Paris - day 1.

My hotel is on the Rue de Rivoli. I chose it because it looks like it's been this way since the 1920's, brothel red and turquoise, intricate patterned wallpaper, old brocade chairs, paintings everywhere and a staircase that wound up to my attic room. The woman at the desk looked like a surly Audrey Tatin. She didn't smile once during my four days staying there. My room was tiny; emerald wallpaper, an oriental wardrobe and a view over the rooftops of Paris, and a single bed which made me feel somewhat sad and claustrophobic. I think it was because I was coming down with a cold. I checked to see if there was a double room available and there was, so off I went to have a chat to Audrey. The room was only available for three nights and Valentine's day was coming up. I was not allowed to have it, even if I moved back to my attic on the last night. She was adamant. She was the first and last non-friendly person on my years journey. Maybe she had no Valentine. Paris is my retro spirit city, I am retro from way back. The cafe I find for breakfast is all mirrors, daffodil yellow tiles, red tables. I order a Croque Monsieur and a noisette, as the French call a Macchiato. I take a photo of myself in the toilet, it's so beautiful; the first of many throughout my trip. It seems the light in toilets filters out wrinkles; a necessity of the mature aged woman.

Then I wander "Alone and palely loitering' as Keats said about La Belle Dame sans Merci, along the Seine which is wild and beige, although the day is shiny with sunlight. I walk until I can't walk anymore and find a Belle Epoque patisserie, with a painted ceiling and beautiful Art Nouveau tiled walls. I have a pate au choux, filled with delicate lemon cream. Lunch sorted. I walk through the afternoon until exhaustion drives me to the restaurant next to my hotel. I have stepped back again in time. The walls are covered with retro ads. I slide into the brown leather banquettes and am attended to by a flirty waiter who appears to have stepped out of the 1920's, dressed in black and white, he asks me if someone will be joining me; the first of many such questions here in France. I tell him I am alone. He is visibly saddened by this fact and can't understand why a 'beautiful' woman such as myself would be eating alone. I am flattered (it doesn't take much) and order a Vermouth with a twist of orange, and the dish the waiter recommended -Moules Mariniere. It comes with chips wrapped in a cone of paper. The steaming mussels are in a chilli, wine broth and the bread is scented with garlic. Another toilet photo and I'm off to bed with my cold.

Paris in the winter.

I had been concerned that I would descend into greyness like the rugged mountains here, so after three days, I had planned a trip to Paris. By overnight train. In a compartment for one. Because I was so anxious. A necessary extravagance for a fragile being such as myself. I was shown to my cabin. Continuing the life of the rich and famous, on a table was a small bottle of #Prosecco, some snacks, juice, a magazine and an organza bag of bathing items. I wondered why until the steward showed me a mini bathroom! I settled in, listening to Mumford & Sons as the train pulled out of Venice station and into the night. From then on, every time I listen to that album, I am transported back to that evening.

The steward returned to make up my bed and to enquire as to what I'd like for breakfast. Yes, I know, the luxury of it all! I stare into the night, stations flash by - #Padova, #Verona, #Milano; iconic Italian towns. We stop every now and then and at Brescia, I see a beautiful African woman reclining on a bench, Matisse like, her hair wrapped in a brightly coloured turban, leaning on her elbow. I wonder where she's going or if she will sleep there, calm and resolute; unlike me in my cabin of anxiety. Because it still threads through me as I eventually try to sleep, without success. I end up taking a sleeping tablet.

I awake to shutters coloured coral from the sunrise. I open them and look out at the bare branches silhouetted against a big fat morning sun, mists pearling on waterways. I am served the lightest of croissants or cornetti in Italian, the centre oozing with chocolate cream, washed down with a macchiato and a juice.

I hear the Italian name of #Paris, #Parigi being broadcast and I am welcomed into France and step off at #Gare de Lyon station, built in 1900. It's magnificent. And as always in #France, there is a piano, and as always, there is someone playing it. Outside the winter sun is waking the city. The last time I was here, was thirty years ago with my late husband, in the midst of summer. I think I am going to like Paris better in the winter. I take a taxi and head to my garret hotel room.

The woman, the sunrise. #blendeditor

Snow in the palm of my hand.

I am headed by bus to the #Dolomites, the alps above #Venice. I'm returning to my late husband's apartment in a village high up in the mountains, #auronzodicadore. It'll be my home away from home for the next year. It's a place I've never really connected with. We would arrive in the height of summer, the towering mountains seemed oppressive and the village isolated by them. I would become restless within days and make my way solo, back to the delicacy of Venezia, a city of manmade extraordinary beauty, leaving the husband and the daughter behind; and then would return briefly before we made our way back home. A nephew who was living here for a year with his family, picked me up and drove me through the valleys and forests; under snow!

I had never seen it in the winter. I had never seen it dressed like a goddess, in a drapery of white. It was stupendous. The lake was a frozen patchwork of turquoise patches on a sheet of ice; the pines weighted down with icicles. It reminded me of Narnia. I fell in love. But I was too scared to go out in case I slipped on the icy steep pathway down to the shops. Luckily the fridge had been filled and the nephew had made a family dinner for me. The daughter was arriving the next day. I would send her for supplies.

I entered the apartment and opened the balcony doors, the sun was setting at 3.30, the mountains in front of me had turned to a slush of gelato pink edged in rose gold. I breathed in the pure iced air and wished I had been here in winter with the late husband. Why had we never experienced a winter here? We did venture out for the thick Italian hot chocolate with whipped cream that finally seemed right to have during this season rather than in the summer when we normally would come and go up into the mountains to have one.

That night, my phone showed the snowflake emoji from midnight onwards. I awoke without an alarm and rushed to the window just after 12 and there was the soft fall of flakes in the dense blackness of night. I put my palm out for them to fall on but they were miniscule. I didn't care. I woke so many times during the night, my amazement never failing. The phrase, a winter wonderland now had new meaning. But I didn't stay long.