangelo’s muscular David. We had a reservation for 3:30, not knowing the tour would take us here.
I call Avis from our hotel, and say that I want to pick up my car tomorrow rather than today. They tell me it will be 97 Euros more to rent for two days instead of three. So, we walk to Avis, where they postpone our reservation by a day. It makes no sense to have a car in Florence where there is no place to park.
I order salmon and wine. This turns out to be a salmon pizza, which is good, but not great. The 4 Euro wine turns out to be a Big Gulp quantity. I like Monica’s cracker crusted pineapple and ham pizza better than she does. We wander around some more and Monica takes pictures. We wind up in the Uffizi line, where reservations are typically 3-4 weeks. With just a 30 minute wait, we go through all of the galleries. A display showing DaVinci’s understanding of muscles and motion amazes. Monica finds one of her favorite paintings, Gentileschi’s Judith Beheading Holofernes.
We search for WCs, but the public ones have closed. A hotel solves this issue. We look for the statue of Dante, but his “go to hell” expression is not found or photographed.
It is our final morning in Florence. We have our hotel breakfast, then I direct us to the Bargello, where we have reservations for 8:30. Instead of going two blocks before turning left, I try a short cut of just turning left. This turns out to be the scenic route. We see the apartment buildings and neighborhoods where real residents of Florence live. As we backtrack, we find Dante. But our reservations are only good for ten more minutes, so we go directly to the Bargello. It is quiet there. No reservations would be required this time of day. We don’t have to give our names. Up one floor, we find Donatello’s bronze David. He proudly displays Goliath’s head beneath his foot. Bargello turns out to be our favorite Florence museum. We photograph Dante, a couple blocks away, then Monica photographs St. Lorenzo. This places us near our hotel, where we lug everything to the lobby. It takes three tries in our rental car to find our hotel. Just after we load our luggage, a bus pulls behind us, requiring us to move.
The drive to Cortona on A1 is easy enough. But the final thirty miles is tricky, as roundabouts show signs with up to ten towns on them, and I do not read the whole list sufficiently quickly. After some backtracking, we find our villa. Our room is large and has a balcony. There is a pool covered with a tarp. There is a putting green. We drive up the hill to nice restaurants in the evening. We have a nice buffet breakfast at the hotel in the morning. As we appear to be the only guests this off-season, the breakfast spread is especially impressive. During the day, we try driving to various destinations, but find the road signs impossible to follow. Either that, or the person giving us directions is too young to drive.
We set the alarm for 5:30 for our get-away day. A breakfast has been delivered just for us. It is foggy, so we drive slowly. The signs to A1 are distinctly green and easy to follow. A1 is also easy, until we approach our destination. The exit to the airport is three lanes over, and we have passed it before we have a chance to exit. We go over the Arno past rush hour traffic. This is how we will have to return. We miss our exit a second time, then stop for directions. The directions from an Italian speaker are good: “stay right past the rotunda”. We confirm these directions at a second gas station, and are in the correct lane to exit to the airport this time. Avis takes back the car, and we check in for our flight, which is slightly delayed by fog. We are first to board the bus at the terminal, which travels the runway to our plane.
We have trouble buying RER train tickets in Paris, since the automated machine doesn’t work. Monica finds the ticket booth and solves that issue. A woman wearing a turbin is singing loudly. Her voice is strong, like spoiled milk. We decide not to tip her.
We stop at Gare du Nord, where we transfer to the 2 Metro. I try to buy noodles for us to eat. We ask for dine in, but the woman refuses and gives us take out, since we are not allowed to share. We dine in anyway, one at a time, so as not to offend the bitchy woman. The quality of the noodles is okay, but since we are hungry they taste very good.
The Paris subway stops 11 times and we get out to transfer at Charles DeGaule Etoile/Arc de Triumph. We take the 6 Metro to our hotel, even though the walk might have been shorter.
Our room is small, but we have a nice bathtub. We get on the Metro to find D’Orsay museum, with Whistler’s Mother and the Van Goughs. Since it is 90 minutes before closing, admission is reduced. We see all of the art except for Whistler’s Mother and the Van Goughs. Their rooms had closed before we found a floor plan. We walk across the Seine and through the parkways to the Champs Elysees, where we find shopping and movie theaters. We decide to eat near our hotel. I have salmon. Monica enjoys her food also. We get a delicious meringue topped custard for desert.
