Dangerous Race

Dearest Rachel –

I need to get this written down quickly, as the details – such as there were – are already starting to fade from my memory. That’s the trouble with dreams; trying to put them into a story form is like trying to get a soap bubble to hold still so you can paint its portrait. Worse, actually, since you can take a picture of a soap bubble; there are no cameras allowed in the dream world. So getting things written down is just not possible without filling in most of the gaps from one’s (faulty) memory. But, I’m going to have to try…

It doesn’t help that the perspective of it all wasn’t particularly clear. Was I watching the contestants of a reality show en route around the perimeter of Europe – and one of the couples simply either looked like you and I, and were meant for us, as the audience, to identify with? Or was it that I was the fellow of that particular team, in the midst of this Amazing Race knockoff? Any time I thought I was clear on the subject, it appeared to switch gears on me, from first person perspective to third person, and back again. So I couldn’t even tell you if I was audience or participant in this whole thing.

What I can tell you is that this particular leg of the journey had the contestants supposedly making their way (or us making our way?) down the coast of Portugal, with four stops along the way. Porto and Lisbon, obviously, but I’ve no idea about the other two cities; there doesn’t seem to be anything between those two in real life, nor is there anything significant that I can find at the southwest corner of the country. But anyway, they/we were at the first stop, Porto, which my mind had made to look more like Barcelona as we might remember it (since I haven’t been anywhere in Portugal, so I’ve no real idea what it might look like. I’m sure that comparison would offend the locals, but it’s all my mind has to work with. Besides, it’s a dream; these things are bound to happen).

I haven’t a clue what the competition was – or if there even was one, apart from simply getting where we were going (I don’t watch the Amazing Race, after all – that’s Ellen’s thing). All I know is that either we, or the couple we as the audience were supposed to identify with and root for, lost, and had to be eliminated. Except… they/we weren’t eliminated, at least, not entirely. Only one of the couple had to leave the race, while the other was to continue to carry on and try to catch up (and hopefully overtake) with the competition.

As a form of consolation, the two of them (the two of us? I know, these interruptions must be annoying for you; consider how confusing it was for me as I tried to make sense of it all; or even now, as I’m trying to piece it all together from memory) went to the city center to a local night spot for a final dinner together before having to part. I wish I could describe the place; the exterior looked like it had been designed by a cross between Antonin Gaudi and Hieronymus Bosch, with supporting pillars that looked almost fleshy.

The meal looked exquisite, as well; a beef dish with a light, flaky pastry that somehow seemed to combine the best of a vol-au-vent with a Wellington. I could practically taste it in my dream – I wonder if my practice of trying to fast once a week is already starting to catch up with me? Clearly, they – we? – were able to enjoy themselves, even as the night was tinged with the sadness of loss.

The scene shifted to the hotel, where they were required to say their goodbyes. He, or rather I, was to stay the night before continuing southward to catch up with everyone else, while she/you would ostensibly be going home. Only… here’s where the obvious twist comes in. Of course, this wouldn’t go on camera, at least as part of the actual reality show, but in this particular game, the concept of ‘elimination’ is serious business. Not that the contestants (or the audience, for that matter) realize it at any point save for the end itself, but you were never meant to make it home (or rather, I suppose, you would be going to your eternal home, more to the point).

And while I wasn’t supposed to be aware of this, somehow I found out. In fact, I got evidence of what the showrunners were doing on camera (I can’t recall if it was still photos or video or both), and determined right then and there to catch up and overtake the others. Not so that they would die rather than myself, but so that I could warn them and we could save ourselves as a group by exposing what they were doing to the watching world. What happened to you, I vowed, would be the last time something like that would happen.

Beyond that, I couldn’t tell you more. I don’t even know the specifics of your fate, despite supposedly having filmic evidence; if you were shot or poisoned or made to commit suicide, I’ve no idea. It was definitely the stuff of thrillers, a la Logan’s Run or The Running Man, except with a sudden dawning of awareness as to the seriousness of the situation, and the need to do something to stop it. But at this point, my consciousness ran out of time, or film, or whatever, and the dream ended. So I don’t know if I managed to win, or save anyone, or expose the crooked production company (or even ascertain why they were doing this; it clearly wasn’t for the entertainment of the audience, as they seemed to be as unaware of what was going on behind the scenes as you and I were until it was too late). Of course, being a dream, it doesn’t really matter, I suppose.

But I sure could go to that nightclub for that beef dish…

Anyway, thanks for putting up with these ramblings; I need to get on with my day. Keep an eye on me, honey, and wish me luck. I’m going to need it.