I was walking down one of the roads flanking that small park in downtown Nola with two people that I knew, though not very well. We were talking about Canadian realty; I was incorrectly under the impression that to sell property in Canada, one had to take a three-hour class. They thought this was hilarious (much the same way I react to people asking things like "do you ride a horse to school?") and were telling me about the actual process to become a licensed realtor and I was worried that they were going to make me late for class.
I finally made it to class and perched in my chair, essentially standing up with my feet on the seat then crouching down and resting my chin on my knees. I was listening intently to the professor, but looking around the room at the people. I remember thinking briefly that the class was going to be a dull one, when my junior high band teacher walked in and started addressing the class; he was a co-professor of sorts. I was giving the person next to me a laundry list of reasons why he was a terrible teacher and our historic yelling match in class in jr high when i woke up to my alarm.