The OxWash truck partially obscures the aging architecture that was supposed to be my glorious view through the tea house window. Background chatter of fellow patrons boasting multiple languages and accents, passing buses, some open topped with a scattering of tourists eager to spot a dreaming spire. The OxWash man continues his onerous task, emptying large green waste containers with a ponderous malaise. The late morning sun has caused concern to the staff, who step outside to pull the canopy and offer shade to the just cleared single table sitting exposed to the hustle and bustle of the street outside. OxWash has moved on with unexpected haste. The noise in the cafe seems to increase temporarily. Perhaps the patrons had been raising their voices to overcome the bin collector. It soon strikes me that they are noisier than OxWash ever was. High decibels are being hit and I start to miss the low murmur of the stationery truck, which had somehow acted as a general mute for the chaotic cafe chatter.
So many people stride past. There is nothing lackadaisical about the street. OxWash man was the only one who was not rushing. Now he is gone and I miss him. The school of art across the road is looking back at me coldly, any artistic alchemy that may be occurring is absent from my vision. If only another service van would park up outside to brighten the view.
I don't care about the novel the guy behind is describing. It sound pretentious. He sounds pretentious. Trying too hard to impress.
Time to finish my tea and find another haven of calm amidst the maelstrom.
The Morrocan
I have my back to the open window, seated upon a colourful knitted window bench. I can hear buses, cars, and cyclists in constant flux behind me. The only other patron is also travelling solo, a lady in her sixties, she too has a tablet which is winning her attention.
A heady scent hits my nostrils, accompanied by several short beeps that I presume signal a dish is ready to be served in the freshly cleaned counter. Could it be today's advertised lentil soup? Sadly my olfactory senses are not refined enough to know off-hand. I may ask when I leave, for future reference.
Just as the volume of chatter seemed to increase exponentionally the longer I remained in my last stop, I now start to become far more aware of the ethnic music being piped into the cafe. I can't say if it is authentically Morroccan, or the rose tinted tourist trap street music that gets rolled out in movies to lazily dilineate cultures when changing scenery. Pipes or flutes vie with crooning men and women telling tales in a language I cannot understand.
The cool breeze on my back is a reminder that the outside world beckons. I am also starting to envy the orders of the newest patrons, a couple who could well be Morroccan, though could easily be from many other countries, or even be as 100% English as I am, nevertheless they have received an impressive copper coffee pot and two ornate espresso sized cups. I am assuming this is Turkish or Arabic coffee, something I was tempted to order, but decided to forgo in lieu of a Morrocan 50/50.
I had to ask about this curiosity and learned it was a macchiato and an espresso, with one sitting atop the other.
This is a much more peaceful experience and if the buses were to pause their frequent trips past I could almost close my eyes and let the scents and sounds wash over me and temporarily transport me to distant climes.
The elderly lady has left me behind, the couple came and went, staying only long enough to use the facilities, drink and go. It's just me and a man who is now sleeping in the corner, perhaps succeeding in blocking out the traffic and journeying in his mind.
I shall join him on that adventure. Two drinks in swift succession have left me in need of a toilet break and that may as well signal my time to leave Morrocco and head further out of the city in search of another experience.
A crepe stop
It seems Morrocco has a hold on me today. Not long after my 50/50 I find myself tempted by a cafe sign promising gluten free crepes. Lunch will actually be later, but you know what, breakfast was 4 and a half hours ago and I'm not meeting my friend for lunch for another 2 hours. The plan is to have a light healthy meal now, and again later. So here I am, in a more traditional cafe/restaurant setting, seated deeper within than the previous two establishments, yet still unable to escape the low rumble of passing buses. Now the Morroccan influence is in the food, with cous cous, felafal and various herbs filling the interior of a large soft crepe, the edges ever so slightly crispy.
I am now being serenaded by sweet guitar music, the ethnicity of which is vague. To my untrained ears it sounds latin, but perhaps it is more authentic than the previous setting, I am sadly not well-travelled enough to comment.
