I dreamed I was once again in Italy, sipping on a diet coke, waiting for my suite mate to return with the rum and looking out over a wonderfully warm evening in Sienna. Suddenly she rushes onto the terrace with half a bottle of Jack in one hand and a cell phone ringing imperatively in the other, apparently our flight has been switched and we need to pack up and hit the airport, fast.
I panic a bit, but manage to get everything packed away, including a live lion which apparently I intend to bring home with me on the plane. I was not exactly sure what I planned to do with the massive cat once home, but I supposed he would find his place. Everything went off without a hitch, and I soon found myself reclining in the beautifully airy and open lobby of a hotel which I apparently owned.
The scene could have graced the cover of vogue, here I was, all satin and velvet with furs and elbow length gloves, sipping champagne from a lipstick smudged flute.
Suddenly, four frightened giraffes came vaulting through the window kicking out marionette legs and spilling crazily about the room. I don’t remember if I stood to run, or smiled coolly, or perhaps I sprang onto the chandelier for safety, but it was enough to wake me up in a fit.