A travel day!  We have to travel from Marseille in southern France to Toscana, otherwise known as Tuscany.

Airports can be frustrating, as anyone knows who travels.  We drop off the car.  No problem.  We get to the Air France check-in without a problem.  And then we wait.  The flight to Rome is not yet posted.

“Fifteen, twenty minutes we are told.”

What the lady neglects to tell us is that we should now stand in the Air Corsica line, one of the Air France partners.  Our tickets, written in the US, say Air France.  Ah well.  It is a small plane, so there is not a major problem. We check our bags and get to the gate. Even have time for a juice and croissant, although the latter is pretty soggy and not anywhere near up to Françoise’s high culinary standards. Still, it keeps our stomachs from growling.

The flight is smoooth, and I enjoying flying either over Corsica or Sardinia, I am not sure which. Craggy mountains look foreboding even from the air. One looks like an ancient volcano, one side blasted away in some long-ago century. Then more of the beautiful azure-blue Mediterranean Sea. After that, we head down along the Italian coast, and soon, we have landed in Rome. The airport is humongous. We taxi for what seems like forever. And at a speed that is suitable for the highways. None of us has experienced this type of taxiing before.

We are finally on our way to Toscana, having picked up checked bags and our rental vans, both Mercedes diesels. Better mileage.

Hint: Overseas, I always order diesels.

The circle route around Rome takes us to our highway north towards Firenzi (Florence). Soon, we are driving through Umbria with its patchwork fields, castles perched atop rocky tors. Ah, the sign where we exited last year because of a long tie-up due to some horrendous accident. Today, the trip is shorter without this unplanned detour.

We remember the route into the village where our hotel, Borgo Il Melone is situated. Many of the small hotels around here start with Borgo which means village or borough. Il Melone is, of course, the Italian word for melon.

Gloria and Alessandro remember us from last year and greet us warmly. They take our bags up to our room, a corner room with views of some of the gardens. It is perfect.

It has been a long day, so we head to the pool for some “go splat” time, my term for utterly relaxing. It is not an infinity pool, but the water comes right up to the rim of the pool; it is quite pretty. I take my Kindle, settle down onto a canvas lounge chair with an adjustable head canopy, and read more about Mma Ramotswe.

We arrange to meet our friends who were in Provence with us, go down to the Coop market to buy some waters and wine, then drive up the steep hillside to the town where Frances Mayes wrote Under the Tuscan Sun.

Frances lives in the same town we do in North Carolina, and we share at least one friend, but we have not yet had the pleasure of meeting her. So near, yet so far.

We love this Medieval, walled city. Parking is outside the walls. Yes, one can drive up into the center of the town, but the streets are very steep, quite narrow, and besides, hill starts are challenging. It is easier to park below.

On our walk up, we point out the hotel where we first stayed last year. I look down a side street and am amused by a patient dog tied up to his doorway, the cars beyond giving a feeling of the width of the stone street.

My watch has died. Batteries typically last only a year and a bit. Mine last three to five years. People who known me, I am sure, would have a quip or two on that one! In Provence, it expired. Kaput! Not so convenient when one is catching a plane, but at least Arnie’s watch is fine.

So, my first task is to find a watch maker who can replace the battery. I go into the first place just up the hill from the dog.

I understand la signora to say that her husband is not here, but if I return tomorrow, he’ll be back.

We know there must be others in town. I find one while Arnie photographs in one of the main squares. This signora’s husband is not in either, but he will be back in ten minutes, perhaps fifteen.

“Perhaps 20,” I suggest? She laughs. He is probably off enjoying a glass of wine with his friends.

I leave the watch with her, and I return to find the watch is ready. Eight euros! That seems reasonable to me, and I now know what time it is.

We wander the streets, photographing here and there. I love details, as many of you know. I find this wonderful latch, unlike most I have seen. It sits at a rakish angle and makes a perfect composition for me.

Arnie has made reservations at our favorite little restaurant tucked away in an alley. It is away from the hustle and bustle of the town squares and is always pleasant with a slight breeze to keep us comfortable. We still have time to photograph. We always talk about the light. Arnie and I look for street scenes. He has found his whilst I am over by the city walls, looking out over the panorama of the Tuscan landscape. I return and see two old gentleman, walking into the light. I am pleased. It is what I wanted.

It’s time for dinner. The outside tables area already reserved, so we sit inside. It is charming. Ancient, stone walls surround us with niches that were made for who-knows-what. Seated at a smallish table, I find the niche is also good to put the carafe of water, l’olio d’oliva, the bottle of Tuscan wine, etc.

A lovely tomatillo alla caprese, a veal scallop with lemon, good conversation, pleanty of laughs. All in all, an excellent way to start our stay in Toscana!

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