coffee

My friend who had stayed with me for New Year's left for Germany early this morning. I took him to the station whence the train to the airport departed and made my way to the lab afterwards. There were a few things to do, but mostly I wanted to recover my MacBook, which I had stored there over the holidays. I didn't want to lose it in case my apartment would be broken into. After a few hours at work, I went for a cappuccino and a croissant aux amandes at Café Deco. They get the French pastries quite right there.

I'd been sitting for a while, sipping my coffee and reading the New Yorker when the door opened and the crisp but complex smell of an Alpine meadow shortly after five on a September afternoon wafted in. The scent of thousands of wildflowers, fresh hay, and pine needles filled the air. Even a colony of marmots could be spotted. They, or what was left of them, hung around the neck of the heavily perfumed lady who had just walked into the little café.

Her eyes met whom she had come for, and her exlamation cut through the air and drowned the rumble of the espresso machine. The elderly ladies embraced at their table. Over much rejoicing, a little green hat met big, sculpted hair. Lips met expensively smoothed cheeks, and golden earrings banged into each other. Oh, how lovely to see you. How do you do. Is everyone seeing us, can everyone hear? Affectation comes easy in South Kensington.

I had long put the New Yorker aside and started to observe the hilarious scene unfolding on the table next to mine. I turned to my faithful companion, the little Eee, to record the event. The restaurant across the street was kind enough to provide faint wireless to help me find the right words for what I had witnessed. Here you go. Just-in-time publishing.