Dream Tripping – Valentine’s Day, Feb. 14, 2025 (5:15 am)

I boarded an airplane with Michelle as a VIP. Not only did we have a private room in the back, but up front, in a separate part of the plane, we had a pull-out couch bed near the dining room. From there, we could order dinner and watch a film on a miniature movie screen. Other passengers sat at tables and booths behind and to the right of us. But for us, this plane was more than transportation—it was home. We lived on it full-time, a traveling sanctuary in the sky.

As the aircraft gathered speed on the runway and lifted into the air, an announcement signaled the start of the movie. Stewardesses moved through the cabin with menus, much like in those upscale theaters that serve gourmet meals and boozy cocktails. I asked Michelle to grab us a menu and stepped away to our private room for a moment, maybe to fetch a blanket or pillow. When I returned, two middle-aged African women were seated on our pull-out couch bed, while Michelle reclined on a loveseat beside them. The movie had already begun. Though surprised to find others in our space—especially since it was my plane—I decided not to make a fuss. I whispered to Michelle, asking if she had received a menu, but she hadn’t. I kissed her forehead, excused myself, and slipped through a set of orange curtains at the front of the dining room.

Near the entrance to this airborne yacht’s dining room stood a reception desk—the kind you’d see in an upscale restaurant or an airport check-in. Two beautiful young women in matching 1970s flight attendant uniforms greeted me, already aware of the two women in my seat. They explained that they had assumed I had retired to my private quarters for the night, and Michelle had offered up the seats. I told them not to worry about it—it was fine. I was only there to grab a menu so I could order some sushi. We laughed together, lighthearted and easy.

But as I turned back toward the orange curtains, I noticed another flight attendant attending to something near an exit door. She was dressed like the others, but her demeanor was tense, alert. Instead of walking back into the dining room, I approached her, asking if something was wrong. That’s when the sound started—a loud clanging, metallic and foreboding.

Through the observation window, brown, murky water began to seep into view, churning with an ominous, gurgling roar. Then, the mechanical grinding—deep, guttural, and final. Suddenly, water began rushing into the cabin. Panic surged through me. I tore through the orange curtain, searching for Michelle. But before I could reach her, something outside the aircraft caught my eye.

Beyond the large observation window, hundreds of small, cartoonish, stuffed-animal pigeon-chicken hybrids filled the sky. Some bounced off the glass, some were sucked into the engines, while others fluttered in chaotic flocks. They were absurd—handmade, with bulging half-ping-pong ball eyes, pupils drawn in Sharpie, and beaks of crocheted brown and yellow yarn. The sight was so unexpected, so bizarre, that I paused, frozen in disbelief.

Then—a deafening boom. The world collapsed into darkness.

When I awoke, I was walking alone down an empty boulevard in an unfamiliar arrondissement of Paris. The streets were damp, the air thick with the weight of something lost. I called out for Michelle. A small café, vaguely familiar, appeared before me. I stepped inside. At first, the staff didn’t recognize me, but an old man did when I showed him a picture of her.

“Yes,” he said. “She was here. Follow this road. At the corner, there is an old building with a cast iron terrace. She lives there.”

I followed his directions and found the building. I looked up and called her name. There was nothing at first and then several moments later, Michelle stepped onto the second-floor balcony, her expression a mix of surprise and something else—something unreadable. Beside her stood another woman, older by five or ten years. They were both in nightgowns and robes, clearly cohabiting.

She said my name softly. She tilted her head sideways and spoke louder: “No one has seen you in five years.”

Confusion flooded me. “What do you mean? Where have I been? We were just on the plane—”

But before I could finish, she and her companion withdrew back into the apartment, disappearing behind the billowing chiffon curtains that whipped in the wind like storm clouds.

I looked up at the sky and as I did it began to rain hundreds of small, cartoonish, stuffed-animal pigeon-chicken hybrids that tumbled from the heavens, flapping and twitching comically as they piled around me in the street. One fell into my hands. I gripped it gently by the neck, its ridiculous eyes staring back at me—half ping-pong balls, pupils scribbled in black marker. Its beak, a tangle of crocheted yarn, opened and squawked loudly.

And then I woke up.