Safety Matters with Airport Parking

I typically fly out of the small regional airport that is six miles from my house. Occasionally, flight times or fares make flying out of Boston Logan the better option, despite it being an hour’s drive away and having super expensive ($20/day!) parking.

There are a number of private lots around Logan that offer slightly cheaper rates, and I had used one before without issue, so I went that route again. This time, I found a lot through a company called Way.com that outsources parking to third-party business in areas around the country.

The website reviews were great, the lot had more than 500 parking spaces, and the best part was the valet aspect of the service:

“Our friendly employees help with your luggage and ensure that when you come back your vehicle is warm in winter (with snow removed), and cool in summer!”

I would be getting back at midnight when temperatures were forecast to be well below zero, so the idea of having my car warmed up and ready sealed the deal.

I was confused and a bit apprehensive when I arrived because the lot only fit maybe 20-30 cars. But there were other customers awaiting the shuttle with me, and I figured the staff probably moved the cars to a bigger lot for storage and back for pickup. No big deal. That’s what “valet” means, right?

Upon return, my flight got in at midnight as scheduled. I called the shuttle and the driver picked me up in a marked van within minutes. So far, so good. There were other customers in the van with me. I texted my friend to let her know I was safe.

Then, it got weird.

As we were heading to the lot, the driver asked for our claim check numbers so he could call to have the cars warmed up. Which is great, except he started calling in the numbers for four tickets while driving the van. I didn’t love that he was not focused on driving as he kept shuffling the tickets around and shouting numbers into his phone.  

Search results. 

Then, we arrived at a huge, dark parking lot. This was not the same lot where I left my car. I looked around inside the van for a sticker or notice with an address for our destination. There wasn’t one. One of the other guests and I exchanged nervous looks. It was midnight, it was dark, it was cold, and we had no idea where we were.

Cars for two of the other parties in the van were warmed up and ready for them. My car and that of my fellow shuttle passenger were not there. The driver got out of the van, yelling into his phone to someone about our missing cars, while my fellow passenger and I got more and more nervous.

Finally, the driver gets back in the van, and said he was going to drive us to our cars. Except, he didn’t actually know where our cars were. We drove around the lot, row by row, looking for our vehicles. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw mine. The driver hit the button on the key fob, my lights flashed, we knew we had the right car. I grabbed my suitcase, handed him a tip, and got in my car as quickly as I could.

I did opt to tip him because at that time, the reality of my situation hadn’t sunk in, plus, I didn’t know the operations and whose fault the mishap was. If it wasn’t the driver’s fault that my car wasn’t ready, I didn’t see why he should be penalized. After all, he did drive me to my car at midnight on a frigid

Actual photo of where I brought my car.

night, right?

As I scraped the windows and warmed up the car, I looked around. It was dark. It was cold. I still had no idea where I was. The driver had zoomed off with the other passenger to look for his car. I was alone.

How would I have called for help when I didn’t know my location? There was no where to walk to that I could see, and even if there were any businesses around, what would be open at that hour? If I needed to call Roadside Assistance for a jump start, or even the police, where would I tell them to go?

My car started, I scraped the windows, and drove the hour home. I was safe. I was sound. I chalked this up to life experience and vowed never to use that lot again.

It took about 24 hours to really sink in just how unacceptable this situation was.

How hard would it have been for the company to post a sticker in the van with the drop-off address? Or better yet, include that information on the contract at time of booking? And is it really not possible for them to have a better system for getting the cars warmed up and ready than having the driver shouting into his phone, reading off tickets while driving (which clearly doesn’t work, seeing as two of the four cars were not ready when we arrived)?

The contract included an email address to use to request redress in the form of a full or partial refund in the event of any issues, so I sent an email with the details and requested a refund.

The response:

We would like to express our empathy for the shuttle troubles and will forward your experience to our parking management team.

I wrote again, pointing out that I had requested a refund.

The response:

I do apologize, but because the reservation was used in full, we are unable to refund this reservation.

