Paris Apartment

 Sorry, this basket's blooms is not in Paris.

But, it could've been.

It's at Columbo Restaurant, just near the Rialto Bridge.

We were lured in by the roses and that big basket of Cep mushrooms, as below.

I'd be lying if I said I thought they weren't bread rolls.

We had six hours to kill before bumping out of Venice

on the night train to Paris.

So, what to do?

But find a shady courtyard.

And eat.

 There's no decent bocconcini in Australia.

There, I've said it.

Caprese salad like no-where-else-in-the-world.

And, I mean it.

Do you beg to differ?

 

 On the way to the train.

I still had time to buy two lacy masks.

I had tried to resist their charms for the stay.

Wearing Mr Fascinata's patience thin.

 I'm not trying to look like something out of the Crazy Horse cabaret here,

but trying to negotiate a small stainless steel ladder off my bunk-bed, while the

train's lurching to and fro.

Thirteen hours in coffin position;

in a deranged stupor, dreaming all sorts of surreal imagery,

triggered by sounds of grating metal and howling winds.

Here's the en-suite.

But, those sleepers are worth it.

 Finally, Hello, Paris!

The view as promised.

In the Marias district.

 This Fibonacci staircase is going to save me a few kilojoules.

Thank goodness for four flights in the rule of thirds.

 Because, of course, this is our ground floor tenant.

 I've arranged the bijoux.

As you do.

Didn't bother anywhere else.

 Stay lovely.

Tell me if you can get decent bocconcini.