While on a cross-country journey with a pack, we travel through an unfamiliar rural neighborhood. Though remote it’s packed on a grid like a city — yet I don’t know if it even has a name. It could be somewhere northerly, pine trees and scattered brush. We’re all riding motorcycles and have to find a bathroom for my sibling, Patrick. We come across an unusually empty old Victorian painted all one boring color and sneak through a window. The dream proceeds from there but is forgotten.
A man demands the expensive and decadent early California dish, Hangtown Fry. In fact he orders four at a time. I idly think: well it’s a stupid way to spend your money but I suppose this is how innovation happens.