We have our hotel breakfast and make it to the Louvre at opening time to see Venus De Milo, the Mona Lisa et al. The Egyptian art is especially impressive. I think it is the best art museum in the world. It is also very hard on the feet, and I blame it for my blisters.
We cross the river and board a bus to Opera. I am hoping this will take us to the Bastille station, but am wrong. The Opera building is impressive, nonetheless. When we find Bastille station, Monica is disappointed in the monument, and we walk toward Victor Hugo’s home. We are sidetracked by Place de Vosages, Paris’ oldest structure. We relax to local Champagne in a nearby cafe.
Monica likes French movies and we stop at the Champs Elysee for “Poltergay”. A synopsis: queer ghost for the straight guy. It is entertaining enough. The only reason both of us take short naps is because we are tired. The sweet popcorn is good.
We decide to picnic and buy crackers, cheese and chocolate at the grocery neighboring the hotel. We walk to the Eiffel Tour and eat at a bench there. So as to be allowed in a restroom, we order wine in the Latin District. Nonetheless, they expect a tip from Monica for using the facilities. Monica decides DuChamps was right, and that toilets in Paris are art, justifying an admission. I have to agree, as France monetized drinking water first, with Perriot.
Monica directs us to the correct trains and we arrive at Charles de Gaulle airport. The first booth we see says Delta, so we get in a short line that doesn’t move. Around the corner is a larger line that doesn’t move. Eventually, we try the electronic system and get it to work on our second try. Then, we wait in another line where our luggage is weighed and boarding passes are issued. The luggage is 27.6 kg, rather than the limit of 23 kg per bag. This extra charge is silly, I feel, as this one bag is for both us. I consider putting ten more pounds in my backpack and decide not to. Instead I will pay Delta 25 Euros.
I watch as my boarding pass is ripped up and I am directed back to the first line that doesn’t move, so that I can pay. Cash is not accepted, so I use a credit card. I am given an overweight baggage receipt that is the same size , shape and feel as my boarding pass from Atlanta to Minneapolis. Monica and I go about a half mile to the departure gate security area. Monica goes through. I am not allowed through because I have no boarding pass, just the excess baggage receipt. As Monica waits on the other side, I go back the half mile to the first line that never moves. Is this a French thing, I ask of an American couple who has been bumped from my flight? No, it’s Delta.
When I get to the front of the line, the man will not give me a boarding pass, so I stand next to the second set of lines that never move and tell a lady that monsieur won’t give me a boarding pass. I know time is short since it was 10:30 when I was rejected at the security desk, and it is an 11:15 flight, with a bus ride preceeding it. The lady talks to Monsieur, then goes to desk 2 and gets me the boarding pass. I run back to security, where I am patted down. I remove my belt and shoes. They have me remove my wallet from my pocket to be x-rayed, so I give the man a look. The contents of my wallet fall to the floor when I remove it from the tray. I leave two pennies in the tray over the objection of security. Monica and I run another half mile to our gate. I am running without shoes or my belt. We are the last to board the bus. The plane leaves late, which Delta blames on the fog.
I am very tired when we finally make it back to Minneapolis, and happy to pay for a taxi. A honeymoon should be more relaxing, I know. But, when you go to Florence, Cortona and Paris, do you feel like relaxing?
A man with a sign that says “Rasmussen” meets us at the Florence airport, and takes us to our hotel. He points out the fort along the way. He points out the new university. Monica asks, “how new?” The driver says, “New, Now.” We let it drop instead of saying “How Now?”
I would like to tip him, but have no Euros. The driver speaks to the desk clerk and says, “Monetary, three?, four?” I would like to give him three, four or five. Per the guidebook, tips are included in the price, though foreigners are expected to tip. We got here so quickly, we had no time to stop at the cash machine.
After a short nap, we find a tourist area two blocks from the Hotel Galileo. We walk past the St. Lorenzo cathedral. We find a cash machine, and shortly thereafter, we try gelato. We see sculptures next to the Uffizi-- The Rape of the Sabine Women by Bologne, a David or two. Machiavelli gives us a hedonistic look. There are street performers as statues and Cupid. Dante gives us a stern look at the Piazzi di Santa Croce. Monica finds a restaurant. I order antipasto and wine.