Because the reservation was used in full? They had to be kidding. This is a non-reason for refusing to address my concern. Of course my reservation was used in full! The issues were upon my return

So, I turned to Twitter.

I tweeted that I would like an actual response to my concerns, and that I was not okay with paying for being abandoned in a dark parking lot at midnight.

Within hours, the company messaged that they would have the customer service representative who had emailed me give me a call.

When she called, the situation got even weirder.

“First, I would like to start by telling you that that was not me who sent those emails,” she said.

“It was not you who sent emails from your account with your name on them?” I asked, bewildered.

The online reviews were great.

She explained that they were very busy, so to alleviate some of the workload, a colleague had sent the emails.

Opening by passing the buck is an interesting customer service strategy.

She asked me to recount my experience, and I did. She confirmed that she had called the valet lot, which was a third party vendor that her company contracted to provide the service, and they had corroborated my experience. The manager there said that they do not explicitly state that customers’ cars are moved to a different lot for storage, because the word “valet” in the title implies this.

I agreed with her on that, but pointed out that nowhere was it stated that I would personally be

returned to a different physical location.

I then explained my concern with being left in an unknown location, at night, in the dark, alone. She agreed that that was not a good experience, and offered to provide a refund for half of my fee. She then said that she could not refund the entire fee because “the third party vendor still has to get paid.”

Valet services were enticing.

In other words, she expected the customer to pay the vendor regardless of quality of service, so that her company would not be financially penalized by their bad business practices.

Granted, this customer service rep had established from the start of the phone call that her company had no intention of taking responsibility for their contract.

I persisted with my request for a refund. She again said that because the contract was fulfilled, the third party vendor still needed to get paid. I explained that the burden of paying them needed to be on her company, and not at the expense of my personal safety.

She finally agreed to refund the full amount, but not before saying that doing so would likely get her in trouble with her manager, because they were supposed to reserve full refunds for “really serious” situations, such as when a car is broken into, or – get this - when a customer was run over by a shuttle driver.

That’s right – they have a policy in place for awarding compensation to people who get run over by cars.

I was speechless. I am still speechless. I was further stunned when, after our conversation ended, the customer service rep emailed me to confirm the refund, and then said:

Also, a small request if not too much to ask. If you could remove your social media posting regarding your recent experience, this will help scale our team for future growth. Our team appreciates your feedback and will work diligently to make sure this doesn't happen in the future.

“This will help scale our team for future growth” ?!?

I do not understand a company that is more concerned with hiding its bad business decisions than it is to work to correct those bad decisions. There are so many ways this situation could have been handled better. It’s really not hard to treat people with basic respect and take responsibility when things don’t go as planned.  I, for one, will not use this company again. I have already found a reputable source for airport parking options that has been vetted by a colleague. I’m embarrassed that I put myself in this situation, but more than that, I am angry that this is a business that feels that my situation was relatively minor because, after all, it wasn’t like my car was damaged or I got hurt.

Christmas Really Is All Around

As I write this, I am standing in Boston Logan airport, grinning like a damn fool.

Preparing for this trip, I was … not nervous, exactly, but definitely apprehensive at booking a trip that involving flying in and out of Logan right at Christmas. I’ve gotten rather used to my small, regional airport in New Hampshire that is all of 6 miles from my house. Traveling from that airport involves all of half an hour to get from my front door to the gate. And that includes parking, walking to the terminal, and security screening.

I have traveled for Thanksgiving in and out of major airports before, and it wasn’t so bad, but Christmas can bring out the best in people, or it can bring out the worst. I wasn’t sure which to expect at Logan.

Despite the airport itself being huge and somewhat hard to navigate, it somehow didn’t seem crowded. My TSAPrecheck status helped me breeze through security, but even without it, the line at security wasn’t that long.  I did my usual routine – find my gate and then wander to find food and get some steps in. With 7 hours of sitting ahead trapped in a metal tube, I wanted to make sure I had both sustenance and exercise.

