Surrealistic Pillow, pt. 1

Surrealistic Pillow, pt. 1

My dreams lately have been … unbelievably weird. Not frightening. But, just truly odd.

So, I thought I’d try a little series to look at over time. This might just peter out to nothing. But, it might also provide comic relief.

Today’s dream:
I’m in Moscow and trying to get .. somewhere. Not quite sure where. First, I have to navigate some sort of strange set of obstacles to find my bus. One such obstacle was insanely high and consisted of what I thought were bound bales of hay but ended up being old Christmas trees packaged very tightly. The only reason this was apparent was because of the newer and fresher ones that had just been added to the gigantic mound. (I didn’t actually get over this obstacle in my dream but obviously managed to since I eventually found the bus. The last of my dream that was focused on this particular vignette had me trying to get over it and tumbling back down to the ground when I lost my foothold.)

Moving on…

I’m on the bus. This was not a typical bus for Moscow. For one thing, the bus was spotless and didn’t smell of pickled cabbage or piss. And, it was shiny. It was more like a the inside of a bus in Amsterdam. The other difference was the people. They were… friendly. Not chatty by any means but certainly smiling and looking generally alright with the world and others in it.

As I’m happily enjoying a bus ride in Moscow (definitely not something I can say I ever enjoyed doing in Moscow), I then realise to my horror that I’ve missed my stop. All the ladies around me realise this as well and offer knowing looks of sympathy and words of support and encouragement as a lug my stuff to the exit.

When I get to the exit, I see this drunken, soiled man sprawled on the steps leading off the bus (doors still closed and bus still moving) mumbling incoherently (and obviously enjoying the mother of all benders) with a half opened, very large can of red salmon caviar next time, into which he is sticking his hand and helping himself to bits of ikra. (Insert big gigantic ‘what the f…?’ here.)

The babushkii standing around quite openly judging this poor soul encourage me to use the other exit and, wait for it, apologise for their drunken countryman. I run to the exit at the back of the bus where the nice, supportive ladies are and exit the bus to the sounds of ‘it was nice to meet you!’, ‘good luck, girl!’, and ‘safe journey!’ (I don’t think anyone ever spoke to me other than tell me to get out of their way or to ask what the next stop was in the 8 years I used public transport in Moscow.)

I get off the bus and find myself in the middle of a Finnish woodland.

Things that make you go, ‘hmmmm’.

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