I was living in Berlin again. Had this been a dream produced in Hollywood it would be captioned "Berlin, Germany", as though the stupid audience needed to know that it wasn't Berlin, Indiana (or Kansas, or God forbid Wisconsin with its numerous townships of that name). This was my idealised Berlin, which means it's an amalgam of other European cities' architectures and styles. It has broad boulevards and narrow streets and pretty aromatic delicatessens and funny little shops, and people walk to wherever they need to go once they get off the delightful and frequent buses.
I avoid the boulevards whenever I fly, largely to hide amongst the rooftops and chimneys, but also because the boulevards are always full of cars and rush and hurry. This area of the city is pretty, colourful with pavement umbrellas and awnings and the gentle bustle of people buying their little daily needs or sitting in cafés reading the newspapers and (most importantly), not looking up. I enjoy flying, but I also need to be careful; there have been stories in the newspapers about people who have seen me.
In any case, I drop down into a quiet corner of two alleyways and walk to my flat. It's not quite clear exactly where it is or how I get in, this being a dream, but I am greeted by The Cat before I put the groceries away. The Cat meows and I realise that she's telling me she's chilly, so I tweak the dreadful thermostat in the hope that it improves things by a degree or two rather than thinking it's a toaster and we are the bread. I hear my flatmates messing with things in the bathroom and try to find them before they cause too much havoc. Getting to the bathroom is always an undertaking, what with dream physics and all, but before long I find it and have a conversation about the temperature. It's all fine; the bathroom is in good shape, and so are they.
I decide to have tea, which today is a plate of little sandwiches and cakes, and I sit on the rug and listen to The Cat's purring. Everyone is happy, and my daughter is here too, so we decide to go flying among the chimneytops and pretty slate roofs. We sit on matching gargoyles and chat. I wake up happy and clear of mind.
I love my flying dreams now that I've learned how not to be disappointed that I can't really fly. Perhaps this is what it really means to be a grown-up; that it's fine to have dreams and fantasies, but that Real Life™ holds magic enough.