Food-related dreams of foreign travel.
Feb. 7th, 2002 11:54 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
quislibetDream 1: I am in Athens. It's Sunday, and time to get to the airport to go home. I've only been there a few days, and haven't had any time at all to do anything I wanted to do there. (This is a recurring theme in occasional Athenian dreams I have.) I have forgotten my way around town and am worried I'll miss my plane. Worst of all, all of the little food stores (baklika) and kiosks (perptera) are closed so I can't buy my favorite coffee milk. Milcaf (clever name, neh?) also features prominently in such dreams, and it is usually not available. Perhaps it no longer is.
Dream 2: I am in either London or Paris or Stuttgart; it changes back and forth without causing cognitive dissonance. I am going to be there for a year, and need a second job to pay my way while working on my dissertation. How I'll have time to do that while working two jobs doesn't come up. What the first job is also does not come up. I am hired at McDonald's, located not far away at all from the mysterious first job. Hooray: I only have to learn one bus route. I go in to check my schedule. The employees are a strange mix of stereotypical small-town-Ohio and Bostonian McDonald's employees: either scrawny or overweight white people with twangy accents, or recent immigrants. All are speaking English, so there's no clue there as to which of the three cities I am in, but before entering the store I was attempting to have a conversation in French with someone who pointed out that a black cat had just crossed my path ("C'est, uh, n'est pas un chat noir. It had a, uh, spot, oh fuck it"). So perhaps this is Paris.
In the McDonald's the manager, an overweight Ohio woman in her 40s, isn't sure where the schedule is and goes off to find it. To pass the time I marvel at the dining room, full of comfy chairs and coffee tables in rich blues and purples. They sure don't make McDonaldses here in London/Paris/Stuttgart the way they do back home, nosiree. I flip through the employee handbook, which for some reason contains a lengthy section on optimal sleeping positions and the muscle strain and aches that bad positions can cause. It is illustrated with photographs of nude women lying asleep in these recommended or problematic ways.
I venture into the dining room again, where the employees are decorating for the Chinese festival they are celebrating that night. $79 a plate seems a bit steep for McDonald's, even if it is a Chinese festival, but as a new employee it is not my place to say. The centerpiece of the decoration is a wooden laundry drying rack festooned with crepe paper streamers and, oddly, lingerie and Underoos. A Filipino employee, as closest to Chinese, wildly invents a reason for this when the other crew members ask him.
No one ever shows me the schedule.
- - - - - - -
Last night, before recycling the weekly free North Shore newspaper from last weekend, I decided I might as well actually look at it, since we get two every week so it must really be important. The cover story concerned the fetish fleamarket held a couple of weeks ago in Andover. As always, the writing is terrible. Those of you familiar with the BDSM community may nonetheless be surprised to learn that some people are into "bounding and gagging." (Bounce, cough, bounce, cough,bounce.)
With the exception of a nice picture of Addam, they seem to have focused on photographing large hairy people of the "typical SCAdian" build, by which I mean only to describe, not to offend, and made a point of mentioning outlandish nicknames wherever possible. The three-page article could have been much worse, but lord knows it wasn't good.
Dream 2: I am in either London or Paris or Stuttgart; it changes back and forth without causing cognitive dissonance. I am going to be there for a year, and need a second job to pay my way while working on my dissertation. How I'll have time to do that while working two jobs doesn't come up. What the first job is also does not come up. I am hired at McDonald's, located not far away at all from the mysterious first job. Hooray: I only have to learn one bus route. I go in to check my schedule. The employees are a strange mix of stereotypical small-town-Ohio and Bostonian McDonald's employees: either scrawny or overweight white people with twangy accents, or recent immigrants. All are speaking English, so there's no clue there as to which of the three cities I am in, but before entering the store I was attempting to have a conversation in French with someone who pointed out that a black cat had just crossed my path ("C'est, uh, n'est pas un chat noir. It had a, uh, spot, oh fuck it"). So perhaps this is Paris.
In the McDonald's the manager, an overweight Ohio woman in her 40s, isn't sure where the schedule is and goes off to find it. To pass the time I marvel at the dining room, full of comfy chairs and coffee tables in rich blues and purples. They sure don't make McDonaldses here in London/Paris/Stuttgart the way they do back home, nosiree. I flip through the employee handbook, which for some reason contains a lengthy section on optimal sleeping positions and the muscle strain and aches that bad positions can cause. It is illustrated with photographs of nude women lying asleep in these recommended or problematic ways.
I venture into the dining room again, where the employees are decorating for the Chinese festival they are celebrating that night. $79 a plate seems a bit steep for McDonald's, even if it is a Chinese festival, but as a new employee it is not my place to say. The centerpiece of the decoration is a wooden laundry drying rack festooned with crepe paper streamers and, oddly, lingerie and Underoos. A Filipino employee, as closest to Chinese, wildly invents a reason for this when the other crew members ask him.
No one ever shows me the schedule.
- - - - - - -
Last night, before recycling the weekly free North Shore newspaper from last weekend, I decided I might as well actually look at it, since we get two every week so it must really be important. The cover story concerned the fetish fleamarket held a couple of weeks ago in Andover. As always, the writing is terrible. Those of you familiar with the BDSM community may nonetheless be surprised to learn that some people are into "bounding and gagging." (Bounce, cough, bounce, cough,bounce.)
With the exception of a nice picture of Addam, they seem to have focused on photographing large hairy people of the "typical SCAdian" build, by which I mean only to describe, not to offend, and made a point of mentioning outlandish nicknames wherever possible. The three-page article could have been much worse, but lord knows it wasn't good.
