Last night it was all about cruising. My family was there; others were there; it was a great big party. The ship was highly ornate in an over-the-top Vegas style. On our floor was a lounge with a guy dressed up as Louis XIV performing songs to piano accompaniment. One member of our party was so entranced that he missed the elevator the rest of us were on, only seeing us shoot by horizontally past him as apparently this was a multidirectional elevator.

Our ship was in port. I have no idea what port. Most European ports look pretty much the same — very industrial.

That elevator was taking us to the Lido deck at 4 a.m. to get something to eat. We figured no one would be around, and we were hungry after a late night. My ship card, which I apparently needed for securing food much like in a college cafeteria, had a mysterious title on it under my name, something like the Chief Dak of the Fifth Duck. I didn’t know what it meant in the dream any more than I do now.

On deck, we discovered that the buffet was already packed, with a huge line leading out the entryway. I looked up and saw a sign noting that registration for the eating contest was underway. We hesitated. We were hungry, but we didn’t want to wait in line, especially if that line led to registration for a food-shoveling event.

Luckily, we discovered an omelette station right next to the line’s end, with many prepared plates for the taking. I grabbed one with an omelette, potato pancakes, and a ball of sausage. I tried a couple bottles of ketchup and managed to get some on my plate. I requested some bacon from the cook behind the counter, as I always prefer it to sausage. Mmm, bacon.

Turns out my companions for the meal were John and Heidi of Carnival’s cruise-director blog fame. Heidi was tucking into an omelette meal herself, but John (as he is on a diet) only had two slices of whole-wheat bread and a whole lot of cut-up tomatoes in front of him. I commented on the number of tomatoes, and he woefully explained there wasn’t much else he could eat. At that point, the cook handed him some extremely blackened bacon, which had some special name I don’t recall that indicated it had been prepared in such a way as to render out most of the fat. I got my bacon too, though it was a lovely golden brown instead. It was still crispier than I make it for myself (I like it fully cooked by still a little chewy, which is why I often go for thick slices), looking bubbly on the outside as if it had been deep fried, but it was still lovely to have.