I am flying around Antarctica, watching the Sun disappear and appear from behind massive icebergs. I am deposited on top of one of these icebergs, along with three or four others.
After several metres' trek, we find a hatch in the ice, open it and go down through it. I find myself in a large American hotel, where an important conference is going on.
So important, in fact, that the President of the United States and his whole family will be there. The President's daughter is having a worrying time, because she has a huge cut on her face. Fortunately, they have a magical plaster that heals it straight away. She asks me how it looks, and I say, "Fine," and before you know it I'm a guest of honour.
I enter the conference room, which is more like a cathedral. I don't actually know my own name, so I sit down at a seat with a namecard that looks right. Over the back of the seat is a blue, silk tuxedo, into which I presume I am to change, because I am in scruffy student garb.
I get up to go to the toilets (to change) when a church-style procession crosses my path. As I wait to get out, I notice hundreds of other men wearing the exact same clothes as me.
Outside, I am in the lobby of the Marina Beach Marriott in Marina Del Rey, Los Angeles. My cousin scuttles past, and locks himself in the photocopier room.