Today, before going to work, I decided to take a little time for myself. The sun was shining, the morning looked pleasant, and I felt like sitting quietly at a café terrace with a nice cup of coffee before starting my day.
I found a good table, sat down, ordered my coffee and began to relax. For a few seconds, everything was perfect. Then, suddenly, a guy came up to me:
— Hey, do you have 20 cents?
— No.
Short, simple and straight to the point. I thought that was the end of it. But apparently, the terrace was operating like a human ATM.
Two minutes later, another guy showed up:
— Do you have a cigarette?
— Not that either.
At that rate, I started wondering whether someone was going to ask me for a mortgage or invite me to invest in a crowdfunding project.
Still, I tried to remain calm. After all, I had come to enjoy the sunshine, not to take part in an episode of Survivor: City-Centre Terrace Edition.
Five minutes later, a third man arrived with a beer in his hand. The beer was already half-finished—and judging by his condition, so was he. He sat down at the table next to me and started mumbling into his beard.
I couldn’t understand a word. It sounded like he was speaking an ancient language, probably the official dialect of the morning after a very bad night.
At first, I pretended not to hear him. I stared at my coffee with great concentration, as if I were analysing its origins, its terroir and its future. But then he started calling out to me:
— Hey, sir…
— Hey, sir!
— Sir, can you hear me?
I didn’t answer. I stared into the distance with the expression of a man who had mentally gone on holiday. But it made no difference. He kept calling me over and over, as if I were the only available civil servant qualified to deal with his request.
At that point, my relaxing coffee break had officially come to an end. I had come to enjoy a coffee in the sunshine, and I found myself in the middle of an improvised talk show featuring begging, cigarettes and an incomprehensible monologue.
So I eventually reached my limit. I poured the rest of my coffee onto the ground—a symbolic, almost artistic gesture—then stood up and moved inside another bar, somewhere a little quieter and, let’s say, slightly more selective.
The coffee cost a little more there, that’s true. But at least I could drink it without having to answer questions, hand out change, distribute cigarettes or translate a conversation in the dialect of the morning after.
In the end, I learned one thing: in the city, sunshine is free, but peace and quiet is definitely a paid extra.
And that morning, I chose the premium package.
Have a great day, everyone! I hope your break goes better than mine did today.
good day all
