I am walking downtown in a pleasant cosmopolitan city, perhaps Portland or some other northwestern community. I notice that a light-rail transportation system is in full operation, and crowds of people are hustling and bustling, as they tend to do in active metropolitan spaces. Moving into the swirl, I catch a street car headed downhill, not really sure where it is going; it just seems the right thing to do at the moment. We travel a wide, well-paved street as the afternoon sun ducks behind steep hills astride the city. I hop off the tram and stand within the median strip of the broad boulevard, cars rushing by in both directions.
As I move to the sidewalk beside the east side of the street; it suddenly becomes very dark and a massive downpour begins, the hardest rain I have ever known. It comes down with such force that all my clothes are torn off, falling in pieces around me, forming a multi-colored puddle of shredded fabric.
Naked, I walk along the sidewalk, trying my best to be discreet but finding it difficult not to feel embarrassed. Finally I duck through a walled entry which leads to an alley, and walking through an open door enter a bustling restaurant filled with elegant patrons. A man wearing a bowler hat sits alone at a table with his back to the wall, a white linen napkin tucked into his collar. His table is also covered in crisp white linen. Chewing, he looks in my direction, but takes no notice and keeps on eating. Around me the sound of dishes and voices conjoin a whirl of activity as waiters and busboys quickly tend tables. Other diners look my way but say nothing – I adopt an air of dignity and decorum.
Still naked, I stride through the restaurant – self-conscious, but not fearful – find an exit door and move back out into the street. By now night has fallen, but it’s no longer raining. I keep to the shadows and walk uphill, looking for a transit station but unsure of where to go.
I finally spot a station entrance, make my way down a long flight of stone stairs to the platform and hop on a yellow box car. I seem to have found a small towel or washcloth, which I hold over my nakedness, as if no one will notice. The noisy box car train bounces and jostles in a tunnel for a long while, and then emerges into early morning light above ground. Suddenly far from the city the whole atmosphere has changed; the breeze is fresh and smells good, clean but with a hint of salt in the air.
We trundle along and finally come to a gentle stop. I get off and walk out into the dawn. The eastern sun is just rising over an ocean horizon, golden light spreading across gentle ripples. I can faintly hear waves washing up on the not-to-distant shore. I turn to the right and feeling enormous relief, realize I have arrived at my destination. With its ten stories of dawn-kissed golden sandstone and verdigris bronze room balconies crazily tipped at funny angles in all directions, before me stands the world-famous Hotel Confusion, in a quiet village on a sloping hill by the sea.
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