I’ve been to Italy, Vienna, and Germany years ago but nothing beats my love for traveling to cafes in the neighborhood.
For sure, the sights I saw in Europe were astounding. The old and new city of Vienna – rebuilding from WW II, when I stood on ancient cobblestone roads where the Romans once traveled on once, centuries past, a wave of appreciation for history stormed through my body, mind, and soul.
I loved the outside cafes. Sitting outside surrounded by people speaking Italian while sipping my cappucino, watching the Gondolas splash, sway, and gently rock forward along the waterways of Venice. The beauty of St.Mark’s square against a majestic sunset and just knowing I was in another country often took my breath away in amazement.
Yet, the cafes always grabbed my heart be it in Europe or on the streets in New York City, or just down the street from where I lived before I married.
On the weekends it was a miring ritual. I’d grab my favorite magazine to read and my journal to write about anything swirling around in my mind. I’d walk down the street saying “morning” to neighbors opening their stores, even on a Sunday.
I’s sit in a booth, order my morning coffee and bagel and then start to read my magazine and eventual start recording my life in my journal. I loved it.
Over time I didn’t even need to order, the waitress new what I wanted and just brought it to me.
Today, I still like hanging out in bookstores that have a cafe where I can sit, watch,read, and sip a cup of coffee or tea, leisurely – like in Starbucks.
Little pleasures in life, I know….
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