THE MCCARTNEY PALACE was never called such. Rather it was referred to in French as the Palais McCartney. A large white and glass structure on the edge of a field of sumptuous flowers. A long drive in, both sides of which were lined with cars. There was a soiree at Palais McCartney, and the man himself was supposedly there somewhere to welcome guests to the gala, but I never caught sight of Sir Paul. Instead my friend Jaak, the Estonian man of letters, invited me back to his house, which was not a palace, to show off his collection of novels, novellas, poetry, and various trophies he had been awarded from diverse writerly entities, organizations, and unions. He had at least a dozen of these golden statues on one shelf which he gestured to wildly, an arm tossed in the air, as he explained one thing or another. Then we went back to the Palais McCartney for lunch, which was really terrible, I mean the kinds of steaming metal buffet meals one gets in the worst roadside motels in the States. How could this be? I thought McCartney was deep into food, you know. The Kasemetsad were there, and other members of the Estonian intelligentsia. Later there was some kind of rupture in the space-time continuum and we were all herded behind a chain-link fence on the edge of a field at night watching the stars. There was a Frenchman there lecturing everyone on the proper way to pronounce Jeanne d’Arc. “It’s d’Arc, not D’Arc.” Then there was a UFO landing of celestial polar bears, who began to devour everything in sight. Meantime I was trying to do an interview with some British entrepreneur, who kept asking me, “What is that noise in the background?” To make matters worse, a woman went into labor, so she was giving birth while these bears of the stars ate up everything they could sink their teeth into. I remember climbing that chain link fence, leaping over, landing on my feet and running still. Looking back to see the agony of the woman in childbirth. How could McCartney leave us here like this? And what had happened to Jaak? He was just here a minute ago. The last thing I can recall is a silvery thread slipping and undulating through the cosmos, teasing me up and into a new and different black comfort. Freyja was there, and I succumbed to a deeper and restorative sleep.