I stopped at a Hudson News shop to buy a postcard for my friend, L. She has been in the hospital for some time, and has some time of recuperating yet ahead, so I have been having fun finding new cards to send her in an effort to brighten her days. I found a Boston post card in the shop,  and then asked the newsagent if there is a post box within the terminal. I told her I had a stamp, and I was hoping to mail the card today. There is no post box within the terminal, she said, but she offered to mail the postcard for me from home, when she got off work.

Really? I asked.

Sure, she said. If it had been a letter with a sealed envelope, than she would not have offered. And she said she wouldn’t be able to do it until she got home, because she couldn’t leave her post.

Of course, I said. I understand completely.

I wrote out the card, stamped and addressed it, and handed it back to her, again with my thanks. She placed it in the clear plastic bag that she had to use as a purse (given her cash handling position), and again assured me that she would mail it tonight, and wished me a Merry Christmas.

I headed to my gate, and as I did, a TSA agent walked by wearing a Santa hat. I looked around. I started seeing Santa hats all around me. Passengers at my gate wore them, people walking by had them on. There were wrapped packages peeking out of some people’s carry on bags. I noticed more smiles than usual, and less stress. Even a call from the gate agent for volunteers to take an upgraded emergency exit row seat was met with courtesy and civility by all, as everyone queued up politely.  

The flight was overbooked by two, and how the flight attendant managed to find room for everyone, I have no idea, but he did it. Airline personnel there, and at my connecting airport, were friendly, and fellow travelers seemed relaxed. It was as if everyone was in a good mood. 

Sometimes, to find a little Christmas, one just has to look around. 

Traveling safely

I am always in search of the perfect travel bag. I finally found what I thought might be as close to perfect as I could get: the Tumi Calais backpack. It's pricey, but ticked a lot of the boxes:

The Tumi bag

• It's a backpack - this is important because I walk as much as possible in airports and carrying everything on one shoulder with a messenger or cross-body style bag becomes uncomfortable quickly. 
• It has a trolley strap on the back - this is great so that I have the option of sliding the back over the pull bar of my suitcase and wheeling the whole deal through the airport, thus saving my back.
• It has a padded interior laptop pocket that is separate from the rest of the bag and designed to fit a laptop up to 13 inches. Bonus points here because the compartment not only fits my laptop, it fits my laptop in the extra neoprene case that I have for it, adding extra peace of mind for me. 
• It has enough space to fit my travel essentials - snack(s), magazines/kindle, scarf, headphones - without being too big.
• It has enough additional pockets to help keep me organized without making me crazy with all of the pockets. 

The pack is missing one crucial detail, which is a place to put a water bottle. I tried putting a water bottle inside the main compartment once, and will never do that again. You can probably guess what happened. (Here's a hint: it leaked) Instead, I suck it up and improvise by clipping a reusable water bottle to the outside of the bag with a carabiner. I can then attach the bottle to the magazine holder in the seat in front of me for easy access during the flight. It's a little clunky, but it works. 

I happily used this backpack on several domestic trips but, honestly, was a bit concerned about pickpockets on an upcoming trip to Europe. I was in France last year and while I felt safe overall, I saw notable pickpocket activity in several big tourist areas, and I'm really not interested in being robbed while I travel, because who is? 

Riut 15 - Note the lack of
zippers on the front

My sister found a great new backpack that addresses this very issue. It's from a startup company called Riut (pronounced "Riot") and was designed specifically to foil pickpockets. It is has an interior laptop pocket, a few extra pockets for odds and ends, and - huge bonus - a space for a water bottle. It also is designed so that all of the zippers are on the back of the bag, underneath the straps and against your back. This means I have to take the bag off and reach through the straps to unzip it. Anyone coming up behind me while I wear it would be foiled. 

This proved to be quite handy when I was walking to/from the train station in bustling Florence and in Venice where the tourism level is off the charts. That place is crowded and there is no respite from the crush of people. 

The bag isn't quite perfect - you lose the water bottle space when you fill up the interior of the bag, but the founder of the company, Sarah Giblin, is active on Twitter and recently reached out to Riut bag customers to get ideas on how to solve that challenge with her next round of designs. 

