wha?
we are in a building. deep in the bowels of its twisty corridors. they are carpeted, and there is a nice chrome handrail. one side is generic office-style wallpaper, the other is bare, dank stone with torches burning in rings. we know we have to get out, so we begin walking up stairs, through corridors, around hairpin turns. eventually, there is a door, but it is going downwards. we argue amongst ourselves; some believe we must keep going up, others think we should go down and chance the door. it is a heavy door, ironbound dark wood gleaming in the torchlight. eventually, we decide to try the door.
we emerge onto a cobblestoned walk in what we suddenly know is boston during a historical festival. the streets are filled with re-enactors in colonial dress. we are in colonial dress. we begin to wander around boston (although it looks absolutely nothing like boston), until we get caught up in a skit, enacting british soldiers confiscating the colonists' shoes so they can recycle the leather and make shoes for themselves. after trying to explain that even though we're in costume, we're not part of the skit, we give them our shoes anyway.
then someone remembers we have to meet his parents at 7pm for dinner. so we run off in colonial dress with sock feet back to our hotel. we leave behind the historical festival, and first walk past a hispanic cabaret where the women are singing in spanish about antonio banderas (what?) then we walk along a street full of hotels in the late-afternoon sun of early summer. when we get to our hotel, i realize the skit performers took my only nice shoes, my high-heeled boots, and i can't go out to dinner in sneakers. it is now ten minutes until seven.
i make my apologies and run back, past the hotels, to the cabaret. i have to go to the park where the skit took place, but i can hear the boston symphony orchestra, and i know somehow that they're playing on the same stage that the british soldiers were using earlier, and i can't go there until they're done performing. so i sit at a table on the street outside the cabaret. someone, who i somehow know is a slimeball lawyer, comes over and asks me what i'm drinking. i say a gin and tonic, because it's summer. the waitress comes over and re-fills his drink, but doesn't bring me one, which confuses me because i think to myself, usually when someone asks, "what are you drinking?" they're going to buy you a drink.
then i realize that i still need to meet my friend's parents for dinner at 7, and i still have no shoes. so i apologize and run upstairs (upstairs?) to the park where the symphony is playing. an employee of the festival notices i'm looking lost and comes over and asks if she can help. i explain that we were in costume earlier and some of the actors took our shoes and now i need to meet people for dinner at 7, and i have no shoes. so she tiptoes around the side of the audience and comes back with paper bags full of shoes that we can look through. she's horrified that the actors are not only including tourists in their skits, but also treating them as though they were employees and taking their shoes. as the symphony is playing its final chords, we find my boots, and the employee offers me some free tickets to something i don't discover, because then i wake up.
i'm so confused.
we emerge onto a cobblestoned walk in what we suddenly know is boston during a historical festival. the streets are filled with re-enactors in colonial dress. we are in colonial dress. we begin to wander around boston (although it looks absolutely nothing like boston), until we get caught up in a skit, enacting british soldiers confiscating the colonists' shoes so they can recycle the leather and make shoes for themselves. after trying to explain that even though we're in costume, we're not part of the skit, we give them our shoes anyway.
then someone remembers we have to meet his parents at 7pm for dinner. so we run off in colonial dress with sock feet back to our hotel. we leave behind the historical festival, and first walk past a hispanic cabaret where the women are singing in spanish about antonio banderas (what?) then we walk along a street full of hotels in the late-afternoon sun of early summer. when we get to our hotel, i realize the skit performers took my only nice shoes, my high-heeled boots, and i can't go out to dinner in sneakers. it is now ten minutes until seven.
i make my apologies and run back, past the hotels, to the cabaret. i have to go to the park where the skit took place, but i can hear the boston symphony orchestra, and i know somehow that they're playing on the same stage that the british soldiers were using earlier, and i can't go there until they're done performing. so i sit at a table on the street outside the cabaret. someone, who i somehow know is a slimeball lawyer, comes over and asks me what i'm drinking. i say a gin and tonic, because it's summer. the waitress comes over and re-fills his drink, but doesn't bring me one, which confuses me because i think to myself, usually when someone asks, "what are you drinking?" they're going to buy you a drink.
then i realize that i still need to meet my friend's parents for dinner at 7, and i still have no shoes. so i apologize and run upstairs (upstairs?) to the park where the symphony is playing. an employee of the festival notices i'm looking lost and comes over and asks if she can help. i explain that we were in costume earlier and some of the actors took our shoes and now i need to meet people for dinner at 7, and i have no shoes. so she tiptoes around the side of the audience and comes back with paper bags full of shoes that we can look through. she's horrified that the actors are not only including tourists in their skits, but also treating them as though they were employees and taking their shoes. as the symphony is playing its final chords, we find my boots, and the employee offers me some free tickets to something i don't discover, because then i wake up.
i'm so confused.
posted by wizgeneric | 10:29 AM
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