Venice is a fish . . .

And an elusive one. I'm headed there in 10 days and I feel as though it's reeling me in, the hook through my lip a delicious anticipatory pain.
I'm reading a history of Venice (Napoleon has much to answer for), battling jealousy as I scan my girlfriend's blog (she's already there, and when I read today how she'd revisited some sites we enjoyed together two years ago, it was difficult not to pout).
My Venice file is growing fat. I want to see the 18th century treasures in the Ca' Rezzonico this time, to attend Mass with our landlady again and see how much of the sermon I can understand, to attempt to walk the width of the city, from the Dorsoduro where we're staying, to the Cannaregio. (But probably I'll just do what I usually do on trips. As the guy said in "Being There," "I like to watch," preferably from a comfortable seat, with a camera or paint brush in my hand.)
We'll visit the modern art exhibits of the Biennale, return to the Rialto Market where I plan to shoot a video the Web site of the newspaper where I work. I've made note of a chocolate shop and Jewish bakery I have to visit for my cooking and eating blog. I'm determined to buy some Venetian-style velvet slippers. There's a bookshop, Acqua Alta, that I've got to find. And I need another album by my favorite Italian pop artist. Having visited Murano last time, I hope to see the lacemaking island of Burano this time.
Think I can do all this in two weeks. And go to Bologna? And possibly Turino (there's a woman there who spends part of the year in Hawaii, is a member of Slow Food and promised to cook for me)....
One can but try.
WAA