the cafe visit that almost killed me.

Remember him? He's the one who stands erect. Well I can’t fucking wait to never see this douche bag again.

My day started like a whole bunch of bullshit. The monsoon is completely taking over everything. It’s making the streets flood, it wouldn’t let the phone work, and it has decided to arrest the internet. Rain happens! But in Nepal it destroys.

I went to the Ministry of Finance for a meeting. This sounds simple. But on the way several things occurred: I was splashed by a puddle, the taxi driver dropped me somewhere but NOT the MoF, my impoverished sense of direction led me astray, the Nepali police officer chastised me with head shaking and my stomach quivered when I was tongue tied and couldn’t parlay a simple: I have a meeting, may I get into this establishment? NO. Anyway, Arthur, this English speaking Nepali librarian saved my sorry ass, called the man I was supposed to meet with, and we arranged to meet tomorrow.

ALL that while it’s pouring; pouring is an understatement. Upon returning to the office, I am soaked and perhaps agitated. Since the office is about as helpful as tampons to a man, I decide to burn hours with a cappuccino. Easy, calming, delightful. I walk there, elated for the next hour.

I’ll have a cappuccino please, I say.

He hands me the menu.

No. Thanks, just a cappuccino. I give him a tight-lipped smile.

He comes back to my table and suggests they don’t have fresh bean cappuccinos today. (I have no clue what that means.) Then he points to the menu and says, but we have Lavazza. (This I recognize and had assumed this is what I have been drinking for the past 2 months.) “Fine, that’s what I’ll have. Thanks.”

Ten minutes pass. No drink. I wave my hand, “Sorry, is my drink coming?” (There is one other person in the whole café; there should be no wait.)

We don’t have fresh bean coffee. (Ok, we went over this. But maybe I misunderstood.)

But you have Lavazza. Can I have a cappuccino?

We don’t have cappuccino. (Um: 1. Could you have told me that earlier? 2. Was this going to be kept a secret from me?)

Do you have coffee?

No, ma’am. No fresh bean.

But you have Lavazza?

Yes.

Then I will have Lavazza. (Right. Like we agreed 20 minutes ago)

But which drink?

A FUCKING CAPPUCCINO LIKE I ORDER EVERY FUCKING DAY THAT I COME IN HERE. Remove stick from ass, take your right hand out of the crevice of your left arm like those fucking butler statues and get the fuck away from me Exclamation point

Yes ma’am.

And here he comes, 30 minutes later: “Excuse me ma’am, Lavazza cappuccino.”

Erect like a beanpole, here is the presentation of this fucking small mug of espresso and steamed milk lightly dusted with cocoa powder. IT IS NOT THAT FUCKING SPECIAL. He is 10 times, 1,000,000 times more annoying than my wet shoes causing my foots to wrinkle.

I feel a ridiculous hatred for this kid. Absolutely beyond words, completely irrational, and utterly insane. My left arm hurts; I think I’m having a heart attack. Excuse me, won’t you? My Lavazza is getting cold.