After breakfast, we look for our tour bus. Our ticket says 9:00 a.m. There are many buses, but not ours. I ask at a desk. “Wait outside,” is the response. Our 9:00 a.m. ticket is for the 9:15 city tour, as it turns out. The bus ride is nice. Lucia is a good guide. We go across the Arno and up the hills to a scenic overlook where Monica takes photos. We go through town until a parked Mercedes blocks our path. That’s where our bus tour ends and our walking tour begins a little early. We go past the Baptistry and see the Gates of Paradise. We walk to the Accademia Gallery and see all 18 feet of Michelangelo’s muscular David. We had a reservation for 3:30, not knowing the tour would take us here.
I call Avis from our hotel, and say that I want to pick up my car tomorrow rather than today. They tell me it will be 97 Euros more to rent for two days instead of three. So, we walk to Avis, where they postpone our reservation by a day. It makes no sense to have a car in Florence where there is no place to park.
I order salmon and wine. This turns out to be a salmon pizza, which is good, but not great. The 4 Euro wine turns out to be a Big Gulp quantity. I like Monica’s cracker crusted pineapple and ham pizza better than she does. We wander around some more and Monica takes pictures. We wind up in the Uffizi line, where reservations are typically 3-4 weeks. With just a 30 minute wait, we go through all of the galleries. A display showing DaVinci’s understanding of muscles and motion amazes. Monica finds one of her favorite paintings, Gentileschi’s Judith Beheading Holofernes.
We search for WCs, but the public ones have closed. A hotel solves this issue. We look for the statue of Dante, but his “go to hell” expression is not found or photographed.
It is our final morning in Florence. We have our hotel breakfast, then I direct us to the Bargello, where we have reservations for 8:30. Instead of going two blocks before turning left, I try a short cut of just turning left. This turns out to be the scenic route. We see the apartment buildings and neighborhoods where real residents of Florence live. As we backtrack, we find Dante. But our reservations are only good for ten more minutes, so we go directly to the Bargello. It is quiet there. No reservations would be required this time of day. We don’t have to give our names. Up one floor, we find Donatello’s bronze David. He proudly displays Goliath’s head beneath his foot. Bargello turns out to be our favorite Florence museum. We photograph Dante, a couple blocks away, then Monica photographs St. Lorenzo. This places us near our hotel, where we lug everything to the lobby. It takes three tries in our rental car to find our hotel. Just after we load our luggage, a bus pulls behind us, requiring us to move.
The drive to Cortona on A1 is easy enough. But the final thirty miles is tricky, as roundabouts show signs with up to ten towns on them, and I do not read the whole list sufficiently quickly. After some backtracking, we find our villa. Our room is large and has a balcony. There is a pool covered with a tarp. There is a putting green. We drive up the hill to nice restaurants in the evening. We have a nice buffet breakfast at the hotel in the morning. As we appear to be the only guests this off-season, the breakfast spread is especially impressive. During the day, we try driving to various destinations, but find the road signs impossible to follow. Either that, or the person giving us directions is too young to drive.
We set the alarm for 5:30 for our get-away day. A breakfast has been delivered just for us. It is foggy, so we drive slowly. The signs to A1 are distinctly green and easy to follow. A1 is also easy, until we approach our destination. The exit to the airport is three lanes over, and we have passed it before we have a chance to exit. We go over the Arno past rush hour traffic. This is how we will have to return. We miss our exit a second time, then stop for directions. The directions from an Italian speaker are good: “stay right past the rotunda”. We confirm these directions at a second gas station, and are in the correct lane to exit to the airport this time. Avis takes back the car, and we check in for our flight, which is slightly delayed by fog. We are first to board the bus at the terminal, which travels the runway to our plane.
We have trouble buying RER train tickets in Paris, since the automated machine doesn’t work. Monica finds the ticket booth and solves that issue. A woman wearing a turbin is singing loudly. Her voice is strong, like spoiled milk. We decide not to tip her.
