The Cafe

"On some nights, New York is as hot as Bangkok. The whole continent seems to have moved from its place and slid near the equator..."

-Saul Bellow, The Victim

I'm not in New York, I'm in Houston, so it isn't as much of a stretch to imagine Houston as some foreign oasis like Bangkok or Tangier or Algiers. You know, somewhere foreign but not too foreign. The types of places where it wouldn't be uncommon to see people in turbans and fesses sipping coffee with French or American businessmen.

There's this cafe in Houston that I can go to where I feel like I'm in a foreign country. A place where (thankfully) they don't actually know my name, but they know my face. Even if they did know my name, they speak more naturally in foreign languages (Spanish...Mediterranean at the very least).

It's in this old building that, from the outside, looks like a Mediterranean villa covered with ivy. High bushes surround it, so it's hard to see the people sitting on the other side. You enter the ivy maze, sit down on the side of the building, kind of like a little enclave in an alleyway, and can't see the street outside.

The cars might as well not be there, and I might as well be sitting elsewhere, in some other country somewhere (as if Texas isn't almost one already).