I’m in a city. The area reminds me of Woodley Park in D.C. except that the streets are wider – – 4 lanes in each direction. It’s fall; the air is chilly and brisk and folks are wearing light jackets. I’m desperately in need of some coffee. I’ve become separated from my friends somehow but I’m not too concerned; I know where I’m supposed to meet them. While waiting at the crosswalk, I see someone walking on their hands, their legs splayed up in the air, their baggy pants tassled and trailing. Suddenly I remember it’s Flying Spaghetti Monster Day. (September 9th? I thought it was in October…) Pastafarian guilt overcomes me and use my keys to carve hasty little shreds into my pant legs. Fortunately, I have gloves so when I balance on my hands, the asphalt won’t cut me up too bad. (Hey, you can only take this mobile pilgrimage so far…) I get across the street and saunter into a local cafe to get my coffee. I’ve chosen this place because it’s family owned and all that. But when I get in it’s crowded and the line is long. After I’ve been waiting for 15 minutes (catching stares the whole time), I do my little hands-on-pavement shuffle across the street to a Starbucks. The Starbucks is deserted but the guy working there (tall, nice smile, long blonde ponytail; he’s sweeping when I come in) is in a great mood and TOTALLY knows what’s up with the hand-walk. He fixes me up a venti whatever (it had caffeine in it) and goes to give it to me. But just as I flip back over onto my feet I realize my pockets are empty. My wallet must have fallen out somewhere along the way.