I can say “I had coffee in Paris this morning” and I wouldn’t be lying.
But I would still be a little despondent.
Maybe “despondent” is a little too strong of a word. Sad? Gloomy? Longing-y? What is the word?! I’d just like to be actually in Paris, drinking coffee (in a “Paris” mug not necessary).
But I’d have to bring my own coffee because when we were there this past May, the coffee, no matter where we were, tasted like hotel room instant coffee crystals that expired four years ago.
Not that I know what hotel room instant coffee crystals that expired four years ago taste like.
(Also, not that I don’t, 5 years as a consultant in and out of Hilton Garden Inns all over the west coast.)
I would have thought that coffee in France is outstanding. That it would taste worldly and sophisticated. That it would taste as dark, and full, and sweet as love. That it would romance me the way the city did. For God’s sake, the French press is named after them! Paris! Sitting in the shade at a sidewalk cafe! Spreading creamy butter and sticky sweet love all over a baguette!
And drinking the awesomest coffee ever!
It wasn’t like that.
At least, not the coffee.
Today is National Coffee Day, which explains the associated-but-rough transitions between paragraphs because I am a little wired. I celebrate coffee every day with a large coffee to go from Le Pain Quotidien (disappointingly, again, not French, but Belgian). But today, I drank two cups. I’ll be awake straight through to tomorrow, which is National Mulled Cider Day. I don’t mind sleeping through that one.
I’ll be exhausted, I’m sure, but I won’t be sad. Even though I’m not in Paris, drinking mediocre-at-best coffee.
Coffee, it seems, lowers the risk of depression in women.
Except for women who watch this video.
The video is shot in Paris. (Oh, and? Eyelashes!)