prostitution, partying, and megastores

Guess who had another group-trip dream? This one was to Italy (or an Italy-like country). In the first part, I was walking around an old city square. It wasn't as idyllic as it sounds, though. There were various construction things around (those wooden sidewalk-cover tunnels, mostly), and a fair amount of trash. There were also a lot of youngish men loitering and walking around*. They were invariably small, kind of greasy, tackily dressed (tracksuits, gold chains, and curly mullets figured prominently), and they were all, in various languages, propositioning me for favors. The most common was "how much for the night?" I found that I understood perfectly what they were all saying, and a tiny part of me was exulting at my perfect understanding of languages I didn't really speak. I didn't take the propositioning too seriously; it was kind of annoying and unsettling, but I figured that it was a cultural thing and that they weren't targeting me in particular, just any female in a certain age range.

After that I was with my dad in a gigantic semi-outdoor home/garden/decoration megastore. My eye was caught by a display of wrapping paper on sale--there was a really beautiful Art Nouveau-ish design with red poppies, and some colorful Josef-Frank-esque botanical designs. I was trying to decide on a couple to buy, since I don't use that much wrapping paper. The more I looked, the more confused I got. I saw some very cute designs that were very original and would be really good for wrapping kids' gifts--but then I remembered that I don't give that many kids gifts. I finally decided I should just go with the two I had seen at first, since I had been there so long (my dad was being extremely indulgent, pretending to root around and be genuinely interested in the wrapping paper while waiting for me). Once I decided on that course of action, though, I could no longer find any that I wanted, let alone the two I had seen before. All I could see were disappointingly unoriginal designs that looked pretty lackluster up close.

I decided to give up on the wrapping paper and accompany my dad to look for some item he was looking for (which had been the original purpose of the trip). I commented on how gigantic the store was, and recalled that Curly Sue had told me of being on a business trip to Houston (??!) and killing time in a similar store.

After that, I was with a larger group (still in a vaguely Italian place) including my husband and some assorted acquaintances from college. It was in the evening, and activity plans were being negotiated. Several of us were lounging on a huge couch/bed thing, and suddenly a girl I had known in college threw herself down next to me/on me John-and-Yoko style. I was a bit taken aback at this sudden incursion into my personal space, but didn't try to make her move because I was cold. There was a lot of tedious back-and-forth in the group about where we would go and what we would do, and it became clear that the group members were all very !Party!Party! types. I found myself agreeing to go out and "party" with them. Not being much of a partier in real life, I was surprised at myself, and even more surprised to realize that although it was getting late I wasn't tired at all. Of course I woke up tired after that.


*An eerily true-to-life detail, from my limited experience in Italy.

Totalitarian States and gender-stereotyped bathrooms

I had a rather alarming dream last week. I was carrying around a couple of grocery bags of stuff, at least some of which needed to be gotten rid of. I'm not sure whether I was planning on just dropping it off somewhere or whether I was going to give it to someone. I needed to stop in at the post office, which is where things got complicated.

In this dream, post offices were highly guarded, secure locations--I think they had started offering additional services, along the line of the passport services they already offer but necessitating tighter security (also, this dream was rather Totalitarian State, as you'll see later on). I was at a back service entrance, trying to figure out what to do with my bags of rejects. I couldn't bring them inside with me because of security issues, but I didn't even see a trash bin to dump them in. There was a pile of discarded stuff (a mix of outdated office equipment and just plain trash), but no official trash bin, so I guessed that it would be okay to leave them there while I went inside (and maybe forever, I thought, although I felt guilty about dumping them there sans trash bin).

There was a security guard involved in getting into the service entrance, too, and at first he seemed willing to let me in. Then things got bad really quickly. I don't know if he had actually seen me leave my bags with the pile of trash or if he just suspected, but he got very stern and started wielding the Long Arm of the Law and became very officious in his close inspection of my ID. The really alarming thing was that I realized that it wasn't my ID--it had been switched, planted, I suspected, by him or by an associate.

I don't remember the details, but there was some sort of knocking-about of a relatively mild nature but still very scary. I tried to protest that a false ID had been planted on me, but of course that only excited more suspicion and anger. Finally another security guard who had come from another area and who apparently had more authority intervened and let me go. The whole thing was very alarming, and I left as quickly as I could, still anxious about the items I had left by the door.

Then I was with my husband, somewhere in Europe. The location was ostensibly Geneva [I was talking about how pretty it was and how I missed it], although it didn't really look like the actual city, but more like how I imagine Stockholm or Copenhagen. There were a lot of 18th- and 19th-century buildings, some of them pink or yellow, and open stone plazas, mostly empty of people. It was really beautiful, and the fall atmosphere and cloudy day added to the appeal.

As we were standing in a plaza deciding what to do next, I realized that I should take advantage of the lull in activity to find a bathroom. We were next to some sort of museum, and I thought that would be a good option. I started looking around, but only found the men's restroom, and I decided to use it for the sake of speed (I was worried about my husband getting annoyed because I was taking too long, because he had already protested my preemptive and possibly unnecessary trip). It was extremely dirty, though, and there were two or three menacing looking young hoods in hoodies (!), which made me a little nervous. I decided to take my dog inside as a deterrent, hoping that she wouldn't betray her non-mean nature by being friendly to them [this is my real-life dog, who, being a pit bull with cropped ears, looks very mean at first]. Then I tried to find a suitable toilet, but they were all either clogged with paper or the seats were all dirty and wet. I wasted quite a bit of time trying to decide the best candidate for cleaning up a little, but finally gave up in despair, they were all so awful. I decided that it might be more time-efficient to just look a little harder for the women's restroom.

