And so she said Yes.

It was right after a weekend at the Carnevale in Venice.

A romantic weekend like that is just the perfect magnifying glass under the sun. I found a kind of blinding focus that I wouldn't have noticed so easily amongst the cloudy clutter of London.

Second to Paris in all things rosy, red, and amorous, Venice's intimate cobblestoned streets and huddled buildings have a way of keeping any couple caringly cozy.

Carnevale, the ten-day virtual Masquerade Ball In The Streets, was going to climax, as we read in our Dorling Kindersley Travel Guide, the day before Ash Wednesday in a Mardi Gras. I don't think this Mardi Gras has the bead-tossing, breast-flashing craziness of the Mardi Gras in New Orleans in the States though. Too bad.

Adorned with ornate costumes and lavish masks, the Carnevale participants wandered the tiny streets in search of fame—fame which took the form of sparkles of camera flashes from tourists of every flavor.

The atmosphere was totally surreal. Beautiful. Perfect.

At the established Trattoria di Forni, she giggled in between sips of Venetian Bellini at my faux imitation of a French accent. Her smile was more romantic than all of Venetia.

We both agreed that the Cassanova Style Scallops, though obviously catered to tourists, was the most delectable of our dishes. The risotto also struck a particular chord, though not because of this trattoria.

Back in London, she rushed to try her hand at her own lovely Chinese-style risotto. Single-cream, mozzarella, Chinese rice, and several other ingredients strayed from the norm. But you know what? I still had cravings for it days later.

It was right after our risotto dinner, after we finished a bottle of Vin de Pays des Còtes de Thau, as we were lying on our couch, that I looked at her and asked if she wanted to go out with me.
And so she said Yes.

. . .

How have you asked someone out?