The Germans

I dreamed I was in some old port city in South Jersey that doesn't exist. There were wharves made of stone and cobblestone streets, grey in the midmorning light. We were eating at long tables outside. There was some barely coherent plan about taking a sailboat up to a spot just north of Manhattan, but the journey would take some time. I don't know how to sail, but that wasn't stopping us. My wife indicated that there were several Germans, new to town, who were going to accompany us on the trip. Two of them were identical, and had giant red walrus mustaches that drooped down to their waists. They wore aviator glasses and were clad in sealskin tunics and stared at us from a nearby table, wrestling with each other for what appeared to be giant waffle that tore like Indian poori bread.  Their leader was inside getting beers, and had the arrogant look of cyclist Lance Armstrong. He nodded at us, and I noted to the wife that these guys gave me a strange vibe.

And that was it.