Giblin knows that commuter/travel bags need to be as unobtrusive as possible so they don't stand out, so she only sells them in black or blue. I learned on a trip to Iceland that she is right. My friend and I each had a small purse that we used for our passports, money, etc. Mine was a khaki color. Hers was

Me in Iceland. That bag is like a beacon.

black. In all of our pictures, my bag stood out as if it had a spotlight shining on it. Hers was invisible. Ever since, I am only interested in travel day bags that are black or maybe blue. 

I bought the Riut bag in the 15 liter size. It was just right, though maybe a bit small, for the usual carry-on travel items plus a packing cube with a change of clothes and a small bag of toiletries. This was so that I could freshen up on my four-hour layover in Paris on my recent trip. The bag did the job, though, and in my sleep-deprived, jet-lagged state, I did not need to worry that anyone in the airport would be able to get into my bag and at my passport or credit card as I walked through the crowded spaces. 

As Sarah recently blogged about, she was robbed on a recent trip when she let her guard down and a thief grabbed her entire bag and ran. This experience reminded her that the best bag in the world isn't going to fully protect you from thievery; being vigilant is also key. 

The zippers are on the inside,
under the straps. Hard to see?
That's the point. 

This is something else I experienced firsthand while in Venice. My friend and I had boarded the train
back to Florence after two days in the tourist-crazy city, sick and tired of being jostled around. We took our seats on the train, and a loud, possibly drunk, definitely annoying man approached us, asking questions about where we were going, were we American, etc. Then, without warning and not subtly at all, he reached over my friend to her bag that was on the seat in between us and started to try to open in. Stunned, I grabbed his arm and shoved him as hard as I could. He started yelling all sorts of rude things to us and we shouted back to go away. He finally went to another car while we looked for a conductor or police officer. We couldn't find the authorities, so we kept an eye on him. He jumped off the train just before the doors closed. I'm guessing he spends his days wandering on and off trains trying to steal whatever he can. 

Of course, the type of bag wouldn't have mattered if he had simply grabbed the entire bag and ran, but the experience helped to remind me that, like Sarah has pointed out, vigilance matters, and while I should not allow a more secure bag to make me complacent, I am happy to have the extra security features all the same. 

Italian Time

When I travel, I like to spot the differences between my home country and my host country. This can actually be a challenge, because what often stands out the most between the two are the similarities. I have found, through traveling to Japan, Canada, France, Germany, The Czech Republic, Bermuda, Iceland, England, and now Italy that the main commonality among every country is the simple fact that people are nice everywhere.

Sure, there are jerks, too, though maybe I'm less inclined to notice them when I can't understand what they're saying.

Mostly, though, people will find a way to help you. A smile and a (polite) hand gesture can go a long

Dessert!

 way. Making a good faith attempt to stumble through the local language helps, too. A lot. In fact, the single biggest tip I can offer for anyone traveling to a country where you don't know the language is to try to learn a few simple words before you go. "Hello," "Goodbye," and "Thank you," will get you far. "How much does that cost?" "Where is the bathroom?" and "I would like to have (for ordering food)" get you bonus points. Your pronunciation does not have to be perfect. Trust me.

But I digress. While in Italy, I discovered the phenomenon known as Italian Time. This was highlighted in my experience with the Three Main Differences of Eating in a Restaurant in Italy:

• How you are seated
• How you are charged
• How you get the check

How you are seated: 

When approaching an Italian restaurant, unless it's the kind of place with linen tablecloths that takes reservations, you simply catch the eye of a member of the waitstaff and gesture to a table. They nod. You sit. That's all there is to it. There's no, "Have you been here before?" chit chat. No waiting around to be seated in whatever section. Just sit down. And if you can't catch the eye of someone, sit anyway. They'll find you.

How you are charged: 

Italians don't tip. This felt weird until I realized that service is compensated, just in a different way. At Italian cafes, there is typically a bar and a seating area. If you order your coffee and treat and stand to eat it at the bar, you pay one (cheaper) price. If you choose to sit, your items cost a bit more. Menus typically list two sets of pricing so you can see at a glance how you will pay differently based

One of the best things I've ever eaten.

on whether or not you want table service. There is also usually a cover charge ("coperto") of about two euros or so per person. This covers the bread they put on table (whether or not you eat it), and helps offset the charge for service. Then, service proceeds as usual (until you get to the check; more on that in a minute).

