Heartbreak Hotel

Stuck On You

They’re playing Elvis in this coffee shop. The barista behind the counter is singing along, and when the song reached the end, she was really belting it. Don’t look now – I can’t – but I know she’s even doing the moves.

This must be the best coffee shop in Stockholm, this “V. Street Coffee” almost across the street from the main station. It’s small, but it’s got character – like you know who – like all the cool coffee shops in the world. It’s not a franchise, not a copy of somebody else’s idea, it’s its own thing. On the walls there are posters from the 1950, the price list looks like it’s from the 1970s.

And of course, the barista knows everybody.

This is what Street Coffee be like on Monday.

Crying in the Chapel

Every Saturday afternoon, Son has his drama class so I have an hour and a half of excellent coffee shop time. Some Saturdays, I’ve wasted most of the time just wandering around, trying to find the perfect place, but not today.

“What can I do for you,” the barista asked me and leaned on the counter.

“A cappuccino, please,” I said.

She made me a cup of coffee, and as she was pouring the milk, she looked up.

“This is my last day here, in two weeks I’ll be at the airport,” she said and paused. “I’ll be moving to London.”

It’s Now or Never

She’s worked here for a few years, from Monday thru Saturday, year in, year out, minus a summer vacation and a few off days during Christmas time.

“I got tired of staring at the same old 100 meters of the street outside the coffee shop. I already have a job and an apartment waiting for me in England,” she said.

“It’ll be good. It’ll be good,” she said.

“For sure,” I said. Then the couple that had been sitting at one of the tables got up and got ready to leave. They said goodbye, but the barista stopped them at the door.

“You weren’t thinking of leaving without giving me a hug, now, were you?” she said, with a mock hurt in her voice, and then she gave them a hug.

If I Can Dream

The new job is also at a coffee shop. Or a coffee bar, as she calls it. Or, it’s not exactly a coffee bar, it’s something else. But it’s in Wimbledon. And she can tweet from London, too. She just signed up for Twitter so she can keep in touch with her Swedish friends.

But for now, she’s going through the last hour of her life in this coffee shop. What seemed mundane and boring two weeks ago now has a heightened meaning because she’s doing it for the very last time. Doing the dishes for the last time makes her weepy. She’s had three cinnamon rolls today because she’s a little sad. Excited but sad.

“It’s like I’m in a movie, you know. I’m looking at myself on the screen doing these things, and I wonder what’s going to happen next.

“Well, I’d better start sweeping the floor,” she said, and added, “for the last time.”

My coffee shop time is up so I get up to leave. I thank her for the cappuccino and wish her good luck in London and as I walk out, I think how different V. Street Coffee will be without her, with a 23-year-old young guy in her place behind the counter.

Then again, I wouldn’t know. This was my first visit to V. Street Coffee.

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