This startles them; it isn't something that they're used to, being beaten at a game that they weren't even so aware that they were playing. They have trouble grasping the whole situation, especially when they're so bluntly informed of it by they're opponent. Inexperience --fear-- shows in their eyes, and flames out further when their vague, helpless eyes only see your steely and confident gaze looking right at them, looking right through them.
What gets them the most is that they know you're right, they don't want to, they wish they didn't, but they do.
***********************************
It's too goddamn hot.
"How the hell does a country that gets so hot not have a single cafe that'll serve a goddamn ice coffee?" This was the third cafe I had tried, and it was time to give up. I stepped inside and, quickly spotting a dinged metal floor fan, grabbed myself a seat right next to it. After cracking out my neck and pressuring the bridge of my nose--a crappy trick I figured out to deal with these increasingly frequent headaches; I caught a waiter's eye and barked in French, "Two black coffee's, two espressos, and two cups of ice; all together--and hurry with it!" He looked at me, but scurried off after a motion of my hand--at 10 am it'd been some day.
Sitting and waiting, I leaned back, greedily basking in the moving air. After a couple of seconds, eyes closed and everything, I realized that I staggered in looking like I'd just been thrown in the sea. I roughly pulled out a pocketcloth and, while waving over another waiter for some water, started patting my face while looking around.
Considering the politics, this place wasn't too bad; chipped ceiling, dirty floors, and open windows everywhere...not touristy enough to get in any trouble, as if there were many tourists. It was nothing out of the ordinary. "Safari pants, like hell they are," the migraine was getting worse, "wearing safari pants here I might as well wear a goddamn bomb suit--"
"Your coffee, sir," a boy was with him, holding the coffee tray, "milk or sugar?"
I shook my head and gave the boy a dinar to go away. "Merci," but after a few seconds I called the waiter back and asked for spot of brandy, ignoring his look. Once the brandy came, I set about concocting my 'medicine': a cup of black coffee, espresso and ice, with a thoroughly understanding dose of the brandy. I stirred the coffee with a spoon and relished the aroma, then let it sit while I mixed a second one.
What gets them the most is that they know you're right, they don't want to, they wish they didn't, but they do.
***********************************
It's too goddamn hot.
"How the hell does a country that gets so hot not have a single cafe that'll serve a goddamn ice coffee?" This was the third cafe I had tried, and it was time to give up. I stepped inside and, quickly spotting a dinged metal floor fan, grabbed myself a seat right next to it. After cracking out my neck and pressuring the bridge of my nose--a crappy trick I figured out to deal with these increasingly frequent headaches; I caught a waiter's eye and barked in French, "Two black coffee's, two espressos, and two cups of ice; all together--and hurry with it!" He looked at me, but scurried off after a motion of my hand--at 10 am it'd been some day.
Sitting and waiting, I leaned back, greedily basking in the moving air. After a couple of seconds, eyes closed and everything, I realized that I staggered in looking like I'd just been thrown in the sea. I roughly pulled out a pocketcloth and, while waving over another waiter for some water, started patting my face while looking around.
Considering the politics, this place wasn't too bad; chipped ceiling, dirty floors, and open windows everywhere...not touristy enough to get in any trouble, as if there were many tourists. It was nothing out of the ordinary. "Safari pants, like hell they are," the migraine was getting worse, "wearing safari pants here I might as well wear a goddamn bomb suit--"
"Your coffee, sir," a boy was with him, holding the coffee tray, "milk or sugar?"
I shook my head and gave the boy a dinar to go away. "Merci," but after a few seconds I called the waiter back and asked for spot of brandy, ignoring his look. Once the brandy came, I set about concocting my 'medicine': a cup of black coffee, espresso and ice, with a thoroughly understanding dose of the brandy. I stirred the coffee with a spoon and relished the aroma, then let it sit while I mixed a second one.
