How writers drink their coffee.

Some observations in life are simply doomed to remain unsolved forever. For example, why do people in movies never eat or go to the bathroom? Why are touristic landscapes always idyllic, picturesque and breathtaking? And how come that book characters never just 'drink' their coffee but; 'let the warmth of their beverage comfort their bodies as they let it slide through their moist lips, down their narrow throats, into the deathly sorrow of their empty stomachs'? 

I can imagine it must be hard, being a writer. Wherever you are or whatever you do, you have to be on your toes. Always focused, searching for new phrases, metaphors and idioms you could possibly ever use. You never have a day off, since your thoughts are your work, and your thoughts are always with you. Coping with emaciated inspiration, writers blocks and the loneliness of your laptop isn't very encouraging either. 

Luckily there also are some advantages. Claiming to be 'at work' whilst hanging out at a cafe and soaking up the atmosphere doesn't sound too bad. Consuming certain amounts of alcoholic- or any inspiration-loaded beverages, to keep the engine rolling. Fair enough - I completely understand that masterpieces do not often result from orange juice. But seriously, I think it is rather admirable and unique to be able to come up with a decent well-written story.

So I decided to give it a try. No, I did not get completely wasted and attempted to write a novel. I simply tried to drink my coffee as if I were a writer. I challenged myself to expand the simplicity of it.

How I drank my coffee?

In desperate moderation, that's for sure. I tend to go quite crazy when it comes to caffeine. After two daily servings of coffee I start to shake like an electric toothbrush on rush hour. Not so fun. 

So I cheated a bit, and decided to go for a Chai Tea Latte. Quick tip: forget about Starbucks, the best Chai Latte's are to be found at Nero's. Yes I've checked, and yes you're welcome.

After I ordered my drink, I took a chair and sat down. I looked at - no, examined my Latte in great detail. I observed the thick, white, rich foam on top, covered in cinnamon. I saw the tiniest little bubbles leaning against the side of the glass. One by one they shattered. As I stirred, I noticed the layer of cinnamon breaking into small pieces. Little islands of golden brown powder, resting on the fluffy cloud underneath. It reminded me of the soil of a parched desert, cracked into a giraffe skin pattern. I carefully took a scoop of the whipped milk, leaving a trace of a spotlessly white slope. I could already smell the chai and cinnamon. I closed my eyes, and took a sip. The sweetness of the milky herbal tea tickled my taste buds. I gave my senses a break from my investigation and thought for a while. I smiled, and poured what was left in my glass, straight into my mouth.
 

I decided being a writer must be exhausting, and felt quite relieved to be able to enjoy my drink without thinking of it as another potential chapter in my next book.  

Cheers.

Now this would be one hell of a story!