One nice thing about dreams is that you can meet the most surprising people in the most exceptional circumstances.
Last night I dreamt that I was instructing the Dalai Lama how to do an odd job in a museum. It was supposed to be during World War II and we were in a well-lit, I assume European, museum. In our small gallery room there was a big rock painted with hieroglyphics from ancient Egypt. The museum was in a city that was being carpet-bombed so I was showing the Dalai Lama how to preserve the tiny flakes of paint that fell off the artifact every time the building was rattled.
Despite the dream taking place in the mid 1940s, I was my current mid 40s and the Dalai Lama was an awkward twenty-something-year-old monk who had to take on a day job in the museum to make ends meet/survive the times. I was a little amused by his out-of-character role, and I remembered to be easy on him knowing that he would one day take the world stage.