Friday, January 31, 2003

French toast

One of my friends, I don’t remember which, told me about some dream he/she had this week, but I don’t remember what the dream was about because who really pays attention when someone is recounting a dream anyway? Dreams are weird, and rarely do they make any sense. For example, I might be flying to Ukrzytikstan for vacation except I am riding on a magic toaster, and when I arrive in Uxrtanistan, I am waiting for my bags to come. But when I get my bags, they are really pieces of burnt toast. And the airline tries to cover up the fact they are burnt by scraping off most of the blackened bread, but face it, I am never going to use it because scraped-off, burnt toast can never be white bread. Do you know what I’m saying? Of course you don’t because it is a dream, and no one understands dreams ‘cause they’re dumb.

But if this were real and not a dream, then I would have been flying to France, which is easier to spell than Uqrapystan, and that is the only easy thing about it. I would have also been flying in a real airplane, and I would have waited for real suitcases. But the real suitcases would be gone forever and come to me burnt, destroyed, demolished, and wrapped in various versions of plastic. And they would be filled with unrecognisable stuff because that stuff belongs to someone else. Are you following me? No, you aren’t because this real scenario is called a nightmare, which is just a scary dream.

As I said, nothing is easy in France, so I have spent 3 weeks jumping through hoops and walking through a fog of nasty cigarette smoke trying to reach someone at Air France about the bag of trash I received in place of my real stuff. So that is why I haven’t written a letter for a month now. And no, I still haven’t been able to talk to anyone at Air France.

I guess that isn’t the only thing I’ve done this month. Two days ago I finished reading “The Lord of the Rings” series. Those stories are wonderful once you get going. Tolkien can be extremely and unnecessarily wordy, but the stories are addicting. Besides teaching, those are the only things I’ve done this month. Oh wait, I went to Paris for a weekend and ate more African food. This time we ate with our hands. I’ve eaten with my hands before – chicken, hotdogs, french fries, know, things meant to be eaten with hands. But this was not something most people I know would eat using only hands, and I liked it.

I don’t want to get started on this, but there was another strike this week. These people strike way too much over here. When I was going to school in Utah, one of my friends was a teacher at a junior high school; she still is, now that I think about it. Anyway I knew that when there would be a teacher’strike, none of the teachers would work that day. No students would show up to schoo either because “teacher’s strike” = “holiday”. But here, it’s a big guessing game. The students show up, and maybe they’ll have classes and maybe not. What is the point of traveling to school, and some of these kids TRAVEL, for naught? These strikes annoy a lot of people, especially me. I could go off for days and days, but don’t get me started.


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