The Russian Bearcat

Last night, I dreamed that my Mom, my sister, my brother, and my (late) Dad and I went to Russia for vacation.

Apparently, my Dad was friends with Vladimir Putin, so we were treated like visiting heads of state. On the first day of our trip, Vlad met us at breakfast to present us with a vehicle to drive around the country on our tour--a vintage Stutz Bearcat. (It sort of looked like this but was somehow a more modern version, more of a Stutz Bearcat with Studebaker Avanti stylings.)

My Mom insisted on driving it, even though I wasn't sure she could drive a stick. (She can.) However, Vlad was trying to find a replacement. He was embarrassed that this was a one-seater when we clearly needed space for five. Six if other (late) brother was going to join later, as planned.

I then told Vlad about my trip to the then Soviet Union in 1984 [author's note: which actually happened]. Somehow we bonded. "You know, [Montag]"--he spoke English with a nearly perfect American accent--"When you were visiting my country in 1984, I was working as a [mumble] in a factory in [mumble]," he said. "I used to hide in a closet in the bathroom and listen to the conversations that people had. This is how I first became interested in spying."

And then I woke up, unfortunately. If I'd managed to stay asleep longer, I might have information that could foster world peace.

Pandemic dreamin' on such a summer's day

Dream #1

Short version: I invited some people to stay at my place during lockdown, and they brought along a heretofore unknown chimpanzee.

Hilarity did not ensue.

In fact, I found myself saying stuff like,

"Of course I adore your monkey and I want him to be comfortable here but I just don't feel this is the best environment for him"

and ...

"No, I am not being uptight about this; it's just that I need to get some work done, and that's difficult to do with Bonzo swinging around the apartment all the time"

and ...

"I'm sorry, I assumed his name was Bonzo. No offense intended."

Dream #2

More Toronto freeway dreams. There has been more than one, but I can't recall the others at the moment. This time I was trying to dodge road crews, potholes, and bicycles (!) on the Gardiner Expressway.

In this dream, I had to periodically pull to the side of the roadway at some sort of weigh station or sentry booth. Then I had tell someone (the freeway gods?) a joke or funny story. Each time I tried to do so, however, someone just before me had told the same joke or had told a better joke, so I had to keep moving on. Author's note: I blame hashtag games of Twitter.

The big existential crisis of the dream was when I decided to stay on the Gardiner to get to my destination, somewhere northwest of the city, instead of taking a crosstown route to the 401 MacDonald-Cartier Freeway.

Author's note: Sadly, there is no crosstown route like this in Toronto. Quiet Flows the Don Valley Parkway does not count.

I don't know why, other than it being "the road not taken," but this decision caused me a great deal of anxiety. So much so that the anxiety woke me up.

Oh, and somewhere in the midst of this, I had to drive in reverse for several miles so that I could look through the contents of hundreds of Amazon boxes that had been spilled in the roadway.

At this point in the pandemic, my dreams are little more than thinly veiled yearnings for purpose, attention, guidance, road trips, and shopping.

Dream #3

Author's note: The US-Canada border has been closed to non-essential travel since late March; this is expected to continue until at least late August. Oddly, you can still fly to the US from Toronto's Pearson International Airport. (The commuter airport, Billy Bishop/Toronto Islands, appears to be completely shut down, save for the occasional traffic or weather helicopter.) But upon return from your travels, you are supposed to self-quarantine for 14 days until you're sure you're not sick with the 'rona.

I'm in the waiting area of a small commuter airport flying to a work-related conference in the USA. I'm really looking forward to the trip.

I'm carrying with me a small suitcase and my Mac desktop computer (27" monitor) under one arm (as one does, surely). No case for the Mac, just tucked under my arm and dragging it along to use while I'm at the conference. I suddenly realize I've brought it to the airport but forgotten the power cord, the speakers, the keyboard, the mouse, etc. However, I figure I'll sort it out and buy those when I get to my destination.

Suddenly my Mom and sister join me. They're going with me to the conference where we're going to meet my brother and his wife. We go to board at Gate 2, but the numbers are not sequential, 5, 7, 3, 1, 4, 6, 2, so it takes us a while to find the gate.

Instead of using a "jet bridge" to access the plane, we have to take a tram, which will carry us to the plane at midfield. Suddenly, one of my work colleagues shows up for the flight as well.

"I didn't know you were coming to this conference!"

"Yes, I am, but I don't have a place to stay."

Suddenly, I realize that my Mom and sister don't have hotel rooms either. "We'll figure it out when we get there," I say.

Finally, we are on the tram, and I open my suitcase, which is more like a briefcase or satchel. I look at my Mom in a panic. "I've forgotten my passport! I don't have my permanent residence card! I can't get on this flight. I can't get into the US without my passport and can't get back into Canada without my permanent residence card."

I stopped short of standing up, the shot panning out, and yelling, "I'm a man without a country!" but, give that the border is closed and there's no end in sight to all this meshugas, that is the subtext in my thinking these days.

