This morning we slept in forever, stalling the inevitable end to our 3 weeks of traveling in warmer, wilder places. A 3′ wave of snow is frozen in defiance of sunlight and gravity off our front porch on Highland Street where each house is an island of warmth surrounded by leftover Christmas Day snow. I wish we could put off resuming our lives until the snow melts… but it’s not piled high enough to justify such worthlessness.
I had this dream before waking. It was a fusion dream, populated by people and places from Western North Carolina, but events much more likely to ambush us in Colombia. I was riding in a taxi around a lake very much like the one we camp at in the summertime. The taxista (taxi driver) took a wrong and reckless turn uphill. When I corrected him he spun the vehicle around and raced downhill towards the lake. At the least reasonable moment, just as he’s supposed to make the correct turn, he gets a phone call, and of course takes it. I watch helpless from the back seat as we bounce through high grass into the lake.
The taxi driver should have been some overworked and exhausted, possibly coked up Colombian 20-something. We entered the cab of more than one of these terrifying specimens in the hilly city of Manizales, which is like a Bizarro World version of San Francisco with steep streets over-populated by swarms of motorbikes and taxis fighting at high speed for voids in traffic space against overloaded jeeps and cargo trucks- all driven by desperate men deranged with hurry so they can make twelve bucks a day instead of nine. Through practice and willful disregard for potential energy, the majority of drivers have disconnected the part of their brain responsible for prudent self-preservation.
In my dream the driver was more of a hillbilly type. He took crashing into the lake suprisingly well. Luckily the taxi was equipped with a sunroof, which may have materialized in our time of need as we floated in the shallow waters. I climbed out onto a putting green without even my shoes getting wet, but then turned and made the heroic decision to go back for the hillbilly. While at it I managed to pull the cab out, driver and all. Turns out it wasn’t the typical dream when I’m sluggish and helpless as a drunken baby. It was a rare ten-year super powers dream.
Happily, there was a gazebo full of drinkers and diners whiling away their golden years with front row seats to the putting green and this unfolding spectacle of folly and heroism. Two pretty waitresses greeted me with big pretty waitress smiles and the crowd of retirees in the gazebo broke into applause, I think. I may be embellishing at this point, as the dream begins to fade.
My last thought before I woke up was, this will be a great story for the blog! And then I woke up, disappointed that it was only a dream, and thus diminished content for storytelling. I’ve been dreaming like a mofo this month. Must be my brain sweeping up the sawdust of processing second languages, cultural differences and danger.
What a month. Hopefully I’ve stored away enough memory nuts to blog my way through the cold grey introverted winter. It’s hard to reconcile going from standing bare-footed in the sea at South Padre Island to eating oatmeal inside as hanging snow waves break loose and come crashing down. Melt, little snow piles, migrate south to warmer waters. Go tickle the smelly feet of the fortunate few taxistas at rest from their pedals.