I dreamt that I had to go rescue a female journalist who was across the Cuban border. (Somehow my brain didn’t remember that Cuba is an island.) And in the dream, the border was on a rolling hill type environment (not unlike, say, Napa Valley) with a pair of black metal fences marking each border. There were large posts with horizontal bars connecting them, but with enough space to squeeze through, between the lower bar and the ground.
I slid under the bar, found the girl and led her back to safety across the border the same way that I’d come. As I was about to head back out with her, Fidel Castro was standing there and starting talking to me. He wasn’t being mean or threatening — he was this old man who just wanted to chat. So I started talking to him and as soon as I realized he wasn’t going to stop, I took out my reporter’s pad and started taking notes. And somehow even though he was speaking in Spanish I could understand everything he said, and I took notes in Spanish. (In real life I don’t speak Spanish.)
He basically didn’t say anything interesting except spew propaganda. When I asked what would happen after he died, he said simply that “the revolution will continue.”
He also mentioned that he planned to replace the metal fence with a lower brick fence as a way to encourage people to come to Cuba.
Fin.
