Dream

There are moments when I dream images of a café somewhere exotic.

This phantom bistro is probably not France; the language is too harsh too many consonants are crashing one into the other in the staccato speech I overhear. Also it is not France because it is at the end of what should be summer the air on my exposed skin is a little too crisp. Horse draw carts pass motorbikes on cobblestone streets. Little Vespa-like rides bob this way and that. Under a bit of an overcast sky I sit outdoors at a street side table and listen to the noise of life as it is building through the morning. My time here is measured in leisurely hours.

My assumption in this dream is that this is all taking place on a Sunday morning. Some people sweep in front of shops that are not opening today. The boulevard before me while broad is not packed with persons traveling too and fro, however it is not empty either. The auguries of traffic patterns aside what really makes me think it is Sunday is that there is a certain elegance to the dress of those who are passing. Maybe they are on there way to, or perhaps, from mass. Dark haired and swarthy of complexion wearing black suits and cream colored blouses the people here convey a firm and solid beauty.

Colors on the buildings have faded. Once this place must have been prosperous for marble arches can be found in many building entrance ways. The marble is dirty with soot and grit now but there is still the elegance of a dowager refusing to accede to her fall in status. The city is neatly kept if worn and tired.

The air smells of the nearness of large water. There is a cleansing from the saline quality the air acquires near the ocean. Perhaps that is why I am here. Could it be I have come for my health? Whatever the reason I am in this place I am alone as I sip strong coffee and eat a breakfast pastry. I read as I observe this world. What I am reading is old, a battered copy of The Return of the Native. I know I have read it before but maybe it was all that I could find in English here in this place.

Sipping the dark strong roast I hear a seagull. Looking up I see it soaring up and over the roof of the row of buildings across the boulevard. I hear other birds erupt into screeching once it has cleared the roof-line.

And then I am awake and the place is gone. I feel a sense of loss at waking.