For my Sàigòn
I sit there along the rain swept street, cleaned by the torrents of days of July rains, and I watch carefully all that moves along the street before me. The sidewalk cafe has a good awning and there are enough dry tables to pick from to enjoy the breath of morning.
From inside the shop I can smell the heavy coffee waifing through the humid air and the smell of fresh baked bread excites me just as much. A cyclo driver plods along with a young couple in the back, huddled close together under one plastic sheet..maybe speaking words of love, maybe planning for the weekend to come.
My coffee arrives just as the small street girl walks up to sell me some mysterious items hidden beneath another plastic sheet. She steps slightly forward to gain the protection of the awning and watches closely into the shop to see if the manager is on her way to chase her off. "You buy, maybe take home?" I looked, grabbed a "made in China" lighter and gave her some bills, and then another for the hell of it. She looked, took the money and stuffed it in her pocket and offered another item for sale. Too late. The manager had arrived to flush her away and quickly she floated down the street, looking back only once.
My coffee was ready by then and the bread was delivered with Australian butter and some English jam. I wanted neither...I just wanted the bread as it was, pure and very warm. I completed stirring the heavy cream into the coffee and raised the cup to my nose to smell. God, what a smell. A small group of children splashed by in what I thought to be school clothes, but who knows...more plastic covered them.
I sipped the coffee for the first time with my eyes closed. Delicious. How could there be better? I sipped again, opened my eyes to the rainy street and felt several cold drops catch the back of my neck. The bread was torn asunder as I attacked its warm body and I eagerly bit into it, the crust resisting just enough to make the effort worth it and I chewed the crust, the fruit of life.
There was a show before me, a show of life and I was being entertained by the music of the angels, their rain. Young children and old people huddle along the store fronts and eagerly ate of the warm noodles and broth in the bowls. Who cared if it was July, this morning was chilly, the rain drops cold and the wind just enough to stir it all up. A few more drops hit the back of my neck as I held the coffee in my two hands, cupping it for the warmth, protecting it from the rain. I sipped and felt the cafe trickled down my throat.
From inside the shop I can smell the heavy coffee waifing through the humid air and the smell of fresh baked bread excites me just as much. A cyclo driver plods along with a young couple in the back, huddled close together under one plastic sheet..maybe speaking words of love, maybe planning for the weekend to come.
My coffee arrives just as the small street girl walks up to sell me some mysterious items hidden beneath another plastic sheet. She steps slightly forward to gain the protection of the awning and watches closely into the shop to see if the manager is on her way to chase her off. "You buy, maybe take home?" I looked, grabbed a "made in China" lighter and gave her some bills, and then another for the hell of it. She looked, took the money and stuffed it in her pocket and offered another item for sale. Too late. The manager had arrived to flush her away and quickly she floated down the street, looking back only once.
My coffee was ready by then and the bread was delivered with Australian butter and some English jam. I wanted neither...I just wanted the bread as it was, pure and very warm. I completed stirring the heavy cream into the coffee and raised the cup to my nose to smell. God, what a smell. A small group of children splashed by in what I thought to be school clothes, but who knows...more plastic covered them.
I sipped the coffee for the first time with my eyes closed. Delicious. How could there be better? I sipped again, opened my eyes to the rainy street and felt several cold drops catch the back of my neck. The bread was torn asunder as I attacked its warm body and I eagerly bit into it, the crust resisting just enough to make the effort worth it and I chewed the crust, the fruit of life.
There was a show before me, a show of life and I was being entertained by the music of the angels, their rain. Young children and old people huddle along the store fronts and eagerly ate of the warm noodles and broth in the bowls. Who cared if it was July, this morning was chilly, the rain drops cold and the wind just enough to stir it all up. A few more drops hit the back of my neck as I held the coffee in my two hands, cupping it for the warmth, protecting it from the rain. I sipped and felt the cafe trickled down my throat.
It was a raining July morning in Sài Gòn long ago and I miss it so much.
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