Coffee Walk


Olivier and I tackle London, armed with pea coats and take-away coffee cups. It’s a balmy 7C / 45F, and I’m feeling toasty with a cup of caffeinated goodness between my digits.

Barely out of breakfast, Olivier and I are already in line at our local Starbucks on St. John’s High Street, black coffee for me, latte for him. I need a little pick me up for my short night of upright slumber.

By the time we walk the canal and stare at the massive Russian mansions and make it to Primrose Hill, our cups are empty, which means it’s high time for tea, chai tea, at a cutesy cafe with pastel walls and white tables.

Whoa, I am fully resubmerged in the land of candy coated commercialism, and I haven’t missed a beat. It’s clean, it’s orderly, and it comes with perfectly printed menus featuring exotica like masala spices and vanilla from Madagascar. I’m not sure how I feel about being back in the land of plenty, where our dreams and desires come packaged to our front doors, gift-wrapped in petroleum by-products, everyone decked out in just one of the many items they have in a closet in one of the many rooms of their houses. It’s a far cry for where I’ve been and from where those spices are from and from living out of a backpack with my three tees, two pants, and seven pair of underwear.

But, that’s enough of that, as next up, it is the Stables Market, a quirky collection of shops and vendors selling things chains, studs, and other paraphernalia for the various holes in one’s body. Not exactly the place to purchase a secret Santa present for your uncle, but totally the perfect spot for a lunner, that meal between lunch and dinner, of mushroom, spinach, and cheese crepes.

London is pretty freaking rad.

And, just because three’s a lucky number, we wrap up the day how we started it, with a cup of Starbucks’ winter brew, this time a cappuccino, all for the sake of accessing the bathroom upstairs with a code so obvious as 1-2-3-4 that we could have foregone the £4 milk and coffee ambrosia.

Or not, because I see my breath and am happy for the warm liquid between my mitts and for walking the canal back the way we came with mon petit cousin.














This entry was published on December 17, 2012 at 08:25. It’s filed under England and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: