Dearest Rachel –
Considering the title, and the fact that it’s barely six o’clock as I’m starting to write you (can you guess that I’m trying to do anything but head off to the gym? At least I’m far enough below that mental threshold – and have been for almost a week, now – that I don’t feel the need to do so out of penance), you can probably tell that I’m about to tell you about another one of my dreams. This is not something that one could look forward to experiencing in real life – although certain elements of the whole might easily be possible, especially since there was no point where we were actually in the stadium, watching the game – so one has to rely on one’s imaginations to immerse oneself in such an event.
This one is particularly interesting in that I can determine how and why my mind would come up with the various elements of the experience – I hesitate to call it a ‘plot’ or a ‘story,’ as there was none to speak of, just the sights and smells and tastes of the event. And yes, I could almost both smell and taste what was going on, thanks to having refrained from eating (even snacking!) since noon yesterday. My guess is that my taste buds, realizing they weren’t going to get anything like this physically for a while yet, asked my mind to conjure something like this up for the purpose of tiding them over – and possibly encouraging me to eat again sooner than I might have originally planned for today. But we’ll get to the specifics in a moment.
Admittedly, I’m not sure why Quidditch, or why Milwaukee. Attending a game of any sort, I could vaguely understand, since last evening was spent gaming with the girls for the first time since mid-May, if the Skype program is to be believed. I’m stunned that it’s been that long, but you held our little group together – as did, for different reasons, Kevin – so, without the two of you, it’s no surprise that this has faded from regularity (to say nothing of the fact that it will probably never recover). But such a fading! We couldn’t even all play together, as Erin’s computer wasn’t cooperating – she really needs a new machine, but as long as that’s my opinion, and not hers, that’s not going to happen. Besides, she’s not terminally (pardon the expression) behind one screen or another like I am, so we have different levels of understand of how necessary an actual computer can be.
However, she did contribute mightily to the conversation, telling about her vacation last week, circumnavigating the Midwest to join up with one or another of her friends, picking them up along the way. She talked about getting in a half-marathon’s worth of practice (and then some!) despite being in the midst of her travels – it was helped by doing so with a cousin who also plans to run the Chicago Marathon with Team World Vision; at the same time, it was hindered by having to deal with the rolling hills of rural Wisconsin, for one – not to mention the fact that, her cousin being a guy, she felt as if she was holding him back for a change (as opposed to her usual custom down here of having female companions on her runs, thereby almost always leading the pack). I would go into more detail, but these are more her stories to tell, and this was as much as I could glean (and retain until morning), so until she decides to tell you more, I’m afraid this is about all you’re likely to get in terms of information.
So I’m guessing her tales contributed to the setting of last night’s vision, and perhaps why she was there with us as we wandered through the makeshift corridors of vendor stalls outside the tournament. Those stalls, by the way, were what gave me the impression that this had to do with some sport other than what might be familiar to us in real life; the jerseys offered for sale were striped and heavy, like they were meant for a cool-weather game (but clearly not American – or even what the world refers to as – football). Oh, and as a quick aside, this was yet another intrusion of real life into my imagination; it may be the beginning of August, when it’s supposed to be miserably hot, and you know our bedroom isn’t part of the house’s air-conditioning system, but between the cool of the night and the last few days’ overcast, combined with the ceiling fan running nonstop (although I actually dialed it back before going to sleep last night), it was chilly enough to imagine a chilly fall day, as hard as that may be to believe.
But back to the event itself that supposedly brought us here. Considering that Quidditch players generally wear robes rather than jerseys, I should more logically have concluded that some sort of rugby tournament was going on, but somehow, my mind insisted on something more fanciful. I guess it refused to accept that something like rugby could ever be popular enough here to draw such a crowd, whereas the fantasy fandom is still mighty enough to fill a stadium easily, social justice warriors who have it in for J.K.Rowling notwithstanding. Let them marinate in their own misery; the rest of us can enjoy the spectacle for ourselves.
And speaking of marinating… this was a key to why I could assume we were in Milwaukee (despite the fact that few, if any, of Erin’s travels took her through her one-time home city). Not that anything was necessarily actually marinating (aside, perhaps, from simmering in beer before being thrown on a semi-portable grill), but the air was heavy with what a dad like myself would refer to as ‘the best of the wurst.’ Pale veal sausages sizzled alongside spiced pork and beef offerings, surrounded by a host of translucent onions, waiting to be piled atop a bun and covered in sharp golden mustard. It still makes me hungry to relate it to you now – and mildly disappointed that all I have for myself for breakfast is cereal and fruit. There’s probably eggs in the refrigerator, too, but even that is nowhere near the same thing, you’ll agree.
Of course, I can’t recall her reaction, but I think I was amused to recall that Erin despises her adoptive home’s main culinary contributions to the world, and wondering what she was making of the whole situation. You and I used to tease her about that, clearly perplexed at the level of her disgust – there had to be something more to it than just not knowing exactly what went into those sausages. But that aside, the booths were crowded together, not unlike the Christmas markets in Basel, so presumably she could have found herself something else to consume and enjoy before the festivities began in earnest.
Not that they ever did; dreams don’t always allow you to experience the entire story, as you well know. Indeed, most of the time, you’re left with these little snippets, and the wondering of “where in the world did that come from?” To be sure, there was more answer to that question this morning than most, but it wasn’t entirely complete, either. And of course, it does leave one wishing that there was something like that we could go to together, and enjoy it in real life.
But for now, the regular week begins, and fantasy has to be set aside. You take care of yourself, honey; keep an eye on me, and wish me luck. I’m going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 