. . . On saying goodbye to the little things
The paper cup was barely the size of my palm, but large enough that my fingers could grip around it comfortably. The espresso inside was a dark roast, both strong and potent in its aroma and taste. I knew drinking it at 4pm, even on a lazy Sunday as it was, would keep me wide awake with thoughts of California. Seated on the one of two benches available in the coffee shop, I took the first sip. I added a pinch of brown sugar cane powder from the wooden condiments shelf: it tasted more pure than white sugar and somehow felt healthier, too.
The shop was also small and comfortable, with bare brick walls illuminated by filament bulbs. Three circular top hats hung behind the man in a plaid top and denim apron who took my order. At that time in my life, I should have been conscious with my habitual spendings, but still I forked over 4.5 dollar coins for the drink. All of it — the simplicity of light, the smells that make you happy to spend, the artisanal everything that are not considered artisanal, but rather normal — is typical of Melbourne. Of which there are many, these qualities are just a number of the things that I loved.
I didn’t plan to sit there for an hour, carelessly lost watching as customers walked in and out. Most of the people who came and went carried colorful, heavy bags filled with produce purchased just outside at the Queen Victoria Market. I remember this vividly because I, too, carried colorful, heavy bags that I would later bring home to prepare for our weekly Sunday family dinner.
It was never my favorite coffee shop in Melbourne, nor was it one that I frequented, but on this day I enjoyed it all the same. On this lazy Sunday in particular I realized how special it was: I sat and savored my espresso slowly, thoughtfully, knowing that in just a few days I would be on an airplane home.