A watery house dream

I arrived in lucidity in a big house, in which 2 rooms had no floor – instead the ‘floor’ was water. The walls were made of thick bamboo frames with rich, but lightweight, almost transparent dark blue silk draped down to the water, but the bamboo frame dipped down below the water’s edge.

One of the rooms on water was my bedroom… a futon floated in the middle of the room, presumably there were wooden poles below it to keep it afloat and steady. It all seemed a little strange to have a bed in the middle of the water, particularly when considering the practicalities of sleeping on it… the duvet hanging over the edge and getting soggy; the pillows slipping off and floating (or worse) sinking away. But these practicalities evaporated when I took the plunge to enter the room, fully clothed. As I swam through the water to the bed, I realised that despite swimming, my clothes weren’t getting wet!

The rest of the house appeared pretty standard as far as grand sumptuous houses go, but as I walked up the stairs to a couple of other rooms, I noticed another smaller staircase, winding further upwards.

There was a man in the house with me in a tan-coloured leather jacket looking a little like a dishevelled Steve Buscemi – big eyes, bad teeth, wild hair – who told me I could have a quick look, but that after this one view, I should never go up the staircase again. I climbed the thick burgundy carpeted stairs slowly… in bare feet it felt warm and cosy. I glanced through the slightly ajar doors as I rose, and saw men in suits sat around boardroom mahogany tables plotting their next million, and then I reached the top only to find two young Italian looking women with shoulder length dark hair, wearing French maid outfits, with feather dusters cleaning the wall lights. They turned and stared at me in a way that made me stop in my tracks and shiver.

I certainly wouldn’t be climbing those stairs again… I slipped back down, and thought about how strange it was to be in a house that joined seamlessly with what must be a hotel.

I started to get settled with the strangers in my house, and began to enjoy swimming through my room and the living room with the added bonus of not getting wet. I never did try to work out how the water rooms worked… it all just appeared to work.

In this warm happy state, I heard a knock at the outer fence door, so I scooted out the front door and into the yard, up the stairs and straight to the white door. As I opened it, the leather jacket guy ran through the front door shouting “Don’t open it” at me, but too late – I’d already turned the handle and as I did I stumbled backwards, seeing who it was that had asked for my attention. A middle-aged man, impressively tall but with a paunch clearly visible below a long black raincoat, stepped forwards as I recoiled. His long greasy dark hair and crooked teeth giving him the look of a man I certainly didn’t want to meet.

I didn’t hang around to find out what he wanted. I turned and ran back through the front door, not even hesitating to look back, swimming through the living room and over to the stairs I promised I wouldn’t return to, but with my options diminished, I realised it was my only chance of a way out… past the Italian guards and to who knows where…

How not to drink coffee - Cafe Yumm, Eugene Oregon

On what is essentially an out of town shopping area, where blocks of buildings are centred around a large open space, commonly known as a car park, I was invited to join a friend for coffee at Cafe Yumm.

An organic cafe without the hippie chaos, but with the corporate sparkle. Scatter some photos on the new brick walls of South East Asia's boat markets; add some middle-of-the-road popular reggae from Bob, and pierce the acceptable chilled atmosphere with the famous peculiarity that is the overly friendly and enthusiastic all-American waitress, who I discover almost instantly hails from Ohio.

"WEYLL, HOW Y'ALL DOIN TADAAAAAAY..." she drawls with a smile pinned onto her face, looking down slightly, head tilted, in a mildly patronising stance.

OK, so I admit I'm not at my best in the morning, but this foghorn on happy gas drooling with admiration for our gorrrrrgeous accents, practically swallowing up the cash register with her smile, grated against my wishes for a relaxing Happy Planet juice and some hard core caffeine.

"SO WHERE YOU GUYS FRAAAM?"

"Nottingham", I replied with a wry smile, knowing (having experienced the US waitress before) that had I said Swindon, Dudley or Slough, the reply is a standard one... small talk rules:

(Wide eyed) "Ooooooo, WOW! THAT'S JUST GREAT. SO, HOW D'YOU LIKE EUGENE? ISN'T IT BEAUTIFUL? I COME FROM OHIO AND I JUS' MOVED HERE AND I JUS' LOVE IT HERE"... (wistful)... "ALL THE MOUNTAINS... AND TREES".

"Yeah, it's great", I reply knowing that if I say any more than this, she'll try to engage me in conversation. With this short sharp response, I know that ordering is just around the corner and I can remove myself from the counter, hide myself at a table outside and immerse myself in the delights of the ritual that is espresso and bagel (with cream cheese and avocado... mmm).

I'm right, she gives up and asks me what I want. I place my order, and disappear outside to a table.

It turns out after this ordeal that although espresso is becoming more commonplace in the land of the full fat latte with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles, the notion of small and strong is dragging its heels somewhat, as my weenie short sharp shot arrives in a huge black mug?! meaning I have to drink it unable to lose myself in the smell, or even see the brown frothy scum that so delights me. I have to rush it down fast to sample the hit, and even then it's only relatively hot... so large is the surface area of my 2mm deep drink that it cools even further just making its way along the cool dark expanse of this ridiculous mug to my by now, disappointed mouth.

Lesson learnt... when in Cafe Yumm, drink Americano!