That's the train station behind me.
We walked to that train station from our flat in 5 minutes.
To get on a train.
In the morning.
In the dark.
I love that.






We got off the train an hour later.
In Paris.
To spend the weekend watching master's tennis.
And found a Starbucks.
Remember back in the day 3 months ago when I so desperately craved a venti brew?
Well, there it was in all its forest green sign glory.
The motherlode of American coffee bars .
We stopped in front of it and I stared in disbelief.
And then the Italian looked at me and asked, "Well, do you want to go in, baby?"
I hesitated. I didn't think so. I didn't Think SO?? What??
I had been wishing for this very moment for over two months and I didn't THINK SO??
But it was weird.
I haven't seen a chain coffee bar in what seems like forever.
It was cold that day, though and I really wished I had wanted to go in.
So we did. Because it was what I had, after all, been wishing for.
Walked right up to the counter. I looked in the glass case and recognized the names of all those Starbuck's pastries I never ate but felt comfortable knowing were there:
Carrot Passion Cake
Marshmello Twizzle
Starbucks trademarked granola bar packed with papaya, raisins, pecan nuts, heavy corn syrup....etc.
Tazo Teas
and the one thing I'd been asking for since I'd arrived here in France.
The Choice
- small, medium, or large
- tall, grande, or venti
- meaning: big, bigger or biggest.
That's how we Americans like to roll.
All big like.
Aaah Starbucks
Everything so uniform.
So familiar.
As I gazed over the counter, though, the venti suddenly appeared like the most giant vat-like container I'd ever seen.
Ridiculously large.
Could I seriously drink all that?
I felt myself freaking out inside a little, noticing it appeared that I'd had a change of heart.
Had I changed my mind? Was I fickle?
I Finally got the one coffee thing I'd asked for and I was rejecting it.
Weren't my 20's over?
I mean, the Venti was always a little much, admittedely,even in the states, but now even the grande looked gigantic.
I wasn't ready to admit anything yet, however.
We ordered a tall house brew.
and paid.
and walked outside with the awkward feeling "to go" cup in hand.
Now, understand that, "to go" coffee is not really part of cafe' culture here.
Cafe' culture - by the way - which I'd previously been giggling at the absurdities of - I accidentally wholeheartedly find myself participating in.
Anyway, the "to go" cups aren't common here as they are in our neck of the Starbucks infested woods and when you see them you really do have to laugh because they're just so damn tiny. (see for yourself-and its only half full, BTW)
It doesn't make any kind of sense to drink from them, since by the time you leave the coffee bar, with your miniture "to go" cup, you've either tossed the shot back or it's cold.



Not to mention that I've become fond of sitting with the Italian in the cafe' and the espresso in the porcelain cup and sip sip sipping, after watching the barista pack the grounds just so and the crema just ever so perfectly dense atop the delicious noir nectar.
mmm mmmm mmmm. deelish


So I was paralyzed standing outside the Paris Starbucks with my grande brew. I should have been ready "to go". It was pretty early still, I hadn't had a coffee yet that day. I wasn't fully awake for the day, either. It should have been the perfect coffee scenario. To go cup in hand, will walk.
"Let's Go. On y Va!"
I couldn't move. I was paralyzed.
It was all wrong.
Why were we going to "walk" with the coffee?
Why weren't we going to sit and sip, again?
Out of a real cup?
So we stood outside Starbucks and tried to drink the slightly bittered brew.
And it wasn't the same.
I'm not the same.