I saw by the clock at the little station that it was past eleven. I began walking through the night toward the hotel. I experienced, as I had at other times in the past, the resignation and relief we are made to feel by those places most familiar to us. The wide gate was open; the large country house itself, in darkness. I went into the vestibule, whose pale mirrors echoed back the plants of the salon. Strangely, the owner did not recognize me; he turned the guest register around for me to sign. I picked up the pen chained to the register stand, dipped it in the brass inkwell, and then, as I leaned over the open book, there occurred the first of the many surprises the night would have in store for me - my name, Jorge Luis Borges, had already been written there, and the ink was not yet dry.
"I thought you'd already gone upstairs," the owner said to me. Then he looked at me closely and corrected himself: "Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. You look so much like the other gentleman, but you are younger."
"What room is he in?" I asked.
"He asked for Room 19," came the reply.
It was as I had feared. I dropped the pen and hurried up the stairs.
(from August 25, 1983 by Jorge Luis Borges)