I woke up on my own at five til six this morning.
I’d had a dream that I was in France under a tent in the warm summer sun. I was with a rather chatty older French fisherman who wore thick glasses — short, bald with wisps of hair decoratively peeking out from under his black beret.
I was trying to get oysters, cockles and clams from him. The longer it took for me to wrap up the talk and get the tub of scrubbed shellfish, the more humorous it became. Finally, in a moment when he bent over to grab another bucket, I slipped away my tub of delights and entered another tent.
There, I placed the tub over a low fire and immediately began adding in slices of garlic, crushed tomatoes, handfuls of basil and parsley, plus seafood stock straight into the tub. When I looked up, there was Anthony Bourdain.
We spoke for a moment. He was wearing a comfy-looking long sleeve black and white striped cotton shirt with jeans — sort of pirate-like, really. Tall and sun-kissed from the French beaches — we sat under the tent waiting for the shells to open.
After a short while, I had to leave. I decided to hug Tony on my way out — at first an uncomfortable embrace for both of us. I’m not a big hugger myself and could tell he wasn’t either.
I felt compelled to tell him it was okay.
Suddenly, I was somehow behind Tony — observing a genuinely friendly hug between two people who understood the moment without need of discussion. My view was slowly being drawn back until I was outside of the tent.
Then, I woke on my own at five til six.