This morning I dreamed I was staying at a backpacker’s hostel in Sydney. It was a tall rickety building run by a group of Buddhists. The ground floor rooms were mostly empty except for the odd makeshift couch, piles of cushions and randomly strewn blankets and curtains. The staircase was thin and on the first floor a sheet of plywood sat in vertical grooves acting as a makeshift upward sliding barricade.
I spent one evening there I went out the next day, leaving my guitar, sleeping bag and backpack. When I returned my room had been rented to someone else, even though I had paid for two nights.
There was a pile of personal belongings at the bottom of the stairs, coming from all the rooms that had been rented to other people. I was unable to find my luggage and became distressed. The hostel staff tried to contact the new occupant of my room, but he was not in. I began worrying that he had taken my stuff and was hocking it. I got into heated discussion with the staff about my missing belongings. On the verge of tears I pleaded that I didn’t care about the room, but I just wanted my guitar back. At that point one of the Buddhists walked around the counter and gave me a hug.