I could be in any number of anonymous restaurants in the world as far as decor is concerned, but it is the food that a restaurant should be judged on, and frankly I shall return to this establishment again, and I shall bring the wife. Enthusiastic murmurs of approval from the chap who came in shortly after me adds to sensation that I have successfully discovered another culinary treasure trove.
My fellow patron is rather vocal in general considering he's alone. Though I'm glad he asked for the rear door to be shut, the long thin layout was proving to be a wind tunnel that made me regret my light attire.
I have decided to resist the temptation to dive straight back into coffee so soon, having briefly been struck by an overwhelming desire to order the Turkish coffee I coveted at my last stop.
I think it is wise to stagger the caffiene intake.
Tap water will do. It looks rather pretty in the flip top glass bottle despite it's mundane origins.
The chap behind me has finished and is pleased. He too is planning to return. He used to live in the area he tells the owner. Also he doesn't usually eat rice but found it extremely delicious. I like him, he's much more authentic than the pretentious book reader in the tea shop.
I have yet to find my next OxWash, but here I am finding a pleasing duality in watching the passers-by outside unwittingly walking into their doppleganger heading in the opposite direction in the glass fronted counter.
Maybe one day one of them will vanish and the reflection will take their place.
Miscellany
Shops have been browsed. I tried to avoid spending money, but somehow it still happened. Nothing big. First was notepad, despite the fact I don't use notepads, which features an esquisitely colourful face of a lion. I'm rather partial to lions and the idea that I may actually scrawl my thoughts and musings on paper now I'm 38 held a rather optimistic appeal. Second was a Turkish coffee pot and tub of appropriate coffee spotted enticingly awaiting me in a deli window. That will mark my fourth method of making coffee possible at home now. Also purchased was a spice mix for Tzatziki and some raw chocolate and nut treats to snack on in the cinema.
Whilst waiting for my friend to arrive I entered one of those bland trendy coffee houses that probably do well with students. This provided me with a bland iced americano that did nothing to stir the tastebuds.
We are now awaiting delivery of lunch in a cafe above a bike shop which feels much more in fitting with my earlier travels. We are surrounded by good natured chit chat, open laptops and tablets propped up in cases. Perhaps this place is hipster chic gone mad, but the vibe seems pleasant enough. Even here the grip of Morroco on my food and drink adventures is ceaseless for I have ordered a spiced chickpea dish.
We shall be heading to the cinema shortly. Not a place for typing on tablets.
A short story from a tall place
One movie down and we're out to eat. I'm with company but am being rude by typing this out while we wait for our order. I've done well for food today so have opted for a starter and side.
Nothing Morroccan. In case you were wondering.
My tablet battery will not last the evening. But the night will continue with one more drink and one more movie.
Today has been one of the good ones.
The post credit scene
I'm home now. The clock shows a few minutes past the midnight hour and I've been back barely 15 minutes. I've showered and got into my pyjamas. The day has been exhilarating, inspiring, and personal.
I want to take on the world. But it's easy to feel that way when you are on a high.
Come tomorrow will I step up, or falter?
But tomorrow has already arrived. I'm 6 minutes in to the day after the above events.
I never did find my next OxWash. But the moments you don't expect, no matter how seemingly banal, can spark an internal revolution within your soul. If it wasn't for OxWash blocking my view, I would not have started typing on my tablet. I would not have set a template for my day that gave me great pleasure and joy. And it all started with rubbish bins.
I had to ask about this curiosity and learned it was a macchiato and an espresso, with one sitting atop the other.
This is a much more peaceful experience and if the buses were to pause their frequent trips past I could almost close my eyes and let the scents and sounds wash over me and temporarily transport me to distant climes.
The elderly lady has left me behind, the couple came and went, staying only long enough to use the facilities, drink and go. It's just me and a man who is now sleeping in the corner, perhaps succeeding in blocking out the traffic and journeying in his mind.
I shall join him on that adventure. Two drinks in swift succession have left me in need of a toilet break and that may as well signal my time to leave Morrocco and head further out of the city in search of another experience.
