I dreamed I had come off the train in a small town somewhere in America, Mexico perhaps, judging by the clothes the people wore – big hats, lots of religious iconography in the streets, sacred hearts and blessed virgins everywhere.  It must have been a weekend at least or perhaps a holiday.  People congregated in bars at outside tables and on the street itself.  
I said good-bye to my husband who had travelled with me on the train.  He had errands to run and we planned to meet up after an hour or two.  I intended to wander and explore alone.  

I left the station and walked down to a small shopping area in the centre of town.  I thought at first that I had lost my shoes.  At one point I looked downward and realised I was barefoot.  I must have left my shoes behind.  I could not understand that I had taken off my shoes and left them behind but the evidence of my bare feet was incontrovertible.  How else could I lose my shoes.

I walked around in circles looking for them.  There were many different abandoned shoes scattered across the streets, in pairs and singles.  Most resembled the recycled variety of sandal shoe we had bought for my daughter for Christmas from American Apparel – the shoes that had twice fallen apart and that I had needed to return twice before we finally collected a pair that have lasted for more than one wear.  

No sooner had I found my shoes than I discovered I had left my handbag somewhere and it was gone too, stolen I feared, and worst of all, worse than the money stolen would be the dreadful job of having to cancel and then re-order my credit card and licence and other bank cards.  

I walked alongside a young couple with American accents.  She told me she was about to go off to pray.  He, on the other hand, was not interested in prayer.  He had jobs to do.  The woman scolded me for my carelessness when I told her about my lost handbag.  They were gone before they had even offered to help me to look for it.  To them I seemed a lost cause, a hopeless case.  I could see it in their eyes.  
Next thing, I saw my handbag hanging off my arm.  It must have been there all along.  I had simply not recognised I was carrying it, in much the way I sometimes forget that my glasses, the ones I think I have lost, are sitting there on top of my head.  

My handbag however had changed shape.  It was larger than it used to be and when I looked inside I saw that the original handbag, my real handbag, was fitted snugly inside.  I could not bring myself to take a look to check that my wallet had not been stolen.  I still suspected foul play and I needed a quiet space alone to contemplate my losses.