Wang Maomao

On weekends I have two choices for coffee: a chic Espresso Royale with black fixtures except for a red sofa by the window, or a dingy barista cafe which brews drip Yirgacheffe that’s inspired by rainy afternoons (it opens at 12pm and closes before dark). It’s almost a cliche then that the Americano at the Espresso Royale tastes marginally better than tap water filtered through charcoal and the barista cafe sits in a dump, a hardware store on the left and a meat market to the right, on a back street where most of the buildings face away, probably to avoid the sight of the Plastic wraps and cigarrete butts, profusely littered around backdoors covered by so many “No Smoking” signs it feels like a raging red revolution. When I leave for the Espresso Royale in the morning I generally offer to take Maomao along, usually he will come for the coconut milk, blueberry yogurt or car magazines but today he said he didn’t want to cause it was too cold outside (it is a good 10 degree warmer than last Sunday). So I found myself sitting by the window for an hour, not taking the rare opportunity though to read a book (it’s impossible with Maomao in tow) but contemplating idly how a two-and-half year old processes cause-effect analyses and strings coherent words to match them.

After lunch he slept for two and a half hour straight, probably still recovering from the hiking yesterday. During that time I took a nap myself, searched and found the particular edition of the Holderlin collection online, downloaded it, flipped through it, enormously satisfied, loaded it onto my kindle, and eagerly waited to read it tonight after Maomao sleeps (which will probably be well after 10pm since he slept so much in the afternoon). What’s more amazing though was I managed to tear myself away again around 5pm, offering to take him outside for a late-afternoon coffee run at the precise moment when I knew he would say no: as he was tearing ferociously at a foil wrap of a pack of ginger biscuits. So I came to the barista cafe, listened to some nocturne, read a few pages of Holderlin and littered a few cigarette butts of my own, and called it a particularly Lucky Strike.