A crepe stop
It seems Morrocco has a hold on me today. Not long after my 50/50 I find myself tempted by a cafe sign promising gluten free crepes. Lunch will actually be later, but you know what, breakfast was 4 and a half hours ago and I'm not meeting my friend for lunch for another 2 hours. The plan is to have a light healthy meal now, and again later. So here I am, in a more traditional cafe/restaurant setting, seated deeper within than the previous two establishments, yet still unable to escape the low rumble of passing buses. Now the Morroccan influence is in the food, with cous cous, felafal and various herbs filling the interior of a large soft crepe, the edges ever so slightly crispy.
I am now being serenaded by sweet guitar music, the ethnicity of which is vague. To my untrained ears it sounds latin, but perhaps it is more authentic than the previous setting, I am sadly not well-travelled enough to comment.
I could be in any number of anonymous restaurants in the world as far as decor is concerned, but it is the food that a restaurant should be judged on, and frankly I shall return to this establishment again, and I shall bring the wife. Enthusiastic murmurs of approval from the chap who came in shortly after me adds to sensation that I have successfully discovered another culinary treasure trove.
My fellow patron is rather vocal in general considering he's alone. Though I'm glad he asked for the rear door to be shut, the long thin layout was proving to be a wind tunnel that made me regret my light attire.
I have decided to resist the temptation to dive straight back into coffee so soon, having briefly been struck by an overwhelming desire to order the Turkish coffee I coveted at my last stop.
I think it is wise to stagger the caffiene intake.
Tap water will do. It looks rather pretty in the flip top glass bottle despite it's mundane origins.
The chap behind me has finished and is pleased. He too is planning to return. He used to live in the area he tells the owner. Also he doesn't usually eat rice but found it extremely delicious. I like him, he's much more authentic than the pretentious book reader in the tea shop.
I have yet to find my next OxWash, but here I am finding a pleasing duality in watching the passers-by outside unwittingly walking into their doppleganger heading in the opposite direction in the glass fronted counter.
Maybe one day one of them will vanish and the reflection will take their place.
Miscellany
Shops have been browsed. I tried to avoid spending money, but somehow it still happened. Nothing big. First was notepad, despite the fact I don't use notepads, which features an esquisitely colourful face of a lion. I'm rather partial to lions and the idea that I may actually scrawl my thoughts and musings on paper now I'm 38 held a rather optimistic appeal. Second was a Turkish coffee pot and tub of appropriate coffee spotted enticingly awaiting me in a deli window. That will mark my fourth method of making coffee possible at home now. Also purchased was a spice mix for Tzatziki and some raw chocolate and nut treats to snack on in the cinema.
Whilst waiting for my friend to arrive I entered one of those bland trendy coffee houses that probably do well with students. This provided me with a bland iced americano that did nothing to stir the tastebuds.
We are now awaiting delivery of lunch in a cafe above a bike shop which feels much more in fitting with my earlier travels. We are surrounded by good natured chit chat, open laptops and tablets propped up in cases. Perhaps this place is hipster chic gone mad, but the vibe seems pleasant enough. Even here the grip of Morroco on my food and drink adventures is ceaseless for I have ordered a spiced chickpea dish.
We shall be heading to the cinema shortly. Not a place for typing on tablets.
A short story from a tall place
One movie down and we're out to eat. I'm with company but am being rude by typing this out while we wait for our order. I've done well for food today so have opted for a starter and side.
Nothing Morroccan. In case you were wondering.
My tablet battery will not last the evening. But the night will continue with one more drink and one more movie.
Today has been one of the good ones.
The post credit scene
I'm home now. The clock shows a few minutes past the midnight hour and I've been back barely 15 minutes. I've showered and got into my pyjamas. The day has been exhilarating, inspiring, and personal.
I want to take on the world. But it's easy to feel that way when you are on a high.
Come tomorrow will I step up, or falter?
But tomorrow has already arrived. I'm 6 minutes in to the day after the above events.
I never did find my next OxWash. But the moments you don't expect, no matter how seemingly banal, can spark an internal revolution within your soul. If it wasn't for OxWash blocking my view, I would not have started typing on my tablet. I would not have set a template for my day that gave me great pleasure and joy. And it all started with rubbish bins.
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