Such Vivid Dreams...
I was staying in Paris, in a top floor apartment, locking Polish gangsters in every room that would hold them (you know, like all tourists do in Paris), when I realized I had forgotten to go souvenir shopping. I was looking for a specific kind of tea that I had gotten last time I was there (this part is totally true, I can even remember the label, but not the name or brand), but the open air supermarket down the street didn't have it. I went into the corner store and started loading up on macarons, chocolate, other food to take home, when I saw their wall of tea tins and boxes. I started scanning every box, every shelf, till I found what I was looking for - a label with a windmill on it, called "after dark" that looked like Moulin Rouge (this is my lying brain not finding the real tea box, but making up a cool alternative). The owner rang me up, I fumbled in my wallet for my Disney Visa, thinking that I didn't call them before I left for Paris, and he asked if I wanted a bag for a euro. I didn't have any cash, so I told him I'd go grab one from the apartment above the store.
Every detail stands out, every item on the supermarket shelf, and even the wrinkles in the hand of the owner. Everything made sense, and my thought process was exactly like a waking encounter.
The only thing that the owner calmly noted was that I was flying. He off handedly mentioned how creeped out he was, waking up one morning to construction guys hovering outside his window, obviously referring to my fluttering near the ceiling, reading tea box labels. I told him that must have been a surprise for him, and rude of the workers, not acknowledging his comparison between my flying and theirs. It was a very normal conversation, like something a polite owner would converse about in English to an American tourist.
Posted via m.livejournal.com.
Every detail stands out, every item on the supermarket shelf, and even the wrinkles in the hand of the owner. Everything made sense, and my thought process was exactly like a waking encounter.
The only thing that the owner calmly noted was that I was flying. He off handedly mentioned how creeped out he was, waking up one morning to construction guys hovering outside his window, obviously referring to my fluttering near the ceiling, reading tea box labels. I told him that must have been a surprise for him, and rude of the workers, not acknowledging his comparison between my flying and theirs. It was a very normal conversation, like something a polite owner would converse about in English to an American tourist.
Posted via m.livejournal.com.