I stepped back down the cobblestones, through the corridor of shops wreathed in purple flowers and went into Ghost Alley in search of a fancy coffee drink. I'm searching for fancy coffee for the same reason that Cortes was searching for gold because I deserve it. I'm a visitor here, which means I deserve the best, am really, when you get right down to it, entitled to it. Or at least an idea of what the best what might be, some sort of approximation, like staring at a jar of candy corn and getting within 200 of being correct.
The lady in the espresso shop has a boatload of tattoos. People with tattoos, let me just be honest, scare me a bit. Scare is not really the right word. What I mean to say is that people with tattoos make me feel as though I should get tattoos as well, or stop being so square, but then I'm standing there thinking about how I just thought of the word square and how that makes me even more square and now I have to order some coffee.
I've scoped out the board ahead of time and identified a drink called the Lizzie Borden that is a mix of chocolate and raspberry, which sounds just heavenly. At the register, I panic, and say, "You have a drink called the Lizzie Borden on your menu" rather than just saying, "I'll take the Lizzie Borden." I suppose on the grounds that she might have found it strange if I just said I'll take the Lizzie Borden and she'd say something like, "We sell coffee here you tourist, now get a tattoo." Luckily she confirmed that the sign out front was for her coffee shop, and she set about making the drink while I stood there with my backpack and iPad mini camera wondering where I could buy a fanny pack and a t-shirt to match with my friends.
The drink, as I'd suspected, is a little piece of heaven. It costs four dollars because real estate in heaven isn't cheap. I drink it, and then I take a picture of it because I think that's a thing people do on vacation. The picture is crude, and I'm not sure it looks like anything more than coffee. I wish she hadn't stiffed me by giving it to me in a plastic cup. Vacation photos should include large pictures of ornate cappucinos. And yes, it tastes amazing, but presentation matters tattoo lady! She seems unfazed as she's chatting with the guy next to me with glasses, corduroy pants, and his legs crossed in the way of a French philosopher.
After a while I reconnect to the internet to see if anyone is liking my pictures. I try to show the lady how I put her picture up on Instagram, but she's talking about a war overseas. For a while, I stare at the cobblestones and the tourists wandering through the alley like insane bits of water, traveling uphill. And then I get up and join them. I'm here to tour after all. Fancy drinks be damned!
(For the record 2 of my friends on the trip have tattoos and I'm fine with them. Well, I'm fine with them in so far as the body is a temple that they've desecrated kind of fine with them. However, when I see someone with a certain amount of tattoos I can't shake the feeling that when they see me I appear to them as a pasty white bulls eye who should have tattoos everywhere. Either that or as a square. I took a picture of her shop with my eye iPad like a boss and called it a day).
The lady in the espresso shop has a boatload of tattoos. People with tattoos, let me just be honest, scare me a bit. Scare is not really the right word. What I mean to say is that people with tattoos make me feel as though I should get tattoos as well, or stop being so square, but then I'm standing there thinking about how I just thought of the word square and how that makes me even more square and now I have to order some coffee.
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I've scoped out the board ahead of time and identified a drink called the Lizzie Borden that is a mix of chocolate and raspberry, which sounds just heavenly. At the register, I panic, and say, "You have a drink called the Lizzie Borden on your menu" rather than just saying, "I'll take the Lizzie Borden." I suppose on the grounds that she might have found it strange if I just said I'll take the Lizzie Borden and she'd say something like, "We sell coffee here you tourist, now get a tattoo." Luckily she confirmed that the sign out front was for her coffee shop, and she set about making the drink while I stood there with my backpack and iPad mini camera wondering where I could buy a fanny pack and a t-shirt to match with my friends.
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The drink, as I'd suspected, is a little piece of heaven. It costs four dollars because real estate in heaven isn't cheap. I drink it, and then I take a picture of it because I think that's a thing people do on vacation. The picture is crude, and I'm not sure it looks like anything more than coffee. I wish she hadn't stiffed me by giving it to me in a plastic cup. Vacation photos should include large pictures of ornate cappucinos. And yes, it tastes amazing, but presentation matters tattoo lady! She seems unfazed as she's chatting with the guy next to me with glasses, corduroy pants, and his legs crossed in the way of a French philosopher.
After a while I reconnect to the internet to see if anyone is liking my pictures. I try to show the lady how I put her picture up on Instagram, but she's talking about a war overseas. For a while, I stare at the cobblestones and the tourists wandering through the alley like insane bits of water, traveling uphill. And then I get up and join them. I'm here to tour after all. Fancy drinks be damned!
(For the record 2 of my friends on the trip have tattoos and I'm fine with them. Well, I'm fine with them in so far as the body is a temple that they've desecrated kind of fine with them. However, when I see someone with a certain amount of tattoos I can't shake the feeling that when they see me I appear to them as a pasty white bulls eye who should have tattoos everywhere. Either that or as a square. I took a picture of her shop with my eye iPad like a boss and called it a day).
Especially like this one.
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