I dreamt that I just arrived in New York City on a plane from London. The arrival caught me by surprise as I was writing something at the time, and I was busy stuffing my laptop and many other things strewn around my seat into my knapsack. The plane emptied quite fast, and I was the last one to get out of it. Only a few people stayed behind, but they were going to some other destination. I found myself in a strange terminal made of rough concrete. It was dirty, too. I remember puddles of spilled coffee all over the concrete. There was a sign ahead of me written in sloppy handwriting on a large piece of paper glued onto a concrete wall: “Urbans.” I remember overtaking a woman on a staircase going down, but then I found myself completely alone. I ran down flight after flight of endless stairs. They got steeper and steeper as I went along. I practically flew over them, but there was no end of the stairs in sight. By and by, I started worrying. What if I was going the wrong way? It would be pretty hard to climb all those stairs, I realized. I was still flying down the concrete stairs when I woke up. I was covered with sweat. The dream surprised me quite a bit, for I had not dreamt of airports for a long time. But the horror is still with me so many years after my last flight. It seems that it will never leave me, either.