Just Another Sunday

This cafe is located at the heart of the city. I used to make this the setting of my fictional story where I met a street musician turned crush turned significant others (I dislike the term “lovers”, it's just too intense for my moderately modest taste). But I digress.

As one of the most central, bustling, economically productive and attention-grabbing parts of the city, it’s bound to be more well-developed. The streets are generally walkable with wide pedestrian paths, and various culinary and shopping destinations are lined up along the street. 

On a Sunday, it’s only natural there are this many people walking around and about. It’s very lively, very urban. I dig the vibe, which almost feels like being in downtown Paris, with less Eiffel and more tropical bushes.

I’m strategically playing the role of a watchman in the middle of it all. Alone. With my notepad and pair of watchful (but wary) eyes.

Around the room, I see people pouring in and out of the cafe, in groups or in pairings, rarely by themselves. The seats are filled with people sitting together and talking. Some visit only briefly for discounted cups of sweet coffee-stained beverages. Some spend tens of minutes to hours getting heated up in discussions. Most of them are dressed well; some even wear formal clothes, seemingly fresh out of attending a wedding ceremony. The adults are chatting and catching up, telling stories and talking a little bit (or even more) of business, while the children are busy among themselves, running around in their educated tiny pitter-patters.

Outside, I see vehicles passing by. Cars and motorbikes mingling on the road. Shoppers (also mostly in groups) pouring in and out of the infamous Japan-brand clothing store across the street. Trendy clothes, small purses, and paper shopping bags in their hands, pacing leisurely.

Upon the realization, I immediately feel out of place.

Even when this cafe is notorious for individuals working on their laptops, in the scheme of a long weekend afternoon, among people chattering and spending time with friends and families, away from their day job tasks (save for the baristas and service workers who are still on the clock, serving your bourgeoise ass), you trying to meet your self-inflicted blog post deadline (which you still haven’t work on yet btw) does not really fit the landscape.

Perhaps downright suspicious. Like a secret agent scouting out her target whose main choice of style is supposedly Uniqlo, trying to make their fashion statement as low profile as their existence. My notepad on my lap, mouth sipping sugarless iced americano, eyes keep glancing towards the white building.

But I’m in my element here. It’s true that I have developed my social skills to be aware of the collectivist culture at work that might put me in the minority, somewhat strange. But I’ve recognized myself enough to be comfortable being a loner, an observer, a type-two introvert who seeps energy from social interactions among people enjoying themselves, who want nothing to do with me. Me existing solely as a background character of their day, an NPC who spawned rather incorrectly.

It’s the pinnacle of a writer to not be perceived.