Dream: The Chef Cuts His Hand

Dream 20040614, 5:30 AM:
I’m with Dad on a trip. It seems that we’re in some Spanish-speaking country, but I don’t have a clear sense of place. We are driving a small compact car through a forested area that reminds me of northern California. There are some kind of authorities after us; I don’t know why. We stop at a little shack that has all kinds of different meats on big skewers out front; they chop off meat of your choice and make it into a soup. I wonder if I can get mine without noodles, just meat and vegetables. Dad asks for a sample of one of the meats, and they slice off a good-sized hunk and hand it to him. We speak Spanish to the man in the shack the whole time, although he looks Oriental. We place orders, and he goes into the back of the shack to prepare them. I have a vision, almost like a movie where they cut to a different scene, and in the vision I can see the man is inside, calling the authorities. He then makes an elaborate process of cutting his hand on the meat slicer – first he slices a thin slice of vegetables, then he removes his rubber gloves and carefully slices one of his hands, then he scoops up some bloody soap suds on the piece of vegetable, and then he puts the suds on a bouquet of flowers. He starts to bring the flowers out to us. I turn to Dad, and explain what I saw, and that the man is going to come out and tell us he’s sorry but our meal will be delayed, could we please wait here, and he will bring us the flowers by way of apologizing for our wait. If we do wait, the authorities will catch us. We jump into the car, which has gone from being compact to being ridiculously small like a golf cart. Dad gets in, but I have trouble getting in; it feels like I’m trying to climb through the window. We haul off down the road with me still hanging half out.

Then, Mom, Dad, Richard, and I are at a hostel for the night. It is one large room, like the family room of an old house, and the hostess is sleeping in one of the beds. Richard and I have to share a bed, and it seems very small; we toss and turn and try to sleep, but can’t because the bed is so tiny. I tell Mom that it’s got to be a single, or maybe a super single; she says that it looks like an ordinary double bed. I get out a measuring tape, and after turning it several ways to get the numbers going the right direction, I figure out that the bed is forty inches across, but I can’t remember the sizing standards, so it doesn’t help much. We finally decide to just get up and go, because we’re not sleeping, and the whole family picks up their stuff and prepares to leave.