My mother has appeared in dreams several times since she died, but my father never before that I can remember. But this time he and I were on a tram together, going on a trip to a mountain. It was a fairly low mountain, not very steep, a bit like the Große Hermannsberg. It looked greyish-bare in the distance, but the closer we came the more it turned out to be wooded except the very top. There was a hotel at the foot, it seemed at first, but it turned out that the hotel was in fact inside the mountain, very exclusive, with only six regular rooms and a seventh, larger and more luxurious, that wasn’t listed but appeared on the self-service booking monitor if you knew exactly how to look for it. My mother was there, working the monitor by putting € 2,92 into a money box for each room she wanted to see. She asked me for a two-cent piece and I happened to have one, given to me in change in Brussels (this is actually true in waking life, except that it’s one cent, which now has a sad orphan existence in my purse).
I went up a couple of flights of stairs inside the hotel to get to the back door, which was up the mountainside in what I thought would be the wood but was actually a little town, touristy in a German way but also with normal inhabitants and a mixture of normal little-town shops and souvenir shops. I did some shopping there and went further up, where there was a path to the top.
The top was indeed grey and bare, but fenced off and hedged about with tourist signs. My father was still or again with me, and he sighed about it as much as I did. (I don’t remember now what the mountain was for; there was some special thing about it, not just “the highest mountain in this region” or “splendid view of the countryside” but something more spiritual, perhaps esoteric.)