I like this a lot. Servers deserved to be paid a living wage, and I like having the pricing set to accommodate that. If you don't want to pay for someone to bring you your food, stand at the bar or eat at home. Boom.

Other than that, throughout the meal, it's business as usual, only with better food than at home. I kid. But not really. Italian food tends to be fresher, with better ingredients. Sure, they use butter and salt in their cooking but the food doesn't seem drowned by it. Restaurant portions were bigger than I expected, but not as big as the behemoth plates we get in the States.

How you get the check: 

Here's where it gets interesting. Italian table service is very similar to the States in that a server comes over, greets you, and asks what you would like to drink. They do charge for water, but I don't mind because you get good quality bottled water for cheap and it's delightful. I tended to ask for "frizzante" rather than "naturale" water (carbonated rather than still) because it felt more elegant. Plus, a euro fifty (little less than two dollars) for a liter of sparkling water is cheap, compared to what we would pay for a bottle of Perrier at home.

Everything else feels similar. You give your order ("Prendo pasta a la carbonara, per favore..." or if you want to get really fancy, "Io vorrei pasta a la carbonara..."), your food comes (quickly), and you eat yourself into a pasta coma of carb-heavy goodness.

Then, coffee, which, unless you ask for an "Americano" (do not do this; there should be a rule against

Cafe freddo

drinking American-style coffee in Italy), you get a shot of espresso. Once I figured out how to order it, I asked for a Cafe Freddo (iced coffee), which was delightful and not at all the watered down, overdone mess we get in the States. On rare occasion, usually in the morning when I wanted a little more of something in my stomach, I ordered a cappuccino.

You finish your coffee and then ... nothing. Radio silence. At the nicer places, the server might say, "Okay, then, enjoy the table!" and wander off, leaving you to feel free to stay at that table all night long, if you wish. With most places, the servers simply walk away. Period.

This was nice when I didn't have anywhere to be, or when I wanted to enjoy the view, but sometimes, I was ready to leave, and couldn't, because I couldn't find the darn waiter to pay the check. At one place, I had done a really lovely yet very long walk that took most of the afternoon, my friend and I wolfed our food, and then we were ready to get out of there, yet it took forever to get that waiter's eye. When we did, I said, "Il conto, per favore," and he smiled, and nodded, and then did 15 other things for a while, then took a nap, apparently, until I asked again. Finally, we were able to pay and leave.

A few days later, we had lunch at a great cafe neat the Duomo. The location was beautiful, the food was fantastic, I enjoyed my cafe freddo, I asked for the check, the waitress nodded...and then did lots of other things. For an hour.

That's right. An hour. We kept trying to flag her down, without success. The Italian women at the table next to use overheard us talking and said they would help. They called over a different waiter, said some things in Italian, he nodded and hurried off. Still no check. The ladies shrugged. "This is Italy," she said. "We deal with this all the time. You just have to accept it."

Finally, the man came back with the check. Except, it wasn't our check. So we had to send him off

You pay extra for the finery, and I am okay with that.

again. Eventually, he came back with the correct check, it took another 15 minutes for him to run and get his little handheld credit card machine and come back to accept payment, and finally - finally! - we were free!

Every since that lunch, I have worked on internalizing the concept of Italian Time. This was actually helpful once I got back to my job in the States. No need to stress about getting caught up on emails; I'm on Italian Time! Everything gets done when it needs to. Sit back and accept it. That's just the way it is.

Venezia

Boy, do I have a love/hate relationship with Venice.

On the one hand, Venice is the single most beautiful place I have ever seen with my own two eyes.

On the other hand, Venice made me want to poke my eye out with a stick because of the excessive tourism. And, I mean excessive. This was like nothing I had experienced before in my life, and I grew up going to Ocean City, MD, land of all things crowded and tacky.

