Sunday, 5 February 2012

Internet cafe (Ιντερνετ καφέ)

What am I doing on a Sunday afternoon in this dark room, with walls painted grey, the ceiling painted black, and neon lights hanging from drainpipes fixed to it? Why am I staring ahead of me at three TV screens, all playing different football matches, with ads for cars and cellphone companies? Why am I tolerating the illegal thick plumes of other people's smoke, and listening to Greek terms of endearment (ρε μαλάκα) being hurled around the room as often as the ball is being kicked in the matches on the screens? Why am I in a room full of men with ponytails, boys with shaven carvings on their scalps, girls with skinny legs wearing drainpipe jeans and Ugg boots, where everyone dresses in black as a rule, as they sit on black chairs looking at black screens? Why am I writing a blog post while listening to fast loud techno-pop music?

I'm sitting at an internet cafe (even though there are three computers in the house) because I'm a mother, and as mothers, we do things that we don't always want to do. They haven't sene anything I've just described.

The cappuccino was very good, taking taste as the only factor to be considered. But if I also took into consideration capacity, then I'd have to say it was only just enough to keep me awake in the drowsy atmosphere I find myself in, and if I also take temperature into account, it was just hot enough to drink in three large swallows before it became tepid (it was on the verge of doing so when it was brought to me).

It's moments like these when I recall life in New Zealand, a place I now believe I was born in by some lucky accident. No one makes cappuccino as well as Espressoholic. Do they still make them the same way they did two decades ago? Just wondering...

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