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A Latte Between Us: The Strangeness of Connection
Inside a Portuguese café, reading Albert Camus's “The Stranger” and looking around while trying to find me
This is the first time I’ve complained about a badly made coffee. I stand up hesitantly but eventually walk to the counter.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but is this barley? ” I ask the waitress, trying to look as friendly as possible and speaking softly.
“Don’t take it badly, but there’s something wrong with the taste,” I tell her.
She immediately grabs the latte and kindly says she’ll make another one. “Don’t worry,” “No problem,” and “Of course” were some of the phrases she quickly said.
I return to my seat.
The waitress always has a smile on her face, displayed in the middle of her brown skin and her slowly hurried pace. She treats all the customers very well without making it feel like she’s being insincere. She’s genuine in her speech.
Eventually, she comes back with the second latte. It’s prepared just for me. She carefully places it down as if waiting for me to approve her gesture. I immediately express my gratitude.
I pick up the latte and remember how I would have been unable to complain about…