What Tony is Dreaming: No Problem

Three weeks ago today I was in Paris having an extremely French day: Used book shops on the left bank, bouquinistes, café crème at a sidewalk café with my friend, contemporary theatre, and a dinner whose first course was a thick warm blood pudding on toast with a layer of caramelized peaches on top, presented in a perfect, hockey-puck-shaped and sized disk.

Last night I dreamed I was suddenly back in Paris. It was a rush trip. In fact, I had come with only my wallet, as if while at lunch I went to Paris instead of back to work. In the dream, R.G. Sand and I are on a houseboat in Paris--not having planned far enough in advance to make hotel reservations.

"You wanted to be back in Paris, and here you are," R.G. Sand says.

I go through my pockets and find my ATM card.

"We can get euros," I say. "I can't believe I left my map at home. Now I'll have to buy another. And I need a pen." I open a drawer in a desk on the houseboat. It is filled with pencils, compasses, fountain pen nibs, erasers . . . "I still need to buy a pen," I say. "And paper."

The interior of the cabin is roomy. It's wooden and cozy. The capacious room is lighted by sconces and the many windows are hung with translucent white organdy. We go out on the deck. The houseboat is floating on the Canal Saint Martin.

"I know where we are," I say. "Les Abîmés has closed, but I can show you where the Théâtre du Marais is without a map. It's on the other side of the Place de la République." We debark and head toward Rue de Malte. (At the beginning of this month the Place de la République was the hub of my universe for a whole week.) "We can get some money and I can show you where that restaurant is. Maybe the theatre has another play." I'm sure that's the first thing you would do when you get to Paris: Find the theatre.

"We should get an umbrella," says R.G. Sand. "Look."

I can't say it was frightening, but a huge cloud, like thick black wool was drifting toward us--actually all of Paris.

"It's Sarkozy!" shouts R.G. Sand. "And it's coming right toward us!" Now it is frightening, and we run.

The cloud is so huge and so close and so thick I can reach up and almost touch it

"It probably isn't that bad even if it is Sarkozy," I say as we get back to the houseboat and go inside. (Sometimes I am overly rational in my dreams.) The rain starts. "See? It's just rain." I resume searching through my pockets. "I forgot to bring my passport," I say. And as the black wool Sarkozy rain turns the view out the houseboat windows to a complete blur I contemplate that without my passport I will not be able to leave Paris. No problem.