Showing posts with label pavement cafe. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pavement cafe. Show all posts
Friday, January 20, 2012
Borders
This is a café on the border between Belgium and The Netherlands. The white crosses mark the border.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Majorca Flats -- 81
He reached the café where he was meeting Keith with ten minutes to spare, and ordered himself a latte. Only as he was sipping it did he wonder why Keith had chosen this venue to meet, rather than the place where Esmé worked. He guessed it was because he didn't want Esmé to see the interaction between the two of them.
When Keith arrived it was obvious he'd taken some care with his appearance, and Jason's heart sank. He'd had a haircut, a good one, was wearing designer label jeans instead of the Target cheapies he usually wore, and the waistband of his Ginch Gonch undies was strategically displayed. He was also wearing an expensive aftershave.
“G'day!” Keith said, with a broad grin. “How are ya?”
“Good! Now I can say to you that you're looking very chirpy!”
Keith stuck his tongue out. “You're full of shit, aren't you?” He ordered a latte. “The coffee's good here,” he commented.
“Yes. Seems to be everywhere I've gone.”
“Only in the southern corner of Oz. You can't get decent coffee in Brizzie or Perth.”
“Why so different?”
“I dunno. It's a big country. In some ways, when I go to Sydney I feel that I'm in another country, not part of Australia. Everything is different. But at least you can find decent coffee there.”
Friday, February 18, 2011
Majorca Flats -- 67
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| Pavement Cafe Bourke St Melbourne |
With his small backpack containing the towel Mrs Cumberledge had pressed on him, assuring him that he had only to shake the sand out of it afterwards, and she would wash it, in shorts and a T-shirt and his only shoes, his trainers, he set off to the beach.
As he passed through the city, he thought he'd better buy some bathers. He could swim in his shorts, he supposed, but then they'd be wet afterwards and he'd only brought one pair of shorts in his haste to leave England. It had been mid-winter there and stupidly he'd forgotten that it would of course be mid-summer in Australia.
He stopped in the city. The air was warm and magical, smelling of food and coffee and, faintly, of exhaust fumes. Right next to the tram stop was a coffee shop, and he ordered a coffee and a croissant, and sat at the tables outside watching the passers by. Directly opposite was a down-market department store. When he'd finished his coffee and fed the crumbs of his croissant to the pigeons, he went into the store.
[Image from Photographers Direct]
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