Occasionally in life, we find ourselves in tricky situations. I'm finding myself in quite the tricky situation now. A new life, a new place, a new - well, everything is just new. There is no easy way of saying it, it just feels as though I woke up yesterday in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people speaking an unfamiliar language. As I said, a tricky situation.
When I went to pay for this coffee, black as the night can possibly be and as hot as the deepest part of hell, I choked on words as I fumbled through the menu. Eventually I had to give up and point to the fresh brew. It wasn't what I wanted.
But I sit here outside of the cafe with this harsh cup of unforgettable experience, waiting for someone who speaks my language or even understands the hand gestures I want to make. Instead, people walk past as though I'm non-existent.
In a way, though, it is nice. A couple walks past holding hands and speaking to one another in a way they can understand, but I understand, too. I may just hear noises without words, but the smile they share and the way their eyes glance back and forth. It is pure love.
A woman walks by screaming into her cell phone with the same unidentifiable language as the couple. It tells me every bit as much about her day as the couple told me about theirs, and still without a single word.
The strong coffee is almost too much for me to handle, but I take another sip. I paid for it, I better damn well finish it.
It isn't a completely spontaneous moment in time. I chose to move here to this foreign land. I chose to place myself deep inside a culture I knew little about. I thought it would be easy enough to learn the native tongue if I only found a local who spoke two languages, with the second being mine, but alas, I find myself alone. Still, this is an experience that money cannot buy by any other means.
A lady, late in life, is sitting at another of these tiny tables - tables they claim to be for two but I'd be hard pressed to believe it would fit more than a breakfast sized meal and a cup of this potent coffee. She sits, however, alone and staring into the empty space across from her, the empty chair. Her eyes unable to move from that thin metal framed, and rather uncomfortable if I'm to be honest, chair.
I take another sip of the coffee. It has cooled quite a bit, though still hot. The taste is more prominent now and almost pleasurable. No, it is pleasurable.
I stare at this old woman as though she is going to speak to me, but he eyes just won't break from that chair. Whatever is going on in her mind, it is a dangerous thought. So, naturally, I get up and walk to her table.
I pull the chair from the table to give enough room for me to sit down and for a moment her eyes don't move, but then, as though the Earth came alive in front of her, her old and tired eyes bounce to meet mine.
"Do you speak English?" I say.
She peers at me with a confused look. Clearly she doesn't.
I point to the chair and she smiles. Her right hand reaches out slowly and points to the empty chair. I sit, I place my coffee in front of me on the table across from her, what looks to be, macchiato. Comically, that is what I wanted.
The smile, though it isn't as sturdy or open as it was when I first asked to sit, was still there as we drank our drinks.
"What is that?" Even though I knew she couldn't understand what I was saying, I hoped the hand gestures I was making made sense to her.
"Macchiato." She says with a smile as I laugh and take another sip of coffee. It is a very good taste.
-Dustin S. Stover
When I went to pay for this coffee, black as the night can possibly be and as hot as the deepest part of hell, I choked on words as I fumbled through the menu. Eventually I had to give up and point to the fresh brew. It wasn't what I wanted.
But I sit here outside of the cafe with this harsh cup of unforgettable experience, waiting for someone who speaks my language or even understands the hand gestures I want to make. Instead, people walk past as though I'm non-existent.
In a way, though, it is nice. A couple walks past holding hands and speaking to one another in a way they can understand, but I understand, too. I may just hear noises without words, but the smile they share and the way their eyes glance back and forth. It is pure love.
A woman walks by screaming into her cell phone with the same unidentifiable language as the couple. It tells me every bit as much about her day as the couple told me about theirs, and still without a single word.
The strong coffee is almost too much for me to handle, but I take another sip. I paid for it, I better damn well finish it.
It isn't a completely spontaneous moment in time. I chose to move here to this foreign land. I chose to place myself deep inside a culture I knew little about. I thought it would be easy enough to learn the native tongue if I only found a local who spoke two languages, with the second being mine, but alas, I find myself alone. Still, this is an experience that money cannot buy by any other means.
A lady, late in life, is sitting at another of these tiny tables - tables they claim to be for two but I'd be hard pressed to believe it would fit more than a breakfast sized meal and a cup of this potent coffee. She sits, however, alone and staring into the empty space across from her, the empty chair. Her eyes unable to move from that thin metal framed, and rather uncomfortable if I'm to be honest, chair.
I take another sip of the coffee. It has cooled quite a bit, though still hot. The taste is more prominent now and almost pleasurable. No, it is pleasurable.
I stare at this old woman as though she is going to speak to me, but he eyes just won't break from that chair. Whatever is going on in her mind, it is a dangerous thought. So, naturally, I get up and walk to her table.
I pull the chair from the table to give enough room for me to sit down and for a moment her eyes don't move, but then, as though the Earth came alive in front of her, her old and tired eyes bounce to meet mine.
"Do you speak English?" I say.
She peers at me with a confused look. Clearly she doesn't.
I point to the chair and she smiles. Her right hand reaches out slowly and points to the empty chair. I sit, I place my coffee in front of me on the table across from her, what looks to be, macchiato. Comically, that is what I wanted.
The smile, though it isn't as sturdy or open as it was when I first asked to sit, was still there as we drank our drinks.
"What is that?" Even though I knew she couldn't understand what I was saying, I hoped the hand gestures I was making made sense to her.
"Macchiato." She says with a smile as I laugh and take another sip of coffee. It is a very good taste.
-Dustin S. Stover
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