Last night I dreamt of Budapest. Odd, you say? Certainly, and more intriguing was why I was moving there. And not only I, but a number of other Americans. A trio of three men wearing some type of blue uniform, no, not police, more like repair men. They had the letters HD on their shirt pockets, Harley Davidson, I inquired? No, they responded in unison, High Def. I have to stop watching so much TV.
There was someone else, but as dreams flit from memory so quickly, they must have boarded a trolley or bus. Four of us stood at some type of information counter, I remember asking about a flight to somewhere else. Why would I want to leave Budapest , someone behind the formica counter asked?
Blank, dream gone, dog on bed wanting out. Or breakfast or a belly rub.
Since the dream didn’t include a tour guide, I thought you might enjoy a travelogue, there’s a little gypsy in all of us. Right?
Leaving you with these lyrics – I know you know what musical they’re from:
Ev’ry time we looked around There he was, that hairy hound From Budapest Never leaving us alone Never have I ever known A ruder pest . . .