There was some sort of important peace summit in Italy. The high school I attended (fifteen years ago) flies me there to cover it for their paper. The first thing I remember is arriving at the airport in Milan and learning that my luggage was shipped to Siberia.
There are three teenagers arriving with me, also covering the event for high schools in my town. We get into a rental car, but then we realize we don't know how to get to our lodgings. Suddenly, we notice a station wagon doing donuts in the street; there's a guy standing out the window screaming and gesticulating "JOURNALISTS, THAT WAY!". Turns out every other car in the airport parking lot is filled with foreign journalists, and everyone, including us, speeds after the station wagon once it leaves.
After a while, one of the kids recognizes the motel we have reservations at, and we leave the convoy. The opening event's not until a few hours anyway, might as well settle in. We all share a room; there's a file on one of the beds detailing our itinerary and interview schedule, but there's just one copy of it. The oldest kid grabs it and refuses to let us see it; he clearly wants to boss us around. He tells me to do some research on the Internet for him, but my laptop's halfway to Siberia by now, so I catch some Zs.
I wake up just in time to go to the thing. We hop in the car and I drive us to the... McDonald's. The famous Italian mall-sized McDonald's. Well, the talks are sponsored by the US, it makes sense. There's a line for regular customers, a line for journalists, and a line for VIPs and politicians. One of the handlers seems to recognize us, and puts us in the VIP line for some reason. We're ushered into the restaurant quickly.
The place is lavishly decorated with large trees planted in bizarre clay tubs filled with processed cheese and pepperoni. We sit before a meal of cold McDonald's pizza and pickled Brussel sprouts. Before I can even start eating, the asshole kid already scarfed down his pizza. He yells "I'M BORED", climbs on the table and starts rolling around on the food. He destroys my pizza and starts being pissy at me for not eating it faster.
All right. You know what? Screw these kids. I don't answer to him, or to them, and fuck the schedule, I'm doing this my way. I stand up and go to the tables where the heads of state are eating. I have no business with any of them, but I don't care. Fuck formalities, I'mma gonzo this bitch up, and if I have to chronicle the interior of a prison cell, then it's still better than hanging out with idiot children, and probably better than hanging out with diplomats. I take the one free seat, across from Vladimir Putin talking to the Queen of Italy. Or rather, talking to the cleavage of the attractive, forty-something Queen of Italy. She's clearly bored out of her mind.
I address her in English first, as I had become accustomed: "What a circus, huh? How long have you been doing this?"
She says something in Italian to Putin, then turns to me.
-Since before you made Massachusetts part of the Union.
-That's strange, you don't look a year over three hundred.
She laughs. I switch to French.
-Actually, I didn't make anything part of a Union. I'm French-Canadian.
-Oh! I've never met a French-Canadian before.
She licks her lips and looks at me in a way that makes me think I'm this close to scoring royal poon in a McD's toilet stall.
Then I notice Putin staring at me, looking somewhat detached and neutral, but with a squint in his eye that definitely says "Nobody cockblocks the Vlad and lives."
Somehow I don't feel like joining up with my luggage that way, so my brain decides it's time to wake up. Oh well.
(I know about the ridiculous historical and political inaccuracies contained in this dream. I'm just tellin' it like I was livin' it.)
