If Venice Sinks . . .

Peggy Guggenheim, whose father went down with the Titanic, and who famously "discovered" and schtupped Jackson Pollack in the same afternoon, loved Venice. She was known for her voluptuous appetite for modern art, her palazzo on a canal, her little dogs who literally lived in the lap of luxury, and of course, her wild sunglasses.

In my dreams, I am Peggy Guggenheim, or a type of Peggy Guggenheim, who has the cash and the power to save great art. In the dream, my argumentative rescue dachshund is a frothy little accessory, a four-legged, feather-coated darling, rather than a stubborn little wiener. As long as I am dreaming, I can wear those full-skirted cotton dresses with cinched waists--and be piloted around town in my own gondola. And the sunglasses are mine, all mine.

Within the year, I will finally see Venice, hopefully before it sinks entirely into the water without a trace. I will be among the last of my friends to see this floating spectacle. I have waited a long time for this; missed many opportunities for this. That's what happens when you marry early; you have to wait for the things that others do in their "gap year".

In some ways, it will be better than seeing Venice as a young tootsie in a mini skirt with fishnet nylons and a petrified "Georgy Girl" look on my face. But in some ways--not so much. I am slower these days, still navigating, but still recuperating in many ways from my Achilles tendon fiasco of last year. I tire much more easily after helping three kids through college and a career that was both necessary and riddled with deadline anxiety. But, I know how to read a map and I'm not afraid of strangers. These things take time to develop.

As a "donna di una certa età" exploring Venice--and indeed Italy--for the first time, I'm hoping that it won't disappoint after a 40 year wait-in-line. Plus, I'm going with my own true love, and we will do what we do so well--travel, see, experience and, yes, kiss, talk and laugh. We don't know where else, exactly, we will be going, but the plan now is to land in Paris, visit our buddy Ed Cahill for a day or two, take the train to Lucerne and enjoy the ice cream white feather beds and pristine lakes and the little railway that ratchets up a mountain. Then, at long last, Italia.

So many things are on my list--a result of longing for Italy all these years. "If Venice sinks, wrote Peggy Guggenheim in her will, then the art will be moved." What a contingency plan! Fortunately, her collection still exists in her beautiful home. Luckily,I've kept detailed lists about must-dos and can't misses. I long to see Roman Italy and Grecian Italy, I want to feel the bustle of modern Rome and drink in the beauty of the north with its wheels of hay and clay terra. I want to sleep in Sorrento and eat with my hands in Firenze, recite Shakespeare in Verona and Venezia and roll down the Amalfi Coast in a sports car. I'll see entombed Pompei and Herculeneum and volcanic, sweaty Sicilia and the minty cool Alpino. Eventually, for I think it's not the only time we will go.

And the wine, oh yes, the wine. I imagine it will be thick and reddest red. I'll have it with every slobbering good meal and laugh a lot. Maybe I'll even learn to sing.

But, if Venice sinks before I get there, I will follow the art and the light wherever it goes. My friend, Victor, is Venetian. He's been to the family palazzo and lingered in St. Mark's Square more hours than he could count. I've never told him that I haven't been. It seemed unworldly to admit. Why do I admit this now? Because I want to prepare everyone for the wallapalooza I will certainly fling after finally leaving my fabled imagination for the real thing. I don't care if it smells bad and is full of tourists. I'm on my way.

Now, about that gondola . . .