Pancakes

You think you have crazy dreams?  Well, listen to this (and interpret, if you must.)

We woke up in a hotel and walked to the room next door still wearing our pajamas. There, we showed something on the computer screen to Vladimir Putin.  (Yes, he's been in the news lately, and this week on the cover of TIME magazine's three international editions, but not the US edition - don't want to embarrass main sewer media's domestic hero.)  Then we all walk out onto the mall outside following Vladimir. I note to my My companion notes that he is a small man, and I reply that he is strong, and trained in martial arts. Putin goes his own way, we go ours.  "Where are we going?" I ask her (don't ask me who she is, I don't know), and she answers "To the Museum of Modern Art, there is something there I want you to see."  We are still wearing our nighties.

Next, we return to the hotel.  People in Putin's room are looking for him.  Russians, Americans, a small crowd.  We tell them that he went out, all by himself, and without bodyguards; unlike most others of his stature, he's not afraid to do that.  More conversations.

We are hungry and walk toward the counter serving breakfast. Pancakes.  The menu hanging above is not clear, prices are not displayed.  Other customers are ordering.  I ask her, "What do you want?" She, now dressed in an elegant dress, is walking up the stairs, speaks to me, but doesn't answer my question,  OK, I'll order for myself, once I talk to the woman behind the counter, and figure out what's what.