Upon arrival, C and I walked out of the train station and saw this:

The streets are made of WATER.

I know, I know, I'd heard of Venice before, but to see streets made of water right in front of me was still a shock. Luckily, our hotel was in a somewhat out of the way part of the city, so it was a few hours before we realized just how touristy Venice can be.

As we wandered, we were presented with many options like this: do we take the lesser traveled path on the left? Or the more crowded path on the right? Hint: we always took the lesser traveled path. 

One thing we learned about Venice pretty quickly is that you either stay on the over-crowded main drag, or embrace the art of getting lost. There's no way to truly be lost, because, after all, we were on an island. One way or another, we would find our way back. 

One of the best parts of local life in Venice is that residents have found ways to bring in some green wherever they can. There are no yards, obviously, so there are window boxes everywhere you look. 

Here, we were getting closer to the main tourist attraction (Piazza San Marco). On a whim, we wandered into a free art exhibit and enjoyed the bizarre yet fascinating modern art. I happened to look out the window, and saw the view in the photo above, with the giant hands. This was magical. I excitedly called for C to come stick her head out the window, too, and we hogged that window space for several minutes while we took photos. That photo is unfiltered. That is what I saw with my own two eyes. See what I mean about magical? It's as if the place is positively enchanted. 

That is, until you get to Piazza San Marco, and then it's as if you have stepped right into tourist hell. We walked out of the tunnel underneath the clock that you can just see in the upper right hand corner of the photo above. Those throngs of people are what you have to embrace if you want to get inside the church. Good luck finding a bathroom, by the way, because in true tourist-town fashion, the restaurants all along the piazza cater to tourists and do not have public bathrooms. If you want to use them, you must be a patron. We found a coffee shop and spent an hour getting our beverages just so I could use the bathroom. 

While wandering the maze-like sidewalks on our way to and from Piazza San Marco, I started snapping pictures of my view. We couldn't walk without dodging and weaving around people. What I did not capture with photos is the way that restaurant workers would stand outside their businesses, shouting at us to come in, come in, there's a special today, hey, sweetheart, you're beautiful, come inside. It was relentless. 

I was so frustrated with the constant throng of humanity - the noise, the jostling, the being-in-edge for pickpockets - that at one point, I dropped, and broke, my camera. Awesome. 

I'll likely share a few other posts about Venice in coming weeks. I saw one of the most amazing art exhibits I've ever seen while there. I explored Murano glass and bought a great souvenir. I took many photos, ate some wonderful things (and some not so wonderful things), and enjoyed the wandering, the getting lost, the finding of my perspective, and my way. 

Me making the best of my afternoon in Piazza San Marco.

In good company

Me, C, and the Sindaco di Firenze

One of the best parts of traveling, in particular when traveling with a friend, is the chance to have unexpected encounters with others. I note that traveling with a friend is key, because traveling alone as a woman, I have to be pretty defensive when out and about. When on my own, I generally don't spend as much time in bars or restaurants, because places like that tend to invite company I do not appreciate. But when I'm with a good wingman, we get out and about all over the place.

So far this trip, in just one week, we have had some great chats with our new best friends.

One day, we went for a quick sandwich so we wouldn't be going to our wine tasting on an empty stomach. (Point of fact: Italians only drink when they eat. Culturally, they do not understand drinking wine if you are not also eating food. The tasting did involve some light food, but we wanted to be prepared.)

We found a great sandwich...shop? Stand? I'm not sure what to call the place, but I Due Fratellini (two little brothers) has a sandwich counter where they shave off perfect prosciutto, fresh mozarella, argula, pomodoro (tomatoes), and all sorts of other things on perfect bread. The sandwiches are huge, made to order from fresh ingredients, cheap, and freaking delicious. You eat them standing up, on the street. You can have wine with your sandwich, because of course you can. Our options ranged from a shot glass size, to small wine glass, to larger wine glass, and we could choose wines ranging from chianti classico to brunello di montalcino (which is pretty expensive, fancy-pants wine for those not in the know. Seriously. A sandwich shop serving brunello for five euros a glass. I love this country). We took the recommendation of one of the brothers and each got a small glass of the chianti classico for two euros a glass. And I mean glass. The wine was served in actual wine glasses so we could enjoy our wine while eating our humongous, amazing sandwiches in wax paper.

