I’ve slept terribly here. At first I chalked it up to jet lag, which I’m sure has been part of the problem. But there is definitely something more going on, now a few days after getting here. When I sleep, it’s only for two hours at a time. Every time. I can stack together several of these two hour blocks if I’m lucky, but I’ll wake up – wide awake – every two hours, no matter how long I’m down. What’s more, I’ve been dreaming vividly, and remembering it, both rarities for me. All of the dreams have been set in Toronto, as if my mind has refused to believe we’ve left.

Steam dreams, I’ve started calling them.

It’s so hot here, there is no cold side of the pillow. If I lie in bed reading or watching TV, I have to roll over every twenty or so minutes to allow the sweat on my back to dry. After twenty minutes on my side or stomach, I have to roll again to dry that side. Rinse, repeat. Needless to say I’m excited to get out of Delhi and into the cool mountains, but I’m still waiting on my motorbike.

The dreams, as I mentioned, are all in Toronto. They involve people from different points of my life, often mixed. I was wrestling one of my university roommates, under water, in front of my junior high school. I was riding my bike down Spadina Avenue with a girl I used to work with, singing Milli Vanilli.

I  had a great one in which I was driving a luxury convertible around the city with three high school friends. We pulled up to a stoplight and, crossing the street in front of us, there was the old grumpy guy from Corner Gas. He was lugging several bulging bags of heavy groceries. My friends and I knew him quite well, enough to know he lived in the east end like us, and that we could give him a ride home. He resisted but we persisted, and before you knew it we were spinning away with him wedged in the back.  Suddenly I was having that classic dream frustration of not being able to properly control myself or, in this case, my vehicle. For several seconds I simply couldn’t find the gas pedal, then a split second later my foot was made of depleted uranium and we were gunning it straight at a bus. Luckily, the laws of physics don’t apply, so we simply bumper-carred off of obstacles and spun out into the grass in the Don Valley. At this point, things got weirder.

I jumped up and, turning to my companions, laughed.

“It’s only a dream, fellas! So none of it matters. I’ll by flying home now.”

And, sure enough, I jumped out of my seat in the classic comic book flying pose: right arm extended upward, left arm clutched to my chest, right leg fully extended, left knee brought up. This is, clearly, the most efficient flying position a human being can manage. I actually did pretty well: I leaped up and though I felt the tug of gravity as I climbed, once I reached the apex of the jump gravity got lazy and gave up on me. Now I was sort of suspended six feet above the car. My friends applauded sarcastically. I started kicking my legs (yes, I tried the swim, the egg beater and the bicycle kick) and flapping my arms. I climbed a few more feet this way.

Then, in a minor epiphany, I remembered: The laws of physics don’t apply. So I simply closed my eyes and, holding that comic book flying pose, I willed myself into the sky. After a few seconds I opened my eyes and saw that I had climbed at least another thirty feet or so.

“This is going to take a while,” I thought. I started looking for a streetcar.

At any rate, you get the idea. Has anyone else experienced something like this? It’s not like I’m delerious or anything. I’m staying well hydrated (I’m approaching eight litres a day here) and I’m eating well. It’s just damn hot.