At a Florence Cafe

I'm standing at a bar having a cappuccino and croissant like a real Italian. The men come in for a shot of espresso (they order a "cafe"). The barista is a 40-year-old man, quite different from the Starbucks teenagers manning an espresso machine. The first woman since I've been in here walks in dressed in black to match her dark hair and dark eyes. The men fawn over her and she smiles. She carefully sips instead of the usual gulping I've seen. Two of the men talk in elevated tones, and it sounds like rhythmic arguing. The place is full of morning people seeking fuel and a quick social interaction. Perhaps this is the Italian equivalent to Cheers, only if Norm gulped his beer in two quick sips.

We all are standing at the bar, even though there are tables. Why is this such a standing culture? The barista asks if I'd like another, and I say yes, although it seems like I am the only one doubling up on a drink. A few more women come in, but they don't create the same fanfare that the dark-haired one did.

While the constant stream of patrons continue, the same man talks to Mario or Luigi at the dolci bar. Each seems to be in a good mood, although it's difficult to see how one could be in a sour mood with opera-like cadence, wide smiles, and caffeine.

I'm back to thinking that I want to move to Italy. I know the tourist experience is different than the resident one, but I do love this experience.

The name of this place is Cafe Porta Rossa. I want to ask the barista's name, but that could sound strange.

I think that it's time to go, as I'm only taking up space, both at the bar and in this entry.