Woke up speaking French this morning

Really – it was the strangest thing. One of those anxiety dreams, where you’re trying to run to the right train through the Mobeus-shaped station built of slippery water-slide tubes. You know that one, right? But it was all right, because this was Paris, and well, you know how the French are about their trains. What was strange about it was that, unlike most anxiety dreams, I was actually making progress. I found the ticket counter. And it was open. My dream clearly hadn’t prepared for this eventuality, because it hadn’t gotten far enough to tell me where I was supposed to be going. Somewhere south seemed like a good idea, but it was kind of blank. You know, that Truman Show-like quality where you come around the corner and suddenly find yourself backstage? So I dredged up my college French and started explaining to the ticket agent that we needed to pause a bit to let the dream figure out what I was supposed to be doing. And my dream clearly threw in the towel, because halfway through “Peut-être qu’il serait mieux si nous attendre un peu…” I realized that it was hard to speak because I was lying face down with my head under a stack of flannel pillows. Speaking French.
Anyhow, I’ve read that telling other people what you’ve just dreamt is close to the top of the How-to-Get-Your-Victim’s-Eyes-to-Glaze-Over list of party topics. So… I’m really telling you this because, uh, it has something to do with France? Where Devon and Andy will be going some time soon. Or maybe already have. Well, it does have something to do with travel, right? And this is the roadtrip blog…

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