Of Dreams.

16 January 2008

6.30 am

We slept, miraculously, from about 6pm to 6am.
This morning everything is still and warm.
As the surrounding inhabitants begin to stir, I am greeted through the thin walls by voices and conversations of French and Hebrew.


The Isreali's besde me laugh as I introduce myself as "United States." They nod, smiling, "of course," the say. My wide smile and loud laughter has given me away before I used any words. The Beatles play in the background as I settle into my hammock, enjoying the clean air and gentle guttural coos of the local birds and watch them twittering in the palms before the lake.

“We shouldn’t have come here first,” Alyson states. “We should’ve plowed straight to Tikal.”
I know what she means. It would be easy to stay here forever.

7.30am
As Alyson and I enjoy our morning air and the distant “cucooking” of roosters, the ambiatic twanging of our breakfast flat’s sutra music glows behind me. I can smell her warm coffee and watch the way her “pequino leche” stirs into the dark mug.

We lean back and reminisce our respective travels in Thailand or China or buses, and the play of journaling while we’re away. What does someone notice and what’s interesting enough for them to feel compelled to write it all down? And what was their experience of the same event like? I read her my take of the “banditos” from yesterday, and she reads hers. I explain that writing in the moment- even if it’s only about that one moment- recalls everything for that place in time. The smells (not always such a good one, but very often a funny thing to remember), the sounds (again, not always so good, but the unpleasant ones tend to resonate even funnier AFTER the fact), and the atmosphere. This way the memories are often as clear and pungent as the bad smells were.

I tell Alyson about my train ride from San Jose to Provo, where “I was above the smoking car- of all cars!” and where “the water was more expensive than the wine. And they were out of water.”
Ah, travel.

1pm
Remember that dream I had where I met the Irish guy and got pregnant and the only thought in my mind was not of regret or repentance or remorse, but simply, “ONCE?!?! All this and only ONCE!?!”…Well…I just met my dark-haired Irishman. And as much as I let the conversation on our boat die off, he just kept coming up with more to talk about. He loves horseback riding and can get us a deal on paragliding with his friends while we’re here. After he convinces us on visiting the hostel he works at in Livingson and we part ways, I tell Alyson that the man from my dream was just beside me on the boat. And I have his phone number…