I realized I would not "figure this out later," but I woke up before I had to take any action, such as bolting from the tram or, upon arrival in the US, proclaiming my ignorance when I got to Customs and Immigration. Surely I, an American citizen, does not need a passport to enter my own country when a Canadian driver's license should suffice as ID, I would say in my best Karen/Kyle imitation.

I'm an anxious traveler at the best of times--fine once on the plane, fine when I get to my destination, but getting ready to leave for the airport or leave the airport for the hotel, or home-train-hotel, or home-bus-hotel, or home-car-hotel, or everything in reverse, presents me with a host of unknowns that, frankly, puts me on the edge of a psychic abyss.

So forget two weeks of quarantine: The first trip anywhere after this pandemic is going to require my immediate hospitalization upon arrival for nervous exhaustion.

Last night I dreamt that Don Draper loved me

"Don Draper Wiki" by Promotional Photo. Source: Wikipedia

They're baaaaaack. My odd, more than likely Wellbutrin-induced dreams, that is.

Last night I dreamed that Don Draper left me cooling my heels in an office building lobby while he went up to his office with "an old flame." Some tacky blonde shiksa who worked a perfume counter or ran a flower shop. I can't remember which.

I sat in the lobby for about 10 minutes. It became a lunchroom for office workers, then a "Borscht Belt" neighborhood block party. I figured it was pretty obvious that Don wasn't coming back for me anytime soon. He didn't owe me anything, we weren't a couple. We were "just friends," but there had been some low-grade tension between us, and I had secretly hoped it had been of a sexual nature.

I started to walk home, trying to thread my way through the boisterous neighbors. I ended up walking along the river where I ran into an old friend. We chatted for a few minutes and then he invited me to have a drink with him at a bar downtown. I agreed.

We caught up on each others' news, had a couple of drinks, and I bitched about "this guy in my life" who wouldn't treat me right. I vowed never again would I take his B.S.

The "old friend" invited me back to his place, but I declined. I needed to be alone.

I arrived home and my brother was there, asking me about my evening. I started to explain what had happened, when ol' Don himself rings the doorbell and asks to see me. My brother lets him in and departs. Don says hello. He seems more brooding than normal, then starts asking me questions: Where had I been? Where had I disappeared to? Why? 

When I told him I'd decided not to wait around, had ran into an old friend, yadda yadda yadda, he had the nerve to ask me, "Did you sleep with him?"

I told him that was hardly relevant or any of his concern, given his recent actions and the platonic nature of our relationship.

He then grabbed me, kissed me passionately, and professed his love for me. We then started talking about us and our future together.

And then I woke up. Of course.

Oh, don't worry, I know it won't last. The point is that Don Draper told me he loved me! And I didn't have to sleep with him to make that happen!

The moral of the story? When you're dealing with the Don Drapers of the world, treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen. He fell like a debutante's dress on prom night.

But come to think of it, so did I.

The secondary moral is this: Don't watch a documentary about the Borscht Belt or an interview with Elizabeth Moss right before bedtime when you've got a belly full of fish tacos and lemonade.

You're welcome, world.

Benelux-urious dreaming

Tram 25 at the Damrak, Amsterdam
(CC0 - Courtesy of Wikipedia)

I'm somewhere in Amsterdam on a trolley, and I start talking with this young woman from Texas. She looks around and points to the city and asks in her vaguely remembered twang, "Is this your heritage?" I say no. 

Meanwhile young guys keep walking up to flirt with her and one sits in her lap. They look at me. I look at them. They are sexy, but they are not interested in me, specifically. They're just 18 and perpetually turned on by the world. I'm just in their line of sight, their aura, for a brief moment.
 
I turn and I'm now talking with a 30-something Dutch businessman on the same trolley. His hair is a mix of red and blond. He's burly, slightly chubby, and professional-looking in his gray suit. Handsome but in an unassuming way. 

We talk about Brussels. I tell him I think Brussels has the most beautiful public square in the world, and I get a picture in my mind of a morning-bright plaza, crisp and springlike air, and bold-colored flowers everywhere. 

The businessman looks forlornly out the window as we pass a neon-lit bookstore. It's named Loekers or Lookers or something like that. "I was offered a job in Brussels once, but it didn't work out. I was supposed to end up in Brussels," he sighs.

The trolley rolls on. The city passes by. I ask how and where to get off the train. I want to go to Brussels now. I get off the trolley with the Texas girl and the Dutch businessman. It's a sparse, suburban station. There's no one around, even though it's late afternoon, and the station should be full of commuters.

We start to walk through the neighborhood. The houses and buildings are odd and moon colony-like with small, recessed windows and queerly pitched roofs with off-center peaks. The village makes me think of Le Corbusier, and I wonder if he designed it.

And then I wake up.

Maybe I should lay off the Gouda before bedtime.

* * *

My wise sister  had this to say about the dream: 

Your life is in transition (train). You don't want to lose connection with your past (Texas, the girl gets off train with you). You would like to go somewhere exotic and new (Brussels), but the transition is slow and uncertain (walking through sparse neighborhood). Freud's got nothing on me. You're welcome.

Spot-on I'd say. 

More about that transition soon, I hope.