I found the women's restroom just around the corner, and it was completely different. It was the cleanest bathroom I'd ever seen, everything spotless and deodorized. It was all decorated with purple walls and gold trim, everything matching everything else, and the walls were covered with black-and-white pictures of Hollywood starlets from the 30s and 40s. I thought that was a weird touch. Apparently it was maintained by some kind of women's association, because there were signs (with a corny jingle that I regrettably can't remember) reminding members to clean up, and visitors of the members' hard work on their behalf.

I had happily done my business and come out of the stall when I saw that a small Italian woman had come in (how I knew she was Italian, I don't know). I was nervous that she would be alarmed by my dog and make a big scene about me having her with me, but instead she said, "Oh! A pit bull! I love pit bulls!" and started going on about the merits of pit bulls.

Movie

I was going to an Imax with a bunch of friends. There was a long line, and they were letting us in slowly, from two doors, in small groups. We had to go down several flights of narrow, steep stairs before we arrived at the auditorium. When we did, I was very disoriented, as it was dark and difficult to see. But the people I was with saw our friends, who had reserved almost an entire row of seats for all of us. There were people I knew from high school, college, and Italy.

My friend Annie said it was her birthday and another friend's birthday, and that they were sitting in the very front row because there was going to be some sort of announcement or something. I felt terrible that I hadn't told her happy birthday earlier.

There was a seat open by a cute Italian friend of mine, so I sat beside him, though I was a little shy. We started chatting in Italian, but mine was rusty and awkward. I noticed that he had really nice eyelashes and remembered how cute I'd thought he was when I was over there. The movie started, and it had a very Amelie/Wes Anderson feel to it. A woman in shiny cherry-red pumps was walking across a grate or swinging bridge--something rather treacherous in those shoes, but whimsical at the same time. The Italian and I commented to each other on it, gesturing, and our hands brushed against each other and the fingers held, resting on the seat between us. The friend on the other side of me noticed, and said, "He's got your hand!" I smiled sheepishly and enjoyed how his hand felt around mine, warm and friendly.

And then, no joke, my alarm went off and woke me from the best dream in recent memory.

Italian

I was talking to this pretty Italian girl who spoke very good English. Suddenly it occurred to me that we could be speaking to each other in Italian, and I suggested as much, in Italian. She wasn't exactly thrilled with the idea, and sort of shut me down.

She let me speak in Italian, but looked bored. She corrected me that instead of "fuori," I should have said "iari." The former is a real Italian word; I have no idea where "iari" came from.

Panera

At my parents' house over the holiday, I've been both averaging about 10 hours of sleep and sleeping on an air mattress that tends to chill me while I'm sleeping, the combination of which seems to be resulting in frequent dreams--and odd themes. Including the last one I posted, for example, I've had three separate dreams featuring garages. Teeth have also been reappearing; two nights ago I dreamed I was wearing flexible rubber retainers, and three nights ago I was late to a dentist appointment.

Last night I dreamed I was at my Panera. The layout was relatively recognizable; I parked in the same place and I knew where the outlets were (one learns these things when one's laptop battery lasts for just four minutes). Outside, there were a lot of kids with purple hair.

As I was approaching the counter (which looked like a ticket window, with a Plexiglas barrier) to order, I got a call, from pollsters who had called me earlier in the dream. They were asking me about all sorts of Spanish names that I should have recognized but couldn't quite place. The woman at the counter tried to help me, but it wasn't working.

When another customer approached the counter, I moved away to give him room, and then got into line behind him after I finished my call, just as another woman was coming in. She pushed right up behind me, sort of squeezing me off to the side, although I kept my foot in line. When it was my turn, she drew up to the counter. "Excuse me," I said, also at the counter. "It's my turn." In real life, I generally let people cut in front of me, but in the dream I decided to stand by my rights. She was really angry--on the brink of tears. She said when I had greeted her and her friend outside the Panera weeks ago (I vaguely remembered this) that it had been a horrible, painful experience. I apologized and said I'd had no idea it had offended her so much--but that it was still my turn to order.

So I ordered, and headed for my favorite table, by the fireplace. A lot of the tables had been moved, though, and there was a raised seating area that's not there in real life. Up there, people were crowded around tables, rehearsing for a musical that appeared to be in Italian. The scene apparently took place in a cafe, with people singing out their lines from their own tables.

I went to set up my computer, but the power cord was a stretchy light blue filament, like dental tape. I was trying to figure out how to strip the ends to get to the wires so that I could attach it to my computer, and the outlet, when I woke up.

Iced

Last night I dreamed I was driving somewhere in the Pacific Northwest (Seattle?), in a golden-beige convertible filled with crushed ice. It was definitely the thing to do, as we saw several pick-ups on the freeway doing the same thing. About six of us were sitting on the ice, although I noticed that I didn't feel particularly cold. There were some drinks stuck in the ice, but the driver was only having iced tea. He could have been tipsy, however, for all the driving he was doing; it was my responsibility, from the back of the car, where I was sitting perpendicular to the direction of travel, to do the steering. By rotating an empty glass in my outstretched hand (when I remembered to), I kept us within the traffic lines.

Later on, I spoke a little Italian.