Flight of the Batsman

I had an increasingly odd dream, or series of dreams, last night. First, I was flying back from the West Coast, and somehow had a connection for my flight in Petoskey, Michigan. It was, obviously, not a real connection but one of those ones where you fly into and out of a small airport between two hubs, like when Continental wants to send you to Rochester or something between Newark and Cleveland.

Anyway, I spent too much time fucking around and enjoying the scenery, so we taxied off without my bags and I had to ask the captain (it was a small plane; with an interior that resembled a moderately luxurious van) to turn around so we could get them. Then he let me sit in the middle seat of the second row so I could see out the window. The plane was so slow and underpowered, we had to bank, gently, to avoid trees on takeoff, then, we skirted them as we slowly climbed out along the Lake Superior shoreline. (In my dream, Petoskey was in the U.P.)

We were going so slow, the windows were open, and then I realized there was no roof or structure around the plane. I realized this when CrimeNotes lit a cigarette. I also realized we were going really slow when I saw him on the ground, smoking with other people. I remember wondering: How is he going to get back onto the plane?

At this point, I realized, I was just flying on my own, in close formation with the pilot and a few others. I found myself ahead of him, then behind him at different points. The foliage along the Lake Superior shoreline was spectacular in the early fall; from above, all the Michiganders enjoying some sort of festival below formed a scene right out of a Pieter Bruegel painting.

Then we slowly pootled out of Michigan airspace and into a massive, labyrinthine marketplace, with some vaguely middle eastern feel to it. After struggling with some control issues and bouncing off the ceilings and walls, I finally was back walking again.

I went into a store that sold all sorts of exotic sports equipment, and bought a cricket bat. Then we were playing cricket, and I was running between the wickets, which were ludicrously close together. I smashed a boundary off someone, and gleefully called "I'm at eight not out!" as I ballsily scampered for one more run.

Then I woke up, and you know how you sometimes have a random name or word stuck in your head upon waking? Mine was Sachin Tendulkar.

From faisal_c's stream on Flickr.