Coffee Shop Musings

"I walk the floor and watch the door
And in between I drink
Black coffee
Love's a hand me down brew
I'll never know a Sunday
In this weekday room"
 - Black Coffee, Ella Fitzgerald 


I'm sitting at a table for two in cafe Galletti in the Centro Historico of Quito. I'm sitting beside a huge window, looking out at the passerbys and the colorful buildings. There's a guard standing in a shaded courtyard across from me, and he keeps looking my way. Is he curious, wondering what I am writing? Is he suspicious of something? Does he think I am pretty, the woman with the short hair and the summer scarf thrown around her neck? Is he attracted, or merely bored?

Now another guard has walked up as I've been writing, and they are conversing. Soon I'll finish here and be up and off to coffee shop number two for the day, for nearly ever Monday morning (a half day off in leu of Sunday), I spend two-to-four hours in one-to-two coffee shops, writing and reading before going to buy groceries for the week. Sometimes I write poems or story-type essays, and sometimes I scribble down drifting trains of thought such as this. Always, there is coffee. Sometimes, there are encounters with strangers, with or without actually speaking.


Half an hour later ...

I arrive at coffee shop number two, also in the Centro Historico. Like the first one, this is a place I've never visited before. Sometimes I go to places which have become loved in their familiarity, sometimes I venture out to seek new places which could be added to my mental Rolodex. This shop is on the second floor, above a chocolate shop. I order a coratado, for I've developed a love of espresso. I sit at a wooden table with a glass top, coffee beans arranged beneath the glass. To my left is a mini balcony overlooking the street. There's a table with two small stools situated against the railing. It's exactly where I'd want to sit if I came here with someone, but for today at least it seems selfish to take what I feel is the prime spot all to myself.

My cortado arrives in a small glass. I sip it slowly: it is the perfect blend of rich and bitter, strong and smooth. The barista offers sugar; I smile at him and shake my head.

Someday I will greatly miss this. Even though it took about forty-five minutes for me to get downtown, partly walking in the sun and mostly standing on a crowded bus, I will miss being downtown like this. Quito has become my city. Maybe, even after I move away, I will visit and find that is is still mine, the way I believe Austin and Georgetown TX will always be mine. When a city becomes your very own, with special haunts and lovable quirks, it is a lovely thing. Quito is my own, for now at least, or perhaps forever.

I have decided: next time I visit this coffee shop, I hope to claim the balcony seat. My city, my view to enjoy and cherish.