I had a dream last night and it went like this:
I had just arrived in Paris, the city of love, looking like a bum. Matt and I had been traveling together for a while, so long in fact that neither of us could agree on where we had just been. We looked as if we were half undressed after a day of skiing. I wore long johns under my fleece shorts, a clunky pair of boots, and a stretched long sleeve t-shirt that was visibly tired from uncountable days of travel. Here we were, two bums carrying everything we had in small backpacks with sleeping bags tied on with string, swinging with every step as we walked the quiet neighborhood streets of Paris on our way to find our friend.
Rob met us on the sidewalk in front of old men in old metal folding chairs enjoying their evening glass of wine. We exchanged greetings and wasted no time before making plans for a wild night. The boys were going dancing! Unsure of where we could make this happen, Rob asked for suggestions from one of the old man bystanders who must have had several glasses of evening wine because without even the slightest inkling of invitation he had convinced himself to join us. They spoke in French but I could understand every word. The plan was set to go to a restaurant-turned-nightclub that was sure to be crowded. But first-things-first: I’m in Paris – I can’t go out dancing looking like this!
We dashed up nearby steps into a house where Rob’s friends were throwing a party. The place was dark with walls painted green and a cigarette haze lingering about the dozens of people throughout the house sitting at various tables entrenched in conversation. I unsuccessfully searched for an empty room before just changing in the corner. By the time I put on a wrinkled pair of jeans unstuffed from my pack, Rob and Matt were in party mode and you could forget about dancing.
I found an empty chair at a table with a pompous mustachio and his two hipster groupies who were discussing the ‘artistry of film.’ To get a feel for me, one of the girls asked me what I had watched most recently. It was a cheesy silver screen seventies flick about a San Francisco cop. I told them the name and the guy asked “Oh yea, isn’t that the Big Daddy Western?” I didn’t know what that meant, but “yeah” I told him, “sure.”
Then I woke up
I’ve got two burning questions today after thinking about this dream:
- Have I always been able to speak French in my dreams?
- What the hell is a Big Daddy Western?