I dreamt that I was living in Venice and that I would occasionally bump into a tourist who would sing arias from popular operas in squares and streets of the city. He looked very American, but he could also have been Canadian or Australian. In his late fifties or early sixties, he was very tall. And he was endowed with a huge, round belly. Wearing a tight red jacket and equally tight pants, he had a black sports cap on his head. Dragging a large suitcase on wheels behind him, he would stop in a place to his liking, turn on a music machine in his suitcase, and start singing at the top of his voice. I am not an opera lover, but I enjoyed his singing. And so did everyone else around, most of whom were tourists. When he would finish an aria, he would turn off the music machine, and move to another place. A huge applause followed him, but he appeared oblivious to it. I was truly surprised by my reaction to his singing. Every aria was a real joy to hear. What made the dream a special joy was that I was at home in Venice. I remember going around and talking to local people just as I do in Motovun. The only difference was the insuperable beauty of the city. Seeing the water on my way added to the delight. But the opera singer was an unsuspected embellishment of the dream.