This coffee is cheap, but not the best.
You buy a dollar token at the hotel reception desk, drop it in a slot, slide a cup in position, choose your poison, push a button, and wait as a small drizzle of coffee fills your small paper cup. The machine knows when to cut off so coffee doesn’t go on the floor.
Things introduce themselves. You go about your business, not thinking about much, or looking for anything, and then something comes up like a present arranged by a benevolent cosmic force that knows you will be delighted. A bold colored sign on the coffee machine is such a present.
” Drink Coffee,” the sign exclaims, “you can sleep when you’re dead.”
While we are waiting for our expiration date, coffee makes waiting tolerable.
The sign takes me back to the fifties when even the thought of traveling to Uruguay was no where in my mind. Uruguay was just a country on old stamps in my dad’s disheveled collection in a box in the garage.
When you sleep in your crib, you don’t have a clue where fate and your feet will take you.