I don’t recall how I came to be there, but the room had presented itself to me after I’d made my way around a winding mill-like building for no particular other reason other than it was there. Whilst feeling more lost than usual, I’d asked directions from a portly well dressed gentleman without telling him where I wanted to go, and he had resolved my disorientation quite willingly with various hand gestures.
The interior of the coffee shop was small, quiet and decorated with various artifacts. Whilst one may say this is true of most coffee shops, this felt particularly notable, given the circumstances. The wall contained a window which showed a bright sun, a canal and several autumnal trees. I was unconvinced of their existence, but appreciative of the friendly decor.
A person who assured me they were French greeted me warmly, turning on some welcoming Jazz music to resolve the vacuum of ambiance. We exchanged some pleasantries to which I attempted my best French in response. My rouse was unfortunately convincing and the conversation led down an alley of discomprehension, to which I had to reroute into a language I was capable of using.
Untying my boots let my tired feet breathe, and I parked myself at the bar overlooking the workspace. I don’t recall seeing a menu, or ordering anything, but he busied himself around his domain, eventually showing me a bag of some sort of bean to which I nodded. As he worked, I beheld the room and the various objects around myself. I could not determine the origin or destination of any of them. They existed in the same way as I understood the window.
Watching the coffee beans poured into a grinder, they glistened like a diamond, the shimmer they emitted didn’t look like any coffee beans I’d ever seen. As I don’t drink coffee however, there was no conclusion to be made about their spectacularity.
Catching a reassuring glance of myself in the glass of a photo on the wall reminded me that some things did have determinate origins and clear signs of a sell by date. The various machines the baristonian worked created various discordant chortles and I drank some water. Lifting the glass was another almost familiar experience to which the fact it stayed attached to the table when I put it (down?) felt like a clever trick.
The fruits of his labour yielded a walnut coloured drink which he presented to me and watched with anticipation. I lifted the cup with both hands and drank from it ceremoniously, if I’m unsure of where I am, what the time even is I’ll damn well make sure I’m as polite as I can be to stay in the good graces of the room.
I bowed graciously as I left, to which he returned a satisfied smile and waved me goodbye, which is not something I usually do in coffee shops, but the occasion deserved it, and as I left, I made a mental note to return.
I tried to find the coffee shop again, believing the only way to get there was to get lost, but even by ignoring the directions I had been given I was unable to find anything resembling it. I never could figure out if I had been perceived as rude by the room or if the intent of trying to find the coffee shop renders this impossible. Perhaps, however, I will find myself lost there again when I’ve forgotten all about this.
