Normaly I have an eclectic taste in music. I go for 40s and 50s show tunes and movie sound tracks, I'm always ready for the Beatles and Rolling Stones, I'll listen to operal just as well as the Dixie Chicks and Madonna, and I'm a fan of oldies like Peter, Paul, and May, Leonard Cohen, Joan Baez, and Bob Dylan or anything by Neil Young. In short, I love music -- any kind.

Growing up I listened to Rodgers and Hammerstein, Sinatra, and Doris Day on the record player in my bedroom until I could sing along, while by dad listened to opera in the living room. And, though I played a little swing improvization on the piano I concentrated my playing to the classics. J.S. Bach and I were new best friends in those days.

A few months ago I purchased CDs on sale by a couple of my other favorites, Joni Mitchell and Judy Collins and immediately downloaded the tunes to my iPod so I could listen on my walks on the beach or during workouts at the gym. On one morning walk I really heard the words of Judy's song called "My Father" about a father who promised his family that they would one day live in France.

And I fell in love.

But instead of the promise (unfulfilled) of boating on the Seine I immediately translated her words to my dream of living in Italy someday. There I would stroll through Tuscany's sunflower and hay fields, ride a gondola on the Venice canals while gazing up at the pink and purple sky, walk through the Borghesy garden, sit on the Spanish Steps, and listen to opera in a box at La Scala. I'd do the touristy things too -- the David; the grand piazzas of Milan, Venice and Bologna; Ponte Vechio; Moses en Vincula; St. Peter's, Pisa's leaning tower, and the Coloseum. And when I'd tire I'd take sips of Montalchino's brunellos until it would be time to sleep.

Now I listen to Judy's song "My Father" often. It's a reminder of the promise I've made to myself to live in Italy. It's a promise I don't want to forget.