I am not cafe peoples. Yet.
I decided somewhat impulsively to take this week off from work, assuredly not to escape from, ehm, stress, but more due to the need to remove myself from the Drill. Oh, the daily drill. Alarm, shower, subway, coffee, email, MEMORANDUMS and eventually just to spit me out onto a bar stool or restaurant with friends for a few hours of wicked fun-- then repeat. Suffocating. Bzzzzp.
'Sides, I want a taste of what Those People do who I have seen luxuriating around the city in cafes on, say, a Tuesday at 2:20 pm, when I have been nervously sprinting back to the office after a hair appointment that ran too long, or a funny lunch that I didn't want to end. Moreover, in a city that is so expensive, to be able to linger, relax and not hurry back somewhere is just hard for this work-ethic dork to comprehend. These people are mysterious. Something really big and cool is happening between all of them, a secret understanding or something, like an underground party that I dont know about. I want in on it.
So here I am. After a hilarious beachy weekend with some of my best friends, I returned late to the city Labor Day night, suntanned, sleepy, and did not have to set an alarm! How you say? Ah yes: NICE. I slept in, I stretched out in bed, I used the remote control and stared incredulously at Martha Stewart whipping up a merange. People make these things?
I decided to stroll to my local cafe on Avenue A, where I often spot these people of leisure.
I got in line, and eyed a nice table that would suit me just perfectly, nestled in a corner next to some open windows. The line moved faster than I had expected, and I defaulted to an order of a toasted bagel and coffee which were cranked out and shoved in front of me, piping hot, within seconds. I managed to carry both, with my heavy bag, over to my corner table.
I was sort of self-concious and moreover, extremely uncomfortable. Literally. I was unable to use a notebook, as the table was super rickety. Yes, the RICKETIEST table in the continental US. I realized I was sitting on two "throw" pillows, one in brown velour with the stuffing coming out of one side, and the other covered in royal blue wool. Mind you, it was hot and muggy, and the pillows eminated that unforgettable friend-who's-parents-chainsmoked-basement smell. I adjusted, readjusted, drank the boiling hot black coffee and let the table creak.
A man in a sort of tribal outfit came over and bussed my plates and left a tall bottle of what looked like vinegar on front of me. He asked me what I was writing and left-- he did not work there. A woman talked angrily on her cell phone and departed. A thick older man with heavy accent, ruddy face and white hair sat down at a dainty, ornately carved table and talked at someone sitting several feet away.
I had finally gotten myself situated and was concentrating when an enormous man in suspenders that vertically spelled BUCHANAN in red letters asked if he could share my table. I smiled and made room, noticing there were plenty of open tables. He had a mustache that was turned up on both sides. He brought over his coffee and plate of pastries and muffins, lit up a smoke and began to tell me about the history of the court house at City Hall. His Lucky Strikes finally to got me, so I left.
Grass is greener? Too soon to tell. The mystery, so far, is not as glamorous as I had thought, but it is far more interesting.
I am off to spend no less than two hours shopping for the perfect pair of sunglasses. I could get used to this.