We stop at Gare du Nord, where we transfer to the 2 Metro. I try to buy noodles for us to eat. We ask for dine in, but the woman refuses and gives us take out, since we are not allowed to share. We dine in anyway, one at a time, so as not to offend the bitchy woman. The quality of the noodles is okay, but since we are hungry they taste very good.
The Paris subway stops 11 times and we get out to transfer at Charles DeGaule Etoile/Arc de Triumph. We take the 6 Metro to our hotel, even though the walk might have been shorter.
Our room is small, but we have a nice bathtub. We get on the Metro to find D’Orsay museum, with Whistler’s Mother and the Van Goughs. Since it is 90 minutes before closing, admission is reduced. We see all of the art except for Whistler’s Mother and the Van Goughs. Their rooms had closed before we found a floor plan. We walk across the Seine and through the parkways to the Champs Elysees, where we find shopping and movie theaters. We decide to eat near our hotel. I have salmon. Monica enjoys her food also. We get a delicious meringue topped custard for desert.
We have our hotel breakfast and make it to the Louvre at opening time to see Venus De Milo, the Mona Lisa et al. The Egyptian art is especially impressive. I think it is the best art museum in the world. It is also very hard on the feet, and I blame it for my blisters.
We cross the river and board a bus to Opera. I am hoping this will take us to the Bastille station, but am wrong. The Opera building is impressive, nonetheless. When we find Bastille station, Monica is disappointed in the monument, and we walk toward Victor Hugo’s home. We are sidetracked by Place de Vosages, Paris’ oldest structure. We relax to local Champagne in a nearby cafe.
Monica likes French movies and we stop at the Champs Elysee for “Poltergay”. A synopsis: queer ghost for the straight guy. It is entertaining enough. The only reason both of us take short naps is because we are tired. The sweet popcorn is good.
We decide to picnic and buy crackers, cheese and chocolate at the grocery neighboring the hotel. We walk to the Eiffel Tour and eat at a bench there. So as to be allowed in a restroom, we order wine in the Latin District. Nonetheless, they expect a tip from Monica for using the facilities. Monica decides DuChamps was right, and that toilets in Paris are art, justifying an admission. I have to agree, as France monetized drinking water first, with Perriot.
Monica directs us to the correct trains and we arrive at Charles de Gaulle airport. The first booth we see says Delta, so we get in a short line that doesn’t move. Around the corner is a larger line that doesn’t move. Eventually, we try the electronic system and get it to work on our second try. Then, we wait in another line where our luggage is weighed and boarding passes are issued. The luggage is 27.6 kg, rather than the limit of 23 kg per bag. This extra charge is silly, I feel, as this one bag is for both us. I consider putting ten more pounds in my backpack and decide not to. Instead I will pay Delta 25 Euros.
I watch as my boarding pass is ripped up and I am directed back to the first line that doesn’t move, so that I can pay. Cash is not accepted, so I use a credit card. I am given an overweight baggage receipt that is the same size , shape and feel as my boarding pass from Atlanta to Minneapolis. Monica and I go about a half mile to the departure gate security area. Monica goes through. I am not allowed through because I have no boarding pass, just the excess baggage receipt. As Monica waits on the other side, I go back the half mile to the first line that never moves. Is this a French thing, I ask of an American couple who has been bumped from my flight? No, it’s Delta.
When I get to the front of the line, the man will not give me a boarding pass, so I stand next to the second set of lines that never move and tell a lady that monsieur won’t give me a boarding pass. I know time is short since it was 10:30 when I was rejected at the security desk, and it is an 11:15 flight, with a bus ride preceeding it. The lady talks to Monsieur, then goes to desk 2 and gets me the boarding pass. I run back to security, where I am patted down. I remove my belt and shoes. They have me remove my wallet from my pocket to be x-rayed, so I give the man a look. The contents of my wallet fall to the floor when I remove it from the tray. I leave two pennies in the tray over the objection of security. Monica and I run another half mile to our gate. I am running without shoes or my belt. We are the last to board the bus. The plane leaves late, which Delta blames on the fog.
I am very tired when we finally make it back to Minneapolis, and happy to pay for a taxi. A honeymoon should be more relaxing, I know. But, when you go to Florence, Cortona and Paris, do you feel like relaxing?
Labels: travel
posted by David Rasmussen at 2:24 PM
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