I didn't have jalapeno and sardine sandwiches last night, but I had a weird dream anyway. I was taking a subway up to where I used to live, in New York City. It wasn't quite the same as when I was there; as the subway flew over the city (yes), I noticed that it was all lush and green, but noplace more than where we were going, surrounded by mini-waterfalls and elegant statuary. The subway ride eventually dead-ended against a building. I pushed my way out and found myself on a desolate street with grey, looming clouds and the feel of rain. I finally found a telephone booth, and, under the muttering gaze of someone who looked like a guard but sounded like a drunken vagrant, I called my home. The phone rang distantly for quite some time -- had I dialed the wrong number? -- and finally my cousin, who still has somewhat of an accent after immigrating decades ago from Nicarauga, answered. At first I couldn't undersand him, but he eventually said that my father was not there -- he was out, driving his cab -- and as for my mother -- and then he hung up. I stared at the dead phone handset for a minute -- and then I woke up.
Got to knock off those peanut butter and anchovy on rye sandwiches, I think.
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