Two years ago, a few architect types got the wildly bright idea to recreate a Croatian fishing village north of Dallas, Texas. It's shameful; I know. I'm fairly certain that none of the architects were natives of that fair, war-torn land, and I'm even more positive that none of the moms ordering ten-syllable lattes have ever heard of the country. I have yet to personally encounter any land mines or crossfire, much less the fish suggested in the development's catchy moniker, but, for reasons I can't put my usually xenophobic little fingers on, I have adopted this strange, hybrid coffee shop as my own.
I visit Starbucks, Croatia every morning.
Most days, when I drag myself to the counter, Woundingly Cheerful Senior Citizen rings me up, Weirdly Distracted Mom Jeans froths my milk, and That Apparently Cuban Lady orders a triple espresso - either five minutes before or two minutes after I arrive. Some Ordinary Person works the drive through.
It's funny how normal it seems - the coffee, the chit chat - until you remember you're sitting in faux-foreign-bucks instead of gig-em-in-v-necks-bucks. Sometimes that's what being "home" feels like. A few shots short of Red Eye; one or two Mary-Kate Olsens off the mark.
You too? And yet there are adventures to be had. I'm not sure what or where they are, but I promise to keep you updated, gentle reader. Until then, know that you're always welcome to pull up a chair and have a cup of coffee. Except for you, Pan. You...don't need any caffeine.
-A.
1 comment:
beautiful.
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