C and I were standing there, on the cobblestones, trying to juggle the sandwich and glass of wine, when I noticed a little wooden frame mounted on the wall. It had little shelves perfect for placing your wine glass while you drank.

The little wine shelf.

Right in front of the frame was a group of uomini (men) who were clearly having a power lunch. One of them was in a smart looking suit with a small pin with the symbol of Florence (the Florin) in his lapel. I had him pegged as a government official right away. There was also a man in an impressive and impeccable uniform, with lots of insignia on his lapel. He was clearly a very high ranking official in some military or psuedo military organization. The other men were also smartly dressed. They were standing right in front of the shelf, but I'm American, and don't care if Very Important People are standing there; the shelf is there for everyone to use and I'm not putting my wine glass on the curb while I eat. So, I walked over and helped myself to some space on the shelf.

After a few minutes, Mr. Fancy Suit asked where we're from. We chatted for a bit, and he introduced us to the other men in the group. Mr. Fancy Uniform was the chief of police. The others were presidents of various districts. Mr. Fancy Suit was the Mayor. "I guessed it was something like that, because of your pin!" I said. The next thing I know, he removed the pin and asked if he could put it my sweater lapel. Well, sure!

We asked about the street art that we saw throughout the city, including the piece painted right behind the wooden wine shelf. He liked the urban art, and told us a bit about it. He posed with the two brothers of the sandwich shop for a picture, so I asked for one, too. We walked away from our sandwiches smiling at the hospitality.

That's the Pitti Palace in the background.

Later on, we went to the wine tasting at the Tuscan Wine School, along with two Canadians, two Americans, and one German. We had a blast, learning about the various local wines, from a blond-haired, blue-eyed Italian woman. This made me happy, because at home, no one ever thinks I'm Italian because I don't look stereotypically Italian, yet here are blonde, fair-eyed and fair-skinned Italians, I swear. I'm not the only one.

We got along like gangbusters in this group, and afterwards, the Canadians decided we should go out for a drink to use our newfound knowledge so we figured what the hell. We thoroughly confused the waitress when we just wanted wine without food, so she brought us food anyway, which I find hilarious.

It was great fun, even if C and I were, somehow, the only liberals at the table having a conversation with two Americans who voted for Trump and said they would vote for him again and two Canadians who (I cringe as I say this) hate Trudeau. "So, I understand you like to smoke cigars..." was my segway the hell out of that conversation.

Political differences aside, it was an enjoyable evening, and one I never have at home. It takes the change of scenery and culture and a found, shared interest to bring together a group of strangers for a short while.

Austrians!

A few nights later, C and I headed to Venice for an overnight trip. She had picked out a fabulous restaurant for dinner, and we went to eat all the things. The amuse bouche was a straciatella cheese with a sardine that melted in your mouth, and it was divine. There were scallops with lemon, peanuts, and cacaoa, spaghetti with prawns (heads intact), and turbot with pumpkin sauce. Dessert was house-made tiramisu with coffee and grappa. The adorable German waiter brought out house-made limoncello and fennelcello on the house.

The food was great, but the best part turned out to be our tablemates. When we sat down, we knew the table involved family-style table seating and that we could end up with company. Two Austrian men took the seats next to us, and mostly left us alone. At some point, we started chatting. The next thing I knew, they were sharing their wine so the four of us could toast C's birthday with something in our glasses (as our wine had long since been consumed), I shared my tiramisu, we ended up talking about politics, with them cracking us up with their bafflement of American voting in someone like Trump. They also shocked me by sharing that Austrians don't watch The Sound of Music. Ever. They know the movie exists, but watching it is not part of their culture. They think it's hilarious that that's what Americans know of their little country.

I'm here for another week, and can't wait to see who I get to meet next.