I dreamt that I took my parents to Poreč or Parenzo on the Istrian coast. The day was wonderful. I wanted them to walk around the old Venetian town, which I knew they would appreciate doing. In their late eighties, both of them were a bit frail, but they still enjoyed the trip. We arrived to a small nearby port by taxi, and then we took a passenger boat. As I could see no crew to talk to, I asked a woman who walked on board with us how far the center was. She told me she was going to a place called Slavia, but she did not know how far it was from the center itself. As soon as we got on board, my mother went straight to the first bench, whence she smiled at me happily. My father clambered up to the deck to smoke. Every once in a while, I would check through a window of the boat, but all I could see were factories and port facilities along the coast. When it started slowing down, I went to fetch my father. As it turned out, that was not our stop, though. My mother returned straight to her bench, whence she smiled at me happily once again. And my father returned to the deck for another cigarette. After a few false alarms, it was ever more difficult to find him, however. A bit senile already, he squirreled himself away so as to be left in peace. At some point I saw a gigantic triumphal arch amid the factories and port facilities we were passing by. Amazing to behold, it towered above everything in sight. Built in a simplified neoclassical style, it had “Slavia” written in enormous golden letters across the top. As the boat started slowing down and turning toward the coast again, the woman traveling with us got up from her bench, and I went to find my father. “Herding parents,” I sighed as I climbed the steps to the deck one more time. But I woke up before I managed to find him. And well before we landed. Chances are that Slavia was not our stop, either.