Jim drives us in surprisingly sparse traffic to the airport where we catch a 737 to Hobart, Tasmania, after Cynthia is relieved of her 2-inch yarn scissors by the really understanding but adamantine security officer. We land and walk down the plane’s stairs and onto the tarmac to get into the terminal … kind of a nostalgic moment. And Uber tells us to find our driver at the Uber-designated space outside the airport, which has no Uber-designated space, but he finds us. Nice fella named Nick; he’s from Nepal.

We drive over the bridge across the end of Hobart’s harbor and the whole bay of the harbor spreads sparkling under blue skies, houses climbing up the sides of the many gently sloping hills that surround it. Beautiful view.

We get to our apartment on a rather posh street lined with some very stately homes, enter and are captivated by the art on the walls, furniture on the floors, spotlessly maintained interior, two binders of gen on the house, the neighborhood, and Tasmania, and a gift basket from which a written note tells us to take our pick of goodies.

We shop at a small but well stocked Whole Foods-type store and return home to prepare a beef bourguignon for Steve and Maureen, coming tomorrow to travel with us during our Tasmanian sojourn. We call a few restaurants for dinner reservations and finally get to Da Angelos about a 40-minute walk up Nanny Goat Steps and around the top of the town.

David gets a real Negroni. He is gruntled. The meal is wonderful and the ambiance is bustling and casual and as friendly as can be. We call Uber to get us home. It’s Nick. Unbelievable.

A kismet kinda day in Tasmania.