I’m in Paris, attending a large convocation. Large in complexity. The venue is old and gray, but not derelict. Heavily enclosing its interior spaces, the locale is labyrinthine with massive walls and thresholds. Not a hotel but a well-established, venerable production center with spartan, hostel-like rooms for those who are working.

I find myself roomed with a very young woman. I try to keep my things separate, but with limited success, as she occupies the space considerably. We are not attending the same events at this convocation, not working together, and we have never crossed paths.

I am very involved with proceedings in multiple dimensions, very busy, not much spare time. After one event that has been staged, I pitch in to help clean up—knowing the producer. I am sweeping the floor, trying to contain the debris that is highly charged with static electricity, and is thus not very sweepable.

The producer comes in and we chat. He has produced many events with which I have been associated in my lifetime. We are friendly. He sympathizes with my efforts. Again I return to my room and find that I am now rooming with a different very young woman, but I never see her either. She is more extravagantly occupying the space than the previous young woman. Her stuff is all over the place.

Suddenly I am aware that I must get to Charles DeGaulle airport for my flight back to the USA. I begin a process of calculating—with fuzzy results—when my flight is, how to manage the Paris subway system, namely, how to reverse my route from the airport to return to the airport, and thus how much time I need to allow to get to the airport, when to pack, shower, dress, etc.

I head to a shower down a corridor but cannot determine which one is a men’s shower. Finally, I choose one that looks probable, and go in. And there is another very young woman, a girl, naked from the waist up. She turns to face me. Demurely, and without words, she gently communicates that I am indeed not in the shower room I was looking for, and I leave. I’ve pretty much decided to skip the shower and just wash at the sink back in the room.

I am again into the entanglements of all the stuff. I abandon concerns that I can actually gather my things—it doesn’t really matter anyway. So I just grab what I can and fill my suitcase with books, tools, etc. As my mind continues unsuccessfully to calculate the timing, I come up clearly with one conclusion: I am very likely to be too late to catch my flight. This is on my mind as I head out and engage the subway and ground transportation system link to link, and navigate my way to the airport.

At last I get there. There is something of a carnival atmosphere. A grand amusement park. I recognize some others who I know, though we are not traveling together. They walk along with me as I muse about my predicament, the complexity of events, logistics, my timing. We have a common feeling for the paradoxes and intensities of things as we make our way through corridors, travel escalators, are channeled by the interior geometry. Finally, we reach the ticket agent, and I am resigned to accept my fate. I am at piece [peace?] with somehow figuring out my situation and what to do next. I am not terrified or even all that concerned. C’est la vie.

The agent—a uniformed, very cogently capable, poised European woman—informs me that my flight has been delayed by three hours or so, perhaps more. All is well, she smiles, returning my ticket, encouraging me just to relax and enjoy myself. I accept this, and I turn and part ways with those who have made their way to the gate with me.