It was probably morning when I emerged from my room after a fitful night. The hotel seemed to be built at odd angles with unpredictable alcoves and corridors at every turn. I finally found my way downstairs, following a smell of cooking and rancid flowers that led me to the dining room.

Several people were seated in front of large windows that allowed an untrammeled view of the ocean. Rather than being picturesque, the vision was turbulent and somehow menacing. A middle aged balding man sat looking inwards, dejected by what he saw. He was a dead ringer for my feeble companion, but his resemblance to me was merely coincidental.

An elderly couple sat at another table, engrossed in themselves. I had no desire for food so I continued to explore the old inn. I could hear a strange music wafting along the corridors. A few twists and turns later I came upon a hall with a stage at one end.

The out of date notice gave an indication that his was a Tea Dance, an anachronism well suited to this place from the past. The somber lady who dealt with me at reception was playing an organ on the stage, filling the air with musical yet disconnected fragments that tugged at my memory. A depressed man sat hunched on a chair near the last person that I expected to see.