Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo has been having a series of his world-famous bizarre dreams of late.  I haven’t mentioned this before because almost all of them, although extremely vivid at the time, have evaporated immediately as I emerged from my slumbers.  Last night’s stuck, however.

In it, I found myself in the Foreign Legion.  Moreover, I found myself a prisoner of the Russians (Tsarist Russians, not the modern variety) along with a number of others, in a large, open-air, sandstone fort.  I didn’t know, but had the sense that we were somewhere in the Crimea, but at any rate very, very far away from anyone else.

Cary Grant was the senior prisoner among us.  He wasn’t dressed as a Legionnaire, but instead was in his British Army rig from the movie “Gunga Din”.  The Russians apparently were holding us until Grant coughed up some crucial piece of intelligence, but were perfectly willing to let us all rot if he didn’t cooperate.  Meanwhile, we all knew that Grant would not crack, but was busy putting together a scheme to break us out, although we didn’t know anything of the plan yet.

At one point, the Russians opened the big gate to let somebody through.  I glanced out on the sly and saw a low, cultivated river valley.  Away beyond it were steep bluffs backed by a tall mountain range in the far distance.  The view reinforced the sense of remoteness and isolation that I’d felt, but at the same time was both beautiful and somehow comforting.  At no point do I recall feeling any kind of fear or hopelessness.

I turned to somebody and said, “Yes, definitely Russia.”

And then, as they say, I woke up.

Feel free to make of this what you will.  If it helps, I had coffee with a priest friend of mine yesterday and a very good perspective-adjusting talk about several things which have been much on my mind of late.