While I understand true yogis are supposed to break free from all sorts of physical attachments, including the wonderous, dark magic of caffeine, I admit I am but a weak mortal. And when I arrived at my yoga retreat a couple of weeks ago and first tasted the hotel brew they dared refer to as "coffee", I must admit for a tiny second, I felt my knees go weak.
A weekend-ful of back-to-back physical exercise...on this?
For a brief second, I did consider absconding, as I was among the first and surely, no one would miss me. But then again, I still had a day full of sun and sea ahead of me before anyone arrived and I was reluctant to miss out. Thankfully, I was chatting to @godfish at the time who, at the drop of a hat, managed to locate a decent-looking coffee source on the next beach over. And while I knew I wouldn't have time for the 15 minute walk in between yoga sessions over the next couple of days, I figured I owed myself at least one good cup, and proceeded to head towards.
There is a wondrous magic to Romanian seaside, the way in which one planet-christened village flows freely into the other, the slapdash nature of anything even vaguely resembling a grocery store, and of course, the Wild West vibe of every restaurant or cafe. This is our town, such places seem to say, and traveling in the off-season certainly didn't give one confidence.
Though I followed Google Maps precisely, I was doubtful I'd arrived in the right place. The windows across the street were barred, the street was deserted. Indeed, it seemed the only reason the gates weren't locked on this old coffee place was there were none.
I dawdled.
Eventually, I hear a holler from down the street asking if it's coffee I'm after. Tentatively, I dare. Another holler follows, this time aimed towards the nebulous "out back". A summons for the Old Timer to come. And rumbling, he does.
Though in all fairness, he's not properly old. In his mid-60s, but with the weatherworn look of a fisherman twice his age.
He is as a man as old as time with charred hands and a playful nature. Entreats me to coffee.
Turkish.
Brewed in the hot sand, as is proper for the seaside, even on such windy days.
There's a heavy Turkish culture here, particularly around the seaside. Still. Some memories are hard to shed, I suppose, but mostly, we just fill ourselves with delight and overlook the bleating obvious.
Me? Silent. I've got nothing to say and a phone to keep me occupied. I'm slightly nervous. The men who were occupying the little Oriental-style sitting area have cleared up with apologies for the missus. Me. Don't mind us, miss, we're here all time. Big, sweaty men, hard-working, get-the-season-scorching men.
A woman stops by. Delights in the brewing. Strikes up a conversation I don't dare to. And suddenly, the spell, while not exactly breaking, morphs and stretches to encompass me, as well. I let myself be dragged into the conversation. Take my bashful pictures. Catch a smile. Catch some sun.
Want some coffee as well? Better not, but she'll come tomorrow. Ta. Leaves just him and me. Leaves. Lives.
Any seat you like. A second's hesitation and I make the couch mine. Hesitates, then follows, with his own stale, bitter brew.
Should I sugar? Should you hell. Mind if I join you? He won't dare guess, but after a minute or so of chatting, gets more bold. We sit like two old wives, talking recipes and how to make the most of yogurt before it gets sour.
The men, I feel hovering at the corner of my eye. Curious, preening men. What's this pretty young lady doing chatting to the Old Timer?
He remembers the place before it got upscale, before the big hotels like mirror-pools started taking over. Before me. Tells me and I listen as though I have some right to the stories. His stories, the ones his family's harbored for decades.
Expects me to know. Whispers me secrets. Gossips foreigners. Long shadows.
The coffee is strong, because I asked and was given. It's bitter, but more like a promise than a long goodbye. Creamy and lingers inside my mouth like ice-cream blare and the taste of grandmother's silver-tint pot. Time for a homebrew, and I taste the ashes and the charred sand. I'm not supposed to, but guess I've always been a little bit greedy. I steal more into the past than I can afford to.
In pairs of two, we share the sun. Chase down the last dregs of early summer afternoon. The two slink-away men. Old Timer and old self. The coffee tastes like what it's supposed to. Like secret love and songs you don't know the words to.
Straighten my back, at long last. Say I should go. Pity, I was about to treat you to another. And I'm tempted, but the freedom of the waves tempts me more. I go back to the water before I'm bound for the dirt.
But it's fine. It is all in good time. Try as you might, you can't linger in someone else's past.
