I dreamt that there was such a shortage of parking places in New York City that people did not dare move their cars once they had parked them. There was hardly any traffic in the streets. All parking lots featured large electronic boards where the names of the owner and the current occupier appeared under the number of each parking place. The privilege of parking in someone else’s place cost a mint. There sprouted a vibrant market in parking places, too. Everyone wanted to own as many of them as they could afford. Many a fortune was made overnight in this new market. The only other thing I remember from this dream is the face of a receptionist at the hotel where I was staying as she ran up to one of the guests in the lobby to let him know that she had managed to find a parking place for his car. She was radiant. She was ecstatic. She was in rapture. Indeed, she was on the verge of fainting. The guest, an elderly Japanese man with a dour face full of deep wrinkles, was visibly confused. Whence all this excitement? Apparently, he had no idea what a parking place now meant in New York City. He must have just arrived from someplace far away.