Every morning I look forward to a big cup of coffee. When I was in university, my mom used to have a pot of coffee waiting for me in the morning. I would get off the water at around 7am. The sun would rise in the east over the Toronto skyline. We would hang our oars, stow our boat and then I would drive home for a warm bath, a pot of coffee and a chat with my mom.
Coffee is sacred.
Up until about Hungary, I had tied to respect each barista by attempting to order my coffee in their official language. But then it got too hard. So adaptably, I sorted out that if you make a sad face and point to the coffee machine, it is universally understood that you need some of that good stuff.
As I touch down in New Zealand, I remark the it is the first English-speaking country that I have visited in over two and a half months. I am back on the grid! I can use my words instead of using pathetic monkey-like gestures to be served.
I walk up to the coffee shop counter…
Me: “I’ll have a large coffee, please.”
Barista: “A fleaat wheeaait?” (Flat white)
Me: “Kaaw-feee.”
Barista: “Fleaat wheaait?”
Me. “Kaaw-feee.”
Barista: “Fleaat wheaait?”
Me: “Coffee?”
Barista: “Fleeat wheaait?”
Me: “Yes.”
Barista: “That will be ten dollars.”
Me: ?! 😮
