I liked playing Chelsea. That part is simple and true. The room listened. I sold six books, which today’s economy qualifies as a small miracle. One woman wanted a book but only had credit cards. I told her she could send an e-transfer. Technology, I said, is here to help us. The next day a notification arrived. When I went to deposit the money, the system asked me a security question. What was your encore last night? It was In Her Dream. I typed inherdream. Wrong. Denied. The machine was firm about it. Damn. I didn’t have her email, which felt like I failed the test. I did what passes for detective work. Wrote to six women on Facebook and LinkedIn who seemed vaguely plausible. The one who lived closest to Chelsea replied. The password, she said, was in her dreams. With an s. I had forgotten that people often think that is the real title of the song.

Una owns the place. She is nice. There is a quote by Anthony Bourdain on the stairs, which tells you something without explaining anything. I got the feeling she was a fan. The young wait staff were kind, capable, and bilingual in a way that made no fuss about itself, which is the best kind. Una told me her story. Burlington. Carleton. A previous marriage. Skinny dipping. Finding Chelsea. These facts lined up and became a life. She has made a good place here. That matters. The bathroom had a large bathtub. I have lived with only a shower for twenty years, which is how you forget baths exist. This was clearly a bath situation. The soap was wrapped in elegant Japanese paper, too elegant to be used once and discarded. I could not bring myself to do it. I used the soap I had brought with me. It was still a fine experience. I tried to watch a movie on the modern television with its modern remote and what felt like ten thousand channels. I failed. The machine won. This seemed appropriate. I thought I would like to come back with Magali and Esmé and go skiing. That thought made sense, which is not always the case.