I dreamt that I was trotting down the wide stairs of an American university where I had taught for years. I knew everyone on my way. There were greetings left and right. And then I heard someone calling from the top of the stairs: “Dad, dad!” I stopped and looked up. On top of the stairs there was my No. 2 son waving at me. The building was so tall and the stairwell so deep that I could not see his face, but I could clearly see his right hand waving. He wore a light-blue shirt. And I knew that he was a student at the same university where I was teaching. I grinned and waved back a few times before I was awoken by the fishmonger’s loudspeaker on the street: “Fish, fish, fish. Fresh fish.” When the van trundled by my house, I looked at the clock. It was well past nine already. My son is at Columbia right now, but I have never entered any of its buildings, let alone taught there. I have seen some of them only from the street. If I remember correctly, at least one of them is as tall as the stairs in my dream would suggest.