Dreams were, as always, of travel. Of schedules and being someplace at the right time. Strange places to stay and sleep, people I only half-know, and conversations and stories being told. Negotiations that required several people being consulted.
This time, we were going through some valley in Mexico, all covered in small steads. The colour of the small fields of crops were so intense that the landscape looked like a mosaic of coloured paper. I took photos and was swung on a high swing mounted on a crane to take them. Then we attended a convention on the top of a tall mountain in central Italy, where the roads and the walls were all made of red brick, and these roads were so steep we had to get out of the car and push until the car no longer existed and we went into the mountain that was hollow like a shopping-mall.
This places it at the high point of the dream-city, at the top of the main street, and facing away from the gorge that runs parallel to it. I recognize the steep section. But the multicoloured valley is new, superimposed on the valley that used to run outside Baguio. It's no longer impassible gorge or sea, but there are no roads across it, either.
The new entrance to the hollow mountain is definitely out of Crêche. So fiction and fact are blending even more in the old noggin.