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Description
A cafe is a mysterious place. Magical even, if you’d care for my opinion. Have you noticed it? Me? I have (or I wouldn’t be writing this – obviously). But I suppose I should back up my claim of their mysteriousness. Why not, where should I begin..
First of all, let me clear something up so there wouldn’t be any confusion – I’m talking about real cafes, original-ishly, atmospherically real cafes. Actually, just to make things even more clean – I’m just gong to talk about the one I’m at right now (darn, spilled some tea on this paper – something to remember this place by). This place is perfect (almost). I’m sitting on a couch, a soft, comfortable couch, obviously used, but not ripped into pieces – excellent. In front of me is a table – old, wooden and rater large (and with a great wooden pole going horizontally under it which almost seems like it was designed to support your feet when you’re just about relaxed enough to take as much room under yourself as possible). The table is of brown colour with countless lumps and user-made carvings (some accidental, some not so much so). It’s a beautiful table. On the table see some stuff that fit right on it. Two tea glasses, one half-full, one empty, there’s also a nice white (yellow-ish) candle, which is rather wide, but not very tall at all (I suppose it will last til’ the end of the day). The tea glasses (both now empty) were filled with different kinds of tea – first one was good old earl grey, the other, which was unexpectedly delicious (abit strange though) was a kind of a tea with a weird name and with the taste and smell of smoked sausage (if that rings any bells). If it only didn’t cost so much, I’d sure continue to supply myself some more of this delicious drink, though, with the soul, heard and mind of an explorer and discoverer, I’d experiment some other unknown tastes. The sad reality is that tea doesn’t take hunger away and that leaves me still with an empty stomach. Around me are people, but with luck on my mind, there are only a few of them here and they do little to interrupt my much enjoyed relaxation. Actually, people have a rather big role to play in this game. They are all quite different and leave your imagination alot of space for wondering about their origin. Tourists, of course, make up quite a big part of the population of this private island of mine. British, Spanish, Japanese and whatnot, to hear their language is just splendid. A British family once spent some time here and gave me the idea that I had died and gone to BBC I. But – that was indeed not the case. Just some 30 minutes ago there was a man here (origin unknown), he was dressed in a manner of some really cool movie character, something of a jazz-club member or a jazz-band vocalist maybe (decade or a few ago). Right now there’s a girl sirring here, to my right, on another couch behind another table, reading a book. Even the fact that she’s here, she’s alone and, for goodness sake, reading, gives me the idea that we’d fit great together. But wait, what’s this? My passive true self is telling my newly appeared alter ego that no, I shall not make a move and we won’t be together.
The cafe itself is half way underground. The windows are large and show the people walking outside from head to toe. The building itself is hundreds of years old and that’s always a plus in my book. The little peoples room (sorry, dark humour – like the mens room is sometimes called little boys room etc, I just did the same with the one-person-per-go unisex bathroom) is indeed small. On its nice old wooden door is a sign with 2 words, one English, one Estonian – ’toilet tualett’. Yes, there’s no doubt, it’s the room to ease your greatest needs. The previously mentioned girl is still here, she was here before me and she’s still here – I’m really starting to like her. The plant right next to the door looks rather dead – I wonder if it really is though, maybe it just had a rough winter (indoors?). The music here hasn’t betrayed my hopes yet – interesting, chill-out style of music – often jazz, sometimes just very un-urban, either way it’s great. No pop-music crap here, no sir, none of that. Music is companied by the almost constant sound of a coffee-grinder and other wonderful machines of the kind. I must say that the location of this urban paradise is indeed heavenly. Located right on the smallest of streets of the whole city where human-traffic exists, but isn’t massive and the ground has never been touched by a car-tire. During my time here, I’ve drawn some sketches, none very good. Yet it gives me the feeling of drawing and that’s always good. I have tons of memories with this place which are actually grouped into a few graphically remindable memories. Half of them are sadder than the others, the past often surprises us with the sadness which once existed in ourselves, but that’s the way the game goes. Lost love, nice chess games with good friends, long discussions and much more – it’s all here. My very own gateway to my very own heaven (some of you are invited).

