Dreams. For me they come and go in no particularly discernible pattern. Last night they came. I found myself back in an unknown hotel. This time, however, my parents were visiting. I was there as me, i.e. a VISTA, and I had been there before. This was a grand place, but as with many of my dreams, wrought with some glaring inconsistencies.

I was involved with a few things: 1) helping to prepare a meal for unknown guests in a basement kitchen, 2) showing my parents around and 3) worrying about a meeting that I probably would not be able to make. Within this unknown familiar hotel I was aware of another theme of previous dreams of mine – broken elevators. Although the hotel had 6, in some shafts they creaked by slowly and crookedly, doors agape; others beckoned but seemed a bit off and as a result I did not trust them.

Instead we took the stairs down to the 2nd floor which was where the great ballrooms and the balcony of the theater were located. The place was occupied with other guests, setting up for events, rehearsing formal dinners. One particular ballroom had large square windows on each side – it was dark outside, with just the faintest hint of the retreated sun. A black family in formal wear was taking pictures and enjoying themselves before their guests arrived. The next room was a magnificent bar, well stocked and already with a bit of a buzz that would surely increase as the night progressed.

But the real treat was the room behind the bar through the door on the right. This room I remember the most vividly. The entire space had been preserved in the style of the original hotel owner, an eccentric man who is believed to haunt the room. The kindly but strange Italian caretaker greets us and points out some of the notable features, including an old bed, chair and scattered reading material. Unlike the rest of the hotel, this room is dimly lit, as it would have been in olden times, and faintly musty. Though spooky, it is not, however unpleasant.

At some point I am lying in the bed until I feel a poke at my feet at which point the attendant warns me of ghosts. Outside the window a diorama has been constructed and from it I can view the old port city, itself bathed in late twilight with the fog rolling in. But my breath quickly obscured the window and it’s time to leave. I thank the man, kissing him on both cheeks, Italian style, and wonder what kind of strange person calls this haunted room home all day. As for the dinner and meeting, those matters remain unresolved.

And I can’t help but wonder about the people in the town as the fog rolls in.