I dreamt that we moved to an enormous place. There were acres of parquet floors, two-floors high ceilings, miles of walls paneled with pale wood, huge windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, and sparse furniture. It looked like a hotel built in the Fifties. A friend, whom I do not remember, stayed with us for a few days. She shared our joy with this miraculous place. When the weekend came, we had our first surprise. A large loggia overlooking our vast livingroom turned out to belong to our neighbors. They had a bunch of friends over for dinner. Everyone was very friendly and we ultimately did not mind this intrusion into our space. But then our livingroom started filling up with people. There was no-one I knew among them, but I bantered with them as though they were old friends. I remember a short and bald fellow who told me that he and his wife lived in a Dutch compound in Abu Dhabi, or some such place, and that life there was very, very dull. I commiserated with him, but I was a bit puzzled when his wife joined him and sat at his table as though she was in a restaurant. She just gave me a small, polite smile and then turned to the menu in front of her. A moment later a waitress came up to me and told me rather jovially that we should be careful because the guests could hear our footsteps on the parquet floor. She was probably referring to our children. As it turned out, our livingroom doubled up as a restaurant on weekend evenings. Quite distraught, but still behaving in the friendliest of manners, I told the waitress to talk to my wife. I woke up soon afterwards.