What would've been, giving way to what will never be inside my head. I feel myself growing older than I am, and wonder if that's borrowed, stolen, or perhaps inherited. The wisdom of the tribe that comes hand in hand with living in a hut on the outskirts. That's I.
I look at young people like they're children, and catch myself calling them so without meaning to sound condescending. Outsmarted myself again with my own prose. Try as we might, we always end up writing about ourselves in some way really, aren't we. This isn't about the book, though.
I've spent enough time in Prague now to have my favorite haunts, already, some of which I'll never share with the world. Yesterday, wandering in an area nearby, visiting a precious little store for handmade crafts, I suddenly was in the mood for a coffee. I told you it'd be a day of too much coffee, didn't I?
My favorite place was there, but it was too early for opening time, alas, so in a sneaky need, I texted 
Though I was a tad apprehensive when he recommended Cafe Prostoru, the cafe inside the National Library of Technology. It was described as a students' place, and as you know, I am and I am not. I'm bohemian in ways, but also too old.
I had a hard time finding my way inside the labyrinthine building.
I had a twinge of impostor-ness standing outside the library, staring at the building's map. Like I could be someone going up to the fourth floor, to the computer room. Someone with too many books in my bag. Someone I'm not.
Immediately, I was struck by the difference of culture, the sports apparel store that greeted me inside the building, but strangely also comforted me. Marked it as a place not just for students.
Inside, the loud, obnoxious hum of young people. The chattering and the you-know-whats. The vastness of the place, me finding my way. A cup of coffee on the way out. Greeted in a language I can not speak, so don't try, but I'm used to that by now. The kid behind the counter weighing me, friendly and alert. There's an alertness you trigger when you talk to someone in a foreign language. Do I get triggered like that? The relish of being called upon, the pleasure of being someone else.
In (or on?) a different tongue.
The delight of batch brew mingling with the sadness at the indoors seating, workers outside. Too beautiful a day to waste a minute of the sun.
Would you like to sit here or upstairs? More decisions than I could handle in the moment. Is there an upstairs? I think I'd like to try that. Be given a number scribbled on a paper cup. Anxious. What if they don't find me? What if no room up-top? What if I have to come back again and bother him, make a nuisance of myself? Lose my cool?
Ascend, and find room.
A sunny, crowded spot. Will I be able to shut my ears off? Not to work, ever, but to read, I just might. My order comes. Guilt at eating out, when there's food at home, blending into the healthy hunger of fresh veggies. The abundance of serving. The smell of hot pitta.
I bring the cup to my nose. I love these clear, simple mugs, though I'd never have them in my home. Too industrial. Too bland. Perfect for a batch brew inside a busy library cafe. The chatter of youth. The three boys at the table next to mine. Tired. Playful. A sense of possibility and companionship.
My coffee citrusy and well-roasted. Robust. I always feel such a fraud saying things like robust. Reminds me of silliness. Not too acidic on my tongue. I like? I like. The kind of coffee you could be sipping endlessly. The way the filter brings out the fruitiness in a way no other method can quite match. My hummus spicy and exotic in my mouth.
I eat leisurely, taking my time. Taking my pleasure. Read while eating. Eyes switching focus from the page to the boys behind. Taking in their movement, their ease, the questioning eye. Get sucked into my book, and when I look up again, it's a girl taking their place. I been here a long time.
She's elegant, in a long trench coat. Black. And a big, important-looking shoulder bag. Her hair tied back to look more professional. The fresh youth. I can see her playing with who she'd like to be, and it draws me in. She's about the same age as my protagonist. Is my protagonist so cheeky and fresh-faced? So new at being?
I've forgotten what that is. Or have I? Am I just losing grip inside this constant game of reinventing myself?
I get caught up for a time in the people around me. The girl leaning over my table to plug in her charger, the harried monologue I don't understand, but share her smile and her friendliness anyway. The girl further on, looking all bohemian, somehow older than the girl in front of me. Trail charger-girl back to her table with my long, inquisitive eye. Take in the two boys in her group. Their blonde hair, their handsomeness. Are they brothers, or do good-looking people just find each other intuitively?
I return to my reading, take in the scent. Make notes frantic, inspired by the book, by the life bustling around me. Turns out, I can tune out noisy just fine. I'm here a long time, lazy to get up from my seat, and head back. Take pleasure in my cup. Endless. I love the generosity of batch brews in most places, and draw out my lunch to match. Remember to smell my coffee each time, and with each, surprised at the self-assuredness of the scent. There's comfort in good coffee.
In the end, it's the last licks of sunlight luring me out. I want to be able to enjoy it on the walk home. I snap my pictures, thinking to my surprise yes, this is a place I could come back to. Sometimes it happens in places you don't expect it. In nooks you don't know how.
Might at least enjoy your coffee while you're there.
