Breakfast | The Dreamweaver

Updated: Jan 13, 2021

My whole family went on vacation and after missing the tram to our hotel, we decided to walk to a taxi stand nearby.

Just as we all walked away from the tram stop, another tram rolled by so we turned around and made for the tram stop lugging our baggage and running towards the waiting tram.

At the hotel, we decided to go straight to the restaurant for breakfast and I went to the kitchen to place our order. There, I encountered a jolly, heavyset Mexican man who asked what I wanted, pointing to a small chalkboard sign hanging on the wall. The sign indicated three breakfast choices: simple, normal and complete, and the man went on to describe each of the individual meals.

To make things easier, I ordered simple meals for the little kids, normal ones for the big kids and my mother, and the complete for me, Wendy and my dad. But then the man started going person by person to ask which juice they wanted, which hot beverage, which cold beverage, brown bread or white bread, and so on.

Starving and becoming more and more impatient with man, I started speaking to him in Spanish (not the first time I’ve spoken Spanish in a dream!). I told him he could choose all the meals any way he liked as long as there was good variety. Then I asked him if he was from Guanajuato, in central Mexico, and he said he’d never heard of it and that he was from the east.

At that moment, I suddenly realized I wasn’t wearing a face mask and told the man I was going back to my table. Minutes later, he came out with the first orders. I followed him back to the kitchen to make sure he had the rest of the food coming and just then my mother appeared in the kitchen, handing me a plastic yogurt container with the foil pulled back and told me to smell it to see if it wasn’t spoiled. I took a taste and whatever it was in that container had a crispy layer at the top that was salty and smelled of garlic, so most naturally I thought it had gone off.

Then I looked at the label and saw it wasn’t yogurt but in fact some kind of soft French cheese with a crispy layer of bacon on top. “That must be for dad,” I told my mother and we both returned to the table.

Then I woke up.

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