You are in Naples. Donna's Italian friend Claudia, who she's known since childhood, has the two of you over for coffee. Claudia is trying, unsuccessfully, to convince Donna of the merits of Jungian therapy.

"About six months ago, I had a dream of elephants. So, you can imagine, I tell my analyst about it." This is over breakfast and her friend waves a knife in the air to make the point. You love Claudia's voice, her careful, almost accentless English and the tree filled view from her Naples terrace, so you are already convinced. "Now he is listening carefully and then he says, 'Elephants!'. How is your genitalia working?' Apparently, elephants are an archetype that represent problems with that area."

Claudia points a knife downward in case you don't understand. Already Donna rolls her eyes before looking skeptically into her cup of espresso. Claudia sets down her cup of espresso and raises her hands to command attention "Wait. I don't think about this at all, my genitalia feels fine. I forget about it entirely. I happen to have a gynecologist's appointment the next week and he examines me and says that I have an ovaries problem -- a problem of my ovaries sleeping." Claudia raises her eyebrows in triumph.

Donna doesn't buy it. She accuses the doctors of accusing Claudia of being an hysterical female. This makes Claudia hysterical. This ends your breakfast in Naples.

The conversation with Claudia makes you forget to call Vienna again. You were supposed to call a friend of an ex-lover, your only connection in Vienna. You keep forgetting to call Vienna from Rome, from Naples, from Atrani, from Pompei. You wonder if this is a Freudian slip. You know it can't be. What do you care? It's an ex-lover from so long ago. You miss the 7:40 am train to Vienna. The two of you stare at the back of the train as it slithers away down the track, then you look at each other. Something significant has just happened but the phrases that pass quickly through your brain -- missing the bus, missing the point, missing out -- do not explain it. You sit together on a cold bench and eat the congealed foccaccio you were saving for lunch. Ridiculous to attribute missed trains to anything but mismanaged time, still, the misstep reminds Donna of the Freud Museum in Vienna. She points out the picture of the drab building in the guidebook. You stare at Freud, the guy who thought up insight. You could really use some right now.