I dreamt that I was looking for my beloved’s room in a big, posh, and rambling hotel. We were at an international conference. Judging from the hotel itself, it must have been somewhere in Northwestern Europe. These were our early days, and no-one knew about us. No-one should have known about us, either, which is why I was staying at another hotel. I visited her the day earlier, but I could not remember the number of her room. Actually, I knew it was either 294 or 394, but I was not sure which one it really was. I could always give her a call on my mobile, which I was clutching in my hand, but I felt that would spoil my visit. As I was walking through the hotel, which brimmed with cozy salons, I stopped time and time again to ferret through my papers in search of the room number. I could not find it, though. I must have written it someplace, I thought at first. But then I realized that it was entirely possible that I did not write it down. I must have thought that I could not possibly forget the number. Anyhow, it could be none other than 294 or 394. This much I was sure about. In addition, I was ever more sure it was the former rather than the latter. At long last I came to the door of Room 294 and I knocked somewhat hesitantly. But I woke up soon afterwards, long before my beloved could open the door. Disappointed, I got annoyed with myself. How could I wake up at such a crucial moment? What if this was not the right room? And what if this was the room of someone from the same conference who would know us both?