I am in some large, hundred-year-old building, in a suite of rooms meant obviously as living quarters. I am on the top floor and the building is five or six stories high. The suite of rooms has those old rattle-y wood-framed windows with counter-weights in the frame. Out of the windows is a spectacular view of some city I do not recognize. It is currently night time. Most of the time is spent in two rooms, a bedroom and a connected small lecture room full of books. The building's architecture is old and I wish I had more architectural learning to give proper names to the features. The ceiling is painted white, ten or twelve feet high, and has those old patterned, pressed-tin ceiling panels on it.
The floor of the bedroom is carpeted and there is a large unmade bed in it, as well as dressers, closets, nightstands, and other tasteful bedroom appointments. The majority of the light in the rooms comes from those old institutional lights with milk-glass globes which depend from the ceiling by a chain. I'm dressed for bed and currently wearing my robe and house shoes. I'm wandering around the suite, exploring. There is a faint soundtrack playing in the background of this dream. It is Led Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love". There is an old dark wood door with a transom, a frosted glass panel, a roll-up shade, and worn brass knob, leading to a hallway giving access to the rest of the building. Three or four times during the course of my explorations, various families of people I do not know barge into the room from the hallway. They appear to be families consisting of mothers and fathers and college aged kids carrying various suitcases and seeking some kind of accommodations. I irritably explain to them: "This is a private suite," until they exit back out the door, looking lost. None of them say anything to me. I finally lock the door to the hallway to prevent further such intrusions.
Another, similar door leads to a small lecture room, lined with rows of long, stone-topped laboratory-type tables and benches. There is a chalkboard on one of the walls facing the rows of benches. The room is full of books, on shelves, stacked on some of the tables, and stacked in neat piles on the floor. The room smells musty and the tile floor is cold under my feet. All of the books are thick and old, most of them having worn covers and cracked bindings with worn gilt-letter titles on their spines. Most of the books seem to be about law, medicine, and philosophy but there are a some notable exceptions. Many of the books have for titles the names of European capitals, like London, Paris, Brussels, etc. One extremely notable exceptional tome is about the size of an Oxford Unabridged Dictionary or a King James Bible. Its title, in gilt lettering on the spine is, The Dressing, Care, and Transportation of the Tequilla'd Woman. How in the heck did that get in here and who needs, or can even write, that much text to cover such a subject? Naturally I am curious about the incongruous book and I am about to pick it up when I wake up.
I would so fire my subconscious for waking me up, if it weren't so good at amusing me. I think I need some more sleep. I'm going back to bed.