Afternoon tea

 

Arabic mint tea, which I often order.

My Irish friend is waiting at Mille et Une tearoom. We meet infrequently yet regularly. I forgo my usual Arabic mint tea for plain old Ceylon. 

The Easter bunnies and decorated egg baskets in the window have been replaced with white and wicker baskets of cookies, biscuits to my UK friends. I decide over the next few days, I'll try each one starting at the right bottom corner with the citron cookie. Spoiler alert: It was wonderful.

The tearoom fills up. Despite the sun, the wind is a bit too strong for outside sipping.

There's a woman dressed if she were doing a Ritz tea or an English cream tea. She is with a woman in jeans and a sweatshirt. If they looked alike, they might be mother and daughter, but they don't. They are engrossed in their conversation.

Sonja, the green rocer across the street, comes in with Pepsi, her chihuahua. Her dog has the same name as the tailor's dog from the shop next to hers. She can watch her store from the seat she takes. When there's a customer, she runs out, leaving Pepsi, who watches at the door until she returns.

Nelson, who is named for Mandala and not for me, rushes in. He's a black French bulldog followed by his owner, who has the restaurant not far from the train station. As usual, he tries to extract a doggie treat from my right pocket, but his nose is not designed to reach the pocket's bottom. Of course, I give him one, two, three as he knows I will.

A retired woman who is usually there in the morning with a friend with amazing shoes, comes in alone. I don't know her name, but we've smiled and chatted and I have with many of the regulars.

The tearoom owner's twins come in from school and disappear to their living quarters upstairs.

The owner of the new candle shop next door returns his cup and saucer from an earlier coffee.

The tea room is a pretty pink. All types of teas and coffees are on a shelf in matching, large aluminium cans. They are labeled.

There is a low buzz of conversation. 

Outside, my husband walks by with our dog but doesn't come in giving my friend and me a chance for woman-to-woman conversation. If Sherlock knew I was inside with his doggy copains Pepsi and Nelson, he would want to come in.

My friend and I talk about the lack of professionalism in communication today, Barcelona, attitudes, introverts vs. extroverts and more. She is at least half my age, but generational differences do not exist. Background differences do, not as a negative but as a plus as we share experiences. 

There are other places in the village where we congregate with friends. L'Hostalet is now open for the season mornings, but still not at night where expats and villagers mingle over a glass of wine.

The new owners of the original restaurant La Noisette at the end of my street is once again a gathering place, and Bronzette which is a restaurant serving all-day beverages another. Before Bronzette, the place was called Fountain, but when the village redid the road in front turning it into a plaza/pedestrian walk, the fountain was removed. At least they left the large shade tree providing a respite from the sun at the outdoor tables.

We adore Mille et Une and l'Hostalet and want them to do well. They provide a welcome break to our writing. They let us do people watching. Both are informal meeting places. We also patronize the others.

When my daughter comes later his month, she is already planning her morning coffees and maybe an afternoon tea or glass of wine. In the interest of good mother/daughter relations, I will have to go with her.

You know the cliché: It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it.

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