Cappuccino afternoon.

This is how I pictured Europe, a place where you sit in an adorable coffee shop that has a chandelier and drink a superb cappuccino while you polish up a short story and munch on a cherry pastry. It beautiful. Oh so beautiful. They serve that cappuccinos in real cups, cute little cups, the kind that you want to slip in your backpack and take with you when you leave. But you won’t because the lady who runs this espresso haven is so sweet. Short, cute skirt. She speaks English well enough to tell you about the pastries, which is all you need to know.

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I think I’m living in a dream.

I mean, ask me on a day when I’m not figuring things out and haven’t encountered as many wonderful people and coffee cups, and I might say otherwise. I might say that I wish that I was back in familiar territory. But no, I won’t say that, because I will remember the days like today where I took my laptop to a coffee shop and wrote. And I’ll remember the days of wandering about the city with a pastry in my hand and a mix of confusion and bliss on my face.

I have to remember today. I will remember it.

I wish the cappuccino tradition was as strong in America. I wish that American cups of coffee came on silver platters with a glass of water and a cookie.

 

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