I am in an old building, upstairs in a big room filled with books and chairs and sofas. It is a reading room and I am reading a very big fat book, hardback, probably well over a thousand pages. It’s not a novel, but rather heavy reading, yet fascinating.
I am visiting family, my Texas family, including my parents and others. I am alone, packing a small bag, about the size of an overnight bag. The others have gone shopping in the city or at a mall – some big place with plenty of stores. It’s not close by, and I am thinking perhaps I should have gone with them, as the plane leaves tomorrow.
I am on a group vacation with my daughter Muriel and a group of young people. (I’m pretty sure I’m young, too, part of the group, not a chaperone). We’ve been there for quite awhile, and accumulated a number of things. There is a main room to our place, it’s more like an apartment, and we have rooms for sleeping – mine is apparently shared with Muriel. At one point I go into our room to change tops. I don’t even close the door, I just get out of the line of sight – no one goes into a private space without asking. Once changed I join the group again.