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more than a few steps because I twisted my ankle on a cobblestone. In the fourteen years that I had been entering and exiting the Wallingford Theatre, there had never been cobblestones in the alley. And what was all that light beckoning from the alley's entrance? One of those spotlights, I guessed, that advertises a grand opening.

    "Capulet scum!" a voice cried. A woman leaned out an upper-story window in the building across the alley. At that time, a classical dance troupe rented the upstairs studio. "Damn you Capulets to hell!" The woman shook her fist at me, then tossed out some slop from a bucket, creating another puddle of gunk that missed me by mere inches.

    Enough already. I just wanted to get home. "That's disgusting," I told her. "What's your problem?" She shook her fist again, then retreated. In my experience, dancers are notoriously temperamental, especially those of the classical persuasion. She had probably auditioned for Romeo and Juliet and was holding a grudge against me. Had she dreamed of Juliet's role for as long as I had dreamed of people calling me doctor? I stepped over the new puddle. Dancers are notorious binge eaters as well; maybe that's what the slop was all about. But I wasn't interested in pondering eating disorders.

    My ankle was a bit sore as I hobbled up the alley toward the blinding light. Certainly the symbolism of that moment was not lost on me. The dead move toward the light, seeking God and everlasting peace. A panic attack can leave its victim feeling like the living dead. But moths move toward the light as well, only to get fried. Zap! What fate awaited me?

    At the end of the alley I squinted, shielding my eyes as they adjusted. The spotlight perched high overhead and penetrated my costume with its heat. As my pupils constricted, I found that it was not a spotlight at all. It was the sun. And that is the moment I will never forget.

    I warned you in the beginning that you might not believe the story I was about to tell, so you've probably anticipated this moment. You may also have read the book's jacket copy so you know that at some point I am going to take an unexpected trip. I did not have the luxury of a book jacket, however, to prepare me, so I felt totally bewildered. The sky, not aglow with city lights or heavy with snow clouds, sparkled baby blue like the bottom of a painted swimming pool. Cottonball clouds floated, cast here and there by a light breeze. And the air was thick with humidity.

    What had, an hour earlier, been a familiar city street, was transformed. Before me lay a market square. A stone tower stood across the way and a cluster of stalls overflowed with flowers and produce. A central fountain, shaped like a cake stand with a sculpted lady on top, spouted water. Chickens scurried about, pigeons flew past, and two piglets slept in a basket. A crowd had gathered at the far end. It looked like a Renaissance fair, the way everyone was dressed. For a moment I thought that a film crew had set up shop, except that even Steven Spielberg couldn't move entire buildings, and two city blocks' worth had simply disappeared.

    My instinct was to get somewhere that made sense, so I turned back. Fickle, you might be saying to yourself, but at that moment I would have welcomed the Wallingford Theatre, would have kissed its dingy carpet if it meant that I hadn't lost my mind. The dancer had returned to the alley window so I decided to try the main entrance. But I couldn't find the building I knew so well. No marquee with twinkling yellow lights, no glass lobby doors, no ticket booth. No pimply-faced guy.

    A wooden sign with a painting of a high-heeled boot hung above a simple wooden door. I flung the door open, hoping with all my heart to find the Coat Check Crones gossiping and smoking. Instead, I stepped into a cobbler's shop, poorly lit by a few candles. "We're not open yet," a man muttered. He hammered on a piece of leather.

    "Hold on, Rodney." Another man stepped forward,