"Suave molecules of Mocha stir up your blood, without causing excess heat; the organ of thought receives from it a feeling of sympathy; work becomes easier and you will sit down without distress to your principal repast which will restore your body and afford you a calm, delicious night."
~Prince Tallyrand
I woke up this morning, after a long sleeping (it is the weekend, after all), and realized that I had a headache. It soon dawned on me that I had been drinking quite a bit of coffee in the house as of late, and my long slumber had delayed my coffee fix. Sure enough, a glass of water, and a hot cup o' joe later -- i was good to go.
I love the coffee here in France. Even the cheap coffee is good. When I first arrived here, I eagerly walked in to a grocery store, peaking down isle after isle, seeking to find a large, proud display of the worlds best coffee -- all ripe for the taking. There was no grand display of java; no designer coffees packaged in ornate tins, and wooden boxes. It looked like cheap coffee. I searched for the most expensive package, only to find that they're all the same -- about 3 measly euros. I have discovered that good coffee is not a craze like it is in the US. There are no Starbuck's here to tell the people that $4 for a cup of coffee is ok. I'm sure that there exist plenty of high-class coffee snobs, who drink boutique coffees from silver chalices, but I have not seen them.
Coffee is simple here. Strong and Black, with a hint of sugar.
And the little man inside my mug is a new favorite. His name is Joe. He sits inside my new Guiness mug, because what's a trip do Dublin without a Guiness souvenir.
He's a symbol of the little man inside us all that runs on coffee.
`ajb
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