Location: Saint Giles Cafe & Bar (Look how F**king Good I’m Getting at This ‘Look At Where You’re Going’ Thing)
We’re back in that café world, people.
This is my idea of adventurous. Walking in, looking like Miley Cyrus with my quirky hair-do…and half-smiling down at my “Liverpool Pub Crawl 2014” bracelet, wishing I didn’t have an eyebrow wax appointment in 45 minutes.
I’m complaining that I have to pamper myself? Time to reassess.
The waitress that just flew over to this table I’m sitting at looks like the princess in Game of Thrones, with that little smirk in the corner of her mouth. The Scottish waiter dude who welcomed me in was mega cute, and admittedly I’m bummed I wasn’t his responsiblity.
I wish it wasn’t creepy to take pictures of people. “Excuse me, sir? Sir? Would you mind if I took a photo of you? You see, you’re a character in my story. No, you’re not a big part, but you made it into a sentence.”
I think it’d be flattering,anyway. To make it into a stranger’s sentence of their life story.
It’s impossible to cover everything, so I’ll just do what I do best. I’ll cover right now. So parked right here, waiting for my fancy drink to arrive at this little wooden table with a sunflower painted in the middle, I’ll sit in this gold ( there’s gold everywhere because the sun is shining straight through the window-ed side of the café) and bullet point.
Let me touch the setting: I’m alone. Gen’s getting her haircut and Adriana’s doing some laundry at the hostel. I went walking on my own and:
– A Scottish man in a kilt played Star Wars for me on the bag pipes
– A storm trooper kissed my hand
– I got de-scarfed by the wind at the very top next to the castle, overlooking Edinburgh
– I wasn’t even cold, I was smiling
-This places seems known for cashmere, whiskey, celtic signs, golf, kilts, and loc ness.
-I ordered a gingerbread latte with some alcohol in it and a Scottish biscuit on the side. I feel—
THE TIMING! My throat is parched and Game of Thrones Waitress just smirked my drink out.
– There’s a heart shape in the top of my coffee
– It’s in a tall glass
– Its fucking beautiful
– It smells like the holidays
– The 2 pizza slices of sugar biscuit look perfect
– The napkin is perfectly bent beneath it in a white nest
(Excuse me, I must go and attend to this)
– I just took a sip
– I panicked. (There’s a spoon! Why the fuck is there a spoon?! Is it not stirred? THERE’S NO SUGAR THOUGH. Do I drink it with the spoon? Do I scoop off the foam? WHAT IS SCOTTISH COFFEE EDITIQUETTE)
– I’m staying calm. I don’t want anyone to see that I’m writing in all caps.
– I just dipped the biscuit in the coffee and I need to do it one more time, but slowly and appreciate it all over again.
– Speaking of appreciating—is it weird that I was relieved to find that there was no wifi here?
– It’s Halloween. And I’m drinking something alchoholic. And it’s coffee. It’s 2 pm. By myself. In Scottland. At a wooden tabe with a sunflower painted on it. Looking at a candlestick that’s popped in a bottle of Plymouth Gin… which would seem Pinterest if it wasn’t so cool, if you know what I mean.
I have a burning question, By the way.
Something I’ve been playing with for a while.
How you measure change?
– I just had a coughing fit and tried to stay calm.
– I did.
– And then I wrote about it.
How you do you measure change?
I looked up from my pleasant sugar fest.
Amongst the decorative pumpkins carefully adorning a ledge—high, high up towards the tall ceiling of the café—was a crate. “Chateau La Dominque St-Emilion 2010.”
I smile. It’s weird to recognize home when I’m in the middle of a foreign country. It’s even weirder to recognize that I think of the south of France as home.
How you do measure change?
They must have put the rum in first. The last sip was the best sip.
I took a gulp.
I closed my eyes as I drank it.
I’ll have to run to catch my eyebrow appointment in 20 minutes.
But HOW do you measure change?
I’m sitting, I’m thinking…
I think it’s in paying close attention to your small adventures.
Because I’m no longer little Katrina having her Mom buy her a hot coco. I’m no longer Katrina using a Starbuck’s giftcard to buy a coffee in Downtown Santa Cruz on my break from Pacific Trading Company.
I’m suddenly 21, maxing out my daily-sugar-intake in gingerbread latte…and finding it hilarious that I just asked for the check reflectively in french, et merci Madame. I also feel golden, and I’m not sure if that’s because of the sunlight, the sunflower, the rum…or the sum of it all.
Maybe change is measuring the shifting gold coins inside you. Because right now I feel pretty rich with it.
I’m gonna be so poor after this trip.
Wanna know the priceless feeling?
The poverty will be worth it.