boccaderlupo: Fra' Lupo (Default)
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I dreamed I was waiting for my wife in a hotel bar. It had at once a measure of the coziness of the English pubs I remembered from my short time there, crossed with a measure of your typical corporate swank. One of the kids' wrestling coaches was waiting there too, for a rendezvous with an unspecified lady from about town. I didn't ask him anything about that. My wife finally showed up, and we departed.

We were going to meet our friends from Missouri who were at that time traveling to Vermont, and we were going to do it on foot. It's a fairly long way on foot from Jersey to Vermont, however, and we were taking lightly traveled paths through the backwoods. These paths sometimes dipped into underground brick-and-mortar passegways, partial dungeons leading from one island of forest to another. I didn't think we were going to make it in time. We were also bringing with us various loaves of bread, some regular old bread, some French, some Bastone, that, on account of the rain, we would cover in our long overcoats. Sometimes the bread was so much that it stuck halfway out, and in one of the passageways, bats flew down upon on, tearing and ripping pieces from the loaves.

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