Description
A cafe is a mysterious place. Magical even, if you’d care for my opinion. Have you noticed it? Me? I have (or I wouldn’t be writing this – obviously). But I suppose I should back up my claim of their mysteriousness. Why not, where should I begin..
First of all, let me clear something up so there wouldn’t be any confusion – I’m talking about real cafes, original-ishly, atmospherically real cafes. Actually, just to make things even more clean – I’m just gong to talk about the one I’m at right now (darn, spilled some tea on this paper – something to remember this place by). This place is perfect (almost). I’m sitting on a couch, a soft, comfortable couch, obviously used, but not ripped into pieces – excellent. In front of me is a table – old, wooden and rater large (and with a great wooden pole going horizontally under it which almost seems like it was designed to support your feet when you’re just about relaxed enough to take as much room under yourself as possible). The table is of brown colour with countless lumps and user-made carvings (some accidental, some not so much so). It’s a beautiful table. On the table see some stuff that fit right on it. Two tea glasses, one half-full, one empty, there’s also a nice white (yellow-ish) candle, which is rather wide, but not very tall at all (I suppose it will last til’ the end of the day). The tea glasses (both now empty) were filled with different kinds of tea – first one was good old earl grey, the other, which was unexpectedly delicious (abit strange though) was a kind of a tea with a weird name and with the taste and smell of smoked sausage (if that rings any bells). If it only didn’t cost so much, I’d sure continue to supply myself some more of this delicious drink, though, with the soul, heard and mind of an explorer and discoverer, I’d experiment some other unknown tastes. The sad reality is that tea doesn’t take hunger away and that leaves me still with an empty stomach. Around me are people, but with luck on my mind, there are only a few of them here and they do little to interrupt my much enjoyed relaxation. Actually, people have a rather big role to play in this game. They are all quite different and leave your imagination alot of space for wondering about their origin. Tourists, of course, make up quite a big part of the population of this private island of mine. British, Spanish, Japanese and whatnot, to hear their language is just splendid. A British family once spent some time here and gave me the idea that I had died and gone to BBC I. But – that was indeed not the case. Just some 30 minutes ago there was a man here (origin unknown), he was dressed in a manner of some really cool movie character, something of a jazz-club member or a jazz-band vocalist maybe (decade or a few ago). Right now there’s a girl sirring here, to my right, on another couch behind another table, reading a book. Even the fact that she’s here, she’s alone and, for goodness sake, reading, gives me the idea that we’d fit great together. But wait, what’s this? My passive true self is telling my newly appeared alter ego that no, I shall not make a move and we won’t be together.
The cafe itself is half way underground. The windows are large and show the people walking outside from head to toe. The building itself is hundreds of years old and that’s always a plus in my book. The little peoples room (sorry, dark humour – like the mens room is sometimes called little boys room etc, I just did the same with the one-person-per-go unisex bathroom) is indeed small. On its nice old wooden door is a sign with 2 words, one English, one Estonian – ’toilet tualett’. Yes, there’s no doubt, it’s the room to ease your greatest needs. The previously mentioned girl is still here, she was here before me and she’s still here – I’m really starting to like her. The plant right next to the door looks rather dead – I wonder if it really is though, maybe it just had a rough winter (indoors?). The music here hasn’t betrayed my hopes yet – interesting, chill-out style of music – often jazz, sometimes just very un-urban, either way it’s great. No pop-music crap here, no sir, none of that. Music is companied by the almost constant sound of a coffee-grinder and other wonderful machines of the kind. I must say that the location of this urban paradise is indeed heavenly. Located right on the smallest of streets of the whole city where human-traffic exists, but isn’t massive and the ground has never been touched by a car-tire. During my time here, I’ve drawn some sketches, none very good. Yet it gives me the feeling of drawing and that’s always good. I have tons of memories with this place which are actually grouped into a few graphically remindable memories. Half of them are sadder than the others, the past often surprises us with the sadness which once existed in ourselves, but that’s the way the game goes. Lost love, nice chess games with good friends, long discussions and much more – it’s all here. My very own gateway to my very own heaven (some of you are invited).