Sitting in a café in Europe.
The light of early evening spilling through the wide windows framed by a gray shade of blue.
Mismatched chairs scattered about the wooden floor,
light fixtures belonging to different decades sprouting from the ceiling.
Jostled books stand proudly or slouch lazily against their neighbors in bookshelves they call home.
Thin, waxy napkins collected in boxy holders boasting Schweppes adorn circular, rectangular, plastic and wooden tables.
Patrons sip coffee and beer while chatting with others, flipping through pages, staring at an electronic reader or scribbling on paper.
The menu showcases plates named after famous philosophers and writers, including Sartre, Camus and Barnes.
The man behind the counter dons a red and white apron around his waist and greets his guests with a smile and a jest.
¿Qué te apetece?
The sounds of Billie Holiday and her crowd of American contemporaries gently ooze from modern speakers–their nostalgic voices juxtaposed by the sterile equipment casting them into the room.
The ambience is light and intimate, conducive to conversation and the completion of untaxing tasks.
A perfect place to ponder,
to simply be.