An odd one:

It was sometime in the mid to late 1930s and I was at what I inferred to be a famous resort near the Mediterranean. The architecture alone made this a fantastic dream. The resort was an average of three stories tall, though it had some towers that were larger. A huge columned terrace and open patio wrapped around the entire length of the harbor. A fairly steep embankment wall led down into the water. At low tide the waves just touched the edge of this embankment, about three stories below. However at high tide the waterline reached the edge of the terrace. The stone slabs were of a color and size that reminded me the pyramids at Giza. All were mortar-less, held together entirely by their own weight.

Despite the Egyptian-looking cut to the stone, the architecture itself was more Roman or Classical Greek. Soaring columns with massive arched doors and windows led from the terrace into a giant gallery ballroom. The decor and metal work were all decidedly Deco. Yet there was no clash in the mixture of styles and periods.

It was lavish and sumptuous. Waiters in tuxedos delivered champagne to the sunbathers and swimmers on the terrace. Woman in those amazing bias cut, sequined 30s dresses strolled out from the gallery onto the sun-drenched terrace.I followed them, pausing to blink in the brilliance of the sun.

Moments later, I was approached by Hitler. He was with his two consorts, a Rastafarian man in a flowing himation and a small pale woman with large glasses who introduced herself as Miss Cleo. The relationship between the three was odd. Whomever was closest to Hitler would dote on him, stroking his hair or his chin. Whomever was farther away would completely ignore him, or make cryptic comments to me suggesting what the future would hold for the chancellor.

Hitler was trying to recruit me to come back to Germany with him. "We have great thing in plan for the motherland," he told me. "You should join me Herr Kreiner." We conversed for a long time as he tried to persuade me to his cause, but I continued to refuse him. Finally he left. strolling along the terrace holding hands with the Rastafarian man while I spoke with Miss Cleo.

I excused myself for a moment. When I returned the woman was gone, but the outside scene had changed. A large zeppelin had drifted into view. It was so huge that I could only see the bottom of it and the suggestion of where it's ends were. From it there dangled hundreds of ropes. At the end of each rope was a person hanging face down in a harness. They explained to me that they were sunbathing, despite the fact that many were still in evening wear. By lowering themselves on the rope they could swim. By raising, they could visit many of the open bars which also were hanging below the zeppelin. People at various heights dangled everywhere like some strange Magritte painting.

I turned away for a glass of ice water, pausing to wave hello to F. Scott Fitzgerald. As I turned back, I saw the zeppelin shudder, then totally invert. The people hanging from it were thrown into the water. Others were jerked violently into the air before falling back and smashing into the sides of the airship. The whole thing lurched forward before collapsing slowly against the side of the terrace, crushing the bathers and onlookers.

Those of us who were sheltered by the columns began to run to rescue people. Immediately I realized that the fire exits would need to be opened so that survivors would not trample themselves at the doors. I began to open those that led to stairwells, but noticed that some did not lead to safety, but to narrow ladders down through a rusty floor into dark chambers.

I opened three doors in a matter of minutes, but when I returned to the terrace, everything, even the ocean itself was gone. All that remained was the resort itself, and Hitler's Rastafarian man, who was sitting in a lounge chair smoking a joint.

I was so bewildered, I woke up. Weird. I think I'll turn the resort into a scenic design someday.

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