It’s a rainy Saturday here in Ulsan, so I decided to spend some time at a cafe and do a little writing. The following is what I penned in my notebook:
It is grey and raining in this cafe where the tables look like Morocco: blue, patterned. I am drinking my iced latte, my favorite simple pleasure. And I want to cry like the rain. Croissants. Scones. Chitter chatter. I’m never alone, even though I feel like I am sometimes.
The barista is bringing out more pastries for display and the music isn’t my favorite, but it’s pleasant. Cars are driving by on the tiny street and I see my apartment from my seat. Why do I love coffee so much? I used to hate it. This place is filled with bamboo and other big, leafy, green plants. The sign on the door says “coffee is always a good idea” and I agree. And I’m looking at the seafood restaurant across the street, but it’s probably too expensive. But the pictures of the lobster look so good.
The rain is rolling down the windows and drip dropping on the outdoor benches. I’m waiting for a package. I wonder when it will come. I wanted to go for a walk today, but the rain.
MUST. ESPRESSO. BLEND. CODE BLACK. That’s what it says on the card on the saucer that my coffee came on. And I think about how many cafes I’ve been to and how much coffee I’ve had with friends, boyfriends. I love it.
Dark chocolate. Cacao. Cashew nut. Mandarin. Good body. (The other side of the card.)
Balance. Am I balanced? The Lexapro makes me feel like I am. Until I feel overwhelmed. Anxiety. Boom. Fuck. I can’t breathe. I can’t make everyone happy, but I can make me happy. This coffee helps. I’m going to Taipei. That helps. Food and art. Food and art. Probably my most favorite things in the whole wide world. I’m going to eat xiao long bao and bubble tea and beef noodle soup and Taiwanese breakfast. Give me culture. Give me experience. I’m not going to just pay bills and die. I’m going to live. I’m going to do everything I want and more!
Colombia “Narino” Supreme. Guatemala “Fraijanes Palo Alto Azul.” Indonesia “Aceh Gayo.” (More from the card.)
I keep looking at it. I didn’t bring an umbrella. And I’m wearing sandals. I don’t really care. I think the rain’s getting heavier. 종가2길. My Korean should be better after all this time. But it’s not. Is not giving a fuck an art? If not, can it be? A family just walked in. The little boy is in awe over the pastries. Mom is wearing neon green and black striped socks. The boy’s wet shoes are squeaking across the floor. Dad looks tired. I look tired. It’s fine.
Origin. Origin. Origin. Origin.
The croissants are looking mighty good. The espresso machine is beautiful. MUST. Custom? Italian? I’ll have one someday.
Purple poncho. This guy is outside leaning on his motorbike, drenched. Driving away. I don’t miss driving. 가위 바위 보. Rock, paper, scissors. An older couple across the street is playing, smiling. They look happy. I like that.
Pensive. I like that word. I like a lot of words. History. Defined.
Is this Oasis? Shazam. Yes, it is. “Married with Children.”
Eclectic. Marble. Wood. Brown. Black. Cream. The light is soft.
Do other people scream internally? Because I feel like I do that a lot. Sometimes I look at people and wonder how they’ve made it this far. And they do some stupid fucking shit which makes me open my big, fat Jersey mouth. Whatever. I didn’t used to do that. I think living here has made me more fearless. That sounds cliche. Wow. But seriously. I can’t stay quiet anymore. Is it growing up? I don’t know.
I love myself.