I've never been on a moped and this is clearly not how they work

I lived in a strange and wonderful wooden house with my dad and my little brother. I woke up at 8:00 one morning and realized with horror that I was late for work--well, not work, but my student teaching position (which is actually more important than work right now because it's so elemental). But for some reason I couldn't move quickly enough and stopped panicking about being late. I dallied in the kitchen and made coffee and toast. A door opened--it was the door to the basement--and suddenly I realized I was at my old house in Columbia, the one I shared with Brice on 8th Street, in that huge, crooked kitchen. And who else but Brice and Carey Page strolled through the door! I realized they lived on the other side of the house, where Gunnar used to live. Groggily pouring themselves coffee, they asked me questions about student teaching. They were friendly enough. I couldn't shake the feeling that I wanted a cigarette REALLY badly. I searched the house and found my dad's pack. "Thank god," I thought, "he doesn't smoke those terrible menthols anymore." And I took one. As I started my search for a lighter, I started to wonder how I was going to get to my placement school. The school in Lacey. How the hell was I in a house in Missouri? Lol, dreams are so irrational. I took a staircase and found myself in a garage where my dad was sitting on a camping chair fiddling with a knife and a block of wood. I asked him for a light. He lit my cigarette. I inhaled deeply and was so relieved. Just then, my little brother walked into the garage, greeted me, and walked into the house. I spotted a tiny grayish-blue moped in the corner of the garage. "Hey dad, isn't that your bike?" I asked. "Yep." "Does it work?" "Yeah." "Can I borrow it for the day?" "Sure. Do you remember how it works?" I sat on the bike. "I think so." I grabbed the right handlebar and said, "Accelerate." I grabbed the left handlebar and said, "Decelerate." I motioned to the pedal on the right and said, "Brake." "Yep." My dad smiled and told me to have a good day. I started the engine and flew out of the garage. It felt so nice to have the wind whipping through my hair.

a trip to wonderland as human trafficking

My dream began in Amsterdam. I was walking around with an unknown friend, taking in the city, seeing all the trinkets and sculptures and strangely dressed people. We walked into an antique shop and it was mostly empty and resembled an art gallery. I started noticing strange things happening, like people playing instruments in corners then looking seconds later to see that they weren't playing any longer. A painting I was looking at started to swirl. I started to feel very funny. My friend was suddenly very heavily made up, dressed in black clothes, and laughing. Things started to feel sinister as I walked through the old house and explored the rooms. My friend and an unknown person came up behind me and told me to walk down the stairs. I walked down a set of stairs into what appeared to be a dollar store run by Chinese people. The men behind the counter were tinkering with small objects or fixing them. I walked around and looked at the cheap plastic wares. I didn't feel unsafe, but was starting to wonder why my friend had wanted to come down here. She came up beside me and said, "Do you know where we are?" I started to feel light-headed, as if I'd just taken a puff from an asthma inhaler. I noticed more strange things happening. "Are we in...wonderland?" I asked her. She laughed softly and said, "Yes, we are in wonderland. Let's go down here." She led me to another short set of stairs and we walked down them. We entered a room that was smaller than the previous and sparsely furnished with wooden crates. There were two men sitting on some of the crates. One of them was smoking and wearing a leather jacket. "Okay," he told some unseen person behind him, and the room began to move. I realized we were in a van. I felt even more light-headed. I didn't see my friend anywhere. The men were laughing. I began to feel fear. I screamed. I realized I had been kidnapped. "No, let me out!" I shouted at the men. They laughed. It reeked of weed in the cavernous van. I opened the door and there was shouting: "Speed up, speed up!" I jumped out and landed on my feet. The last thing I heard was laughter and "Aww, come back!" The van didn't stop, I didn't run but walked quickly away, and there was no struggle to recapture me.

I walked around a block and panicked, realizing I had no idea where I was. I was also half relaxed because I was in a nice city in Europe and not in school. Dutch was heard all around, the air was balmy, there was quirky art everywhere, and plentiful coniferous trees in the distance. I decided to call Ali to see if she could advise me, although she was in Indonesia. I couldn't get a hold of her. I walked for a while and asked the next random person I saw if they could tell me what town I was in. That person was a black man who smiled a huge toothy smile and said, "Mendelhoordt" or something to that effect. He pointed to a sign above us that spelled out the name he had just said. When I turned back to him, he was gone. I went into a café and asked a woman where the bus station was. She pointed out the window and down the road. I walked around outside and came to a paved lot on a block corner. Two men were standing and chatting. I approached and said hello. I asked where the bus station was. They talked in Dutch for a minute and then asked where I was going. I told them home, back to Spain. One of them took out a phone. Moments later a van pulled up. "This van goes to the bus station," he said. "Ohhh no," I said, "Not a van! With crates in it!" I ran away and heard similar laughs and bellows of "Aww, come on!"