Venice. In fact, Ahhhh, Venice.
Piazza San Marco all to yourself and the resident 12,574 pigeons. Negotiable rates for gondola rides. Sweet-smelling canals. A good table at Harry’s Bar without a reservation.
Not the way you remember Venice, is it? That’s because you did what everybody does.
Consider Florence.
When you went, there was a two-hour line to see Michelangelo’s “David,” right? But you waited, hot and ornery, using your water bottle to bludgeon successions of street urchins reaching into your pockets, yet refusing to call the whole thing off because you knew that to be in Florence and not see “David” would have been really dumb.
And when you finally got inside, you looked up, awestruck, and said, “Look at that!”
Which caused everyone else in the room to glare at you, because as fellow Americans who almost certainly understood English, they knew exactly what you were talking about. In contrast:
In November, there’s a five-minute line to see “David.” I know. I was there.
When I got inside, I looked up, awestruck, and said, “If you think that’s something . . .”
Which caused The Wife to bury an elbow in my ribcage, but of the dozen other people in the room, not one reacted. Not even in disbelief–because chances are that in November, your fellow tourists are fluent only in Flemish and Magyar.
By now, you’ve figured out what we’re doing back here in this little essay: We’re here to discuss the virtues of traveling Out of Season.
We’ve been doing November trips for years. At first, it was out of necessity, because both The Wife and I had jobs that kept us occupied in what’s generally called In Season–you know it as “Summer.” She still does, so we still do.
Over the years, we’ve come to appreciate the benefits of being there when you’re not. Room rates are cheaper. Plane fares lower. Crowds virtually non-existent.
Off? Not for us.
We did London many Novembers ago. In three days (including a matinee), The Wife and I saw “Phantom of the Opera,” “Les Miz,” “Orpheus Descending” (with Vanessa Redgrave) and “Follies” (with, in a supporting role, Eartha Kitt). All hits.
November ticket prices are identical to July ticket prices, of course–but in November, we paid face value.
For great seats.
Because you were home.
Thank you.
We had a special early November week with friends at Casa de Campo, a luxury resort in the Dominican Republic. It was relatively cheap and it was relatively empty, because you believed this was hurricane season. And it was–but the hurricane of the moment was well offshore. All we got was rain. Days of rain.
We got a terrific break in rates when we did Acapulco in another November, at the Acapulco Princess. Great hotel. You weren’t there because you thought tropical Mexico’s summer humidity was still thick in November. Hey, we played both of the resort’s fine golf courses. Had no trouble getting tee times. OK, it was a little steamy. Sweat dripped down our arms and left enough saltwater at our feet to hold Shamu, the Killer Whale.
Nassau. Walking the beaches of Nassau in November. Goosebumps. The November cruise down Mexico’s Pacific Coast. Sitting on deck, reading a book, wrapped in a blanket, eyes tearing.
Paris. We could practically put our noses against the bulletproof glass that protects Mona Lisa. Terrific.
You know, it was cold in London. Really cold in Amsterdam. Florence felt–closed.
Sitting in Piazza San Marco, outside, sipping hot tea, the two of us. A bored waiter. No people to watch.
Harry’s was good. Venice was Venice. Ahhhh.
Ah.
Missed you.
