I dreamt I was walking on a residential city street late at night, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. A police car suddenly pulled up next to me. Even though it wasn’t pot, I chucked the cig, so there wouldn’t be an appearance of impropriety. The policeman emerged covered from head to toe in high-tech armor, especially his head. He looked like a gigantic insect or alien. I gasped in fear. He reached for his gun and said, “What?” “You frightened me,” I said. He took me to a mobile outdoor police station, basically a vehicle with an open trunk. Several other perps waited there to pay fines and fill out paperwork. I only had to fill out paperwork. There was no fine for me, which was slightly surprising, but seemed right, since I hadn’t done anything wrong. As I was leaving, the cops asked if I had seen much tennis lately, which was also slightly surprising. I told them very cheerfully that I had played a lot of tennis and hoped to play more. Then I walked away into the late, late night.
I dreamt I was sitting next to an Italian guy on a bench in Venice. We started talking to each other in Italian about Italian poetry, going through all the great names. I mentioned Giovanni Pascoli, to his delight, then Guido Gozzano. Then, we turned to Eugenio Montale. He said that late in life Montale had frequented places like this. He pointed to a twisting covered passageway with an outdoor restaurant by the entrance. “Montale would eat a hamburger at a place like that.” I decided to eat there. A waitress came up to me. We spoke Italian. I struggled to communicate with her in exactly the same way that I would struggle to communicate with someone in Italian if I were awake, making the same language decisions, the same compromises to communicate something. I ordered a hamburger, but then was surprised when a waiter brought a bowl of soup, which didn’t have much soup in it, but was “all crackers.” I hoped it didn’t cost much.