Start with a title.

Yesterday I went a little stir crazy.

I think it was from lack of human contact. Apart from the computer screen I spent most of Saturday in a perpetual state of isolation and boredom. 

Eventually I summoned the will to get out of my place (which wasn’t to hard) and went for a walk to the coffee shop. I sat in there for about fifteen minutes watching people go about their day picking up fresh baked items and drinking fresh brewed coffee. I sipped on my coffee, put on an audiobook, and headed home.

I spent the rest of the day dreaming of things until a friend rescued me from my own mind. Conversation was exactly what I needed. Before he showed up at the door with a bottle of whiskey I’d fallen into a monk like silence and a new found (but temporary) depression.

Today was a different story.

Good lunch with BFC crew at Swans because Cabin 12 is closed. When we all went our separate ways Shaynebow and I hit up the local Chapters were we spent 40 minutes bullshitting, and looking at books.

When we left the book store we were privileged enough to see a street fight which involved someone flying off a bicycle to punch another guy in the face. Lots of blood and I’m sure a broken nose. This launched Shayne into a rant that started with “Correct me if I’m being Hitler…” while we sat in a coffee shop. The conversation between us ended in tears, lack of air in our lungs, red faces, and odd looks from other patrons.

It was a good day.

 

The Confusion.

In two hours we will be getting the fuck out of Dodge and heading north to the border. Frankly I can’t wait, but I don’t want to go home. Things I don’t want to deal with are sitting at the border waiting for me and those devils will always find you.

What’s the last thing you decide to do before you walk 4km with a backpack on your back? Decide to go to your local Starbucks. We jay walk across the street from the hostel to the Starbucks throw our bags on the floor and table.

First things first I order my Americano (I am in the land of the free after all) then it’s on to flirt with the cute barista who is asking where we are from. There is no one behind us in the line so we have a bit of time to chat as I move down the bar to wait for my warm beverage (caution contents are hot) and the other barista joins in the conversation. We talk Canada something I could do all day, and what patriot couldn’t.

Finally I get my drink and I head to the island where I can get cream and a lid for my drink to be greeted by an older Mexican man with a wild smile on his face. He gives me a wink, and I’m pretty sure my face went to the perplexed “what the fuck face” pretty quick.

He throws up both hands as if to surrender and goes in a thick Spanish accent “No No, No…That was for the Senorita.”
I respond with relief “Oh! No worries.” It was a good thing because I needed to take a piss and I didn’t need him trying to rape me in the bathroom.

I head to sit down at the table with Darryl moving my bag of beer and cds from my chair onto the table plop down to enjoy my last coffee in America. Just then this tanned arm reaches around me and grabs my bag on the table. In quick response I grab it and pull it down to the table and say “This is mine.”

The wild smiling Mexican man shakes his head and in his thick accent says “No!”
“I’m serious this is mine not yours,” and he releases looking around the store and the smile fades.

This is it. I’m going to die in 2hrs before heading home. Shanked prison style in a fucking Starbucks. A fucking coffee house. I’ve wasted my life.

He realizes his bag is on the table next to us and apologizes. That’s it I think it is done. He will leave us alone I can go on with my coffee,  the goose bumps can recede, and I won’t die in America this trip.

The wild smile is back and he comes to introduce himself as Salvador Sanchez but won’t leave us alone. I’m trying to quicken our conversation to an end so we can get out of there or he will leave us alone. He regales his life story in an accent I can’t quite break and our faces probably show panic. Eventually a Spanish speaking employee comes and helps get rid of Salvador for us, and after he leaves all the baristas let out a “what the fuck?” Under their breath but within ear shot of Darryl and I.

We chat about it for a few more minutes then rush off to catch our bus back to Canada. I think I'm done with this country for a while.

 

Between sleep and awake.

Today I woke up this morning at 6am stumbled to the bathroom and performed the morning ritual. This little song and dance includes me taking a piss, washing my hands, then washing my face, and brushing my teeth. I then wander back across the hall to my room to get dressed.

I sit down on my bed and put on my socks. I get one on that I remember possibly halfway through the next one and then I'm down for the count till 7:30am. When I wake up I realize I'm still not dressed . I'm just in my boxers with one sock on and the other half on, but I smell coffee. This is unusual because generally I don't make coffee when I wake up I usually get it at the bakery on my way to work.

So here I am with a pot of coffee, a half hour till I have to be at work, not dressed, and no cream. Did I make the coffee? I don't remember.

I pound back a cup of mystery coffee, step in a puddle of water, change my socks, get dressed, and head for work.

I love Saturdays.