“D’ya want [incomprehensible noise]?”
“Um, I’m sorry, what?”
“D’ya want [incomprehensible noise]?”
“I’m–um–sorry, one more time?”
“D’ya want [incomprehensible noise]?”
“I… no. No, thanks.”
I am in London, in a cafe on Charlotte Street, where I learn in short order that drip coffee is an American thing, and there is something else that I could have on my avocado toast, but I don’t know what it is and I’m not going to say yes on the off-chance it’s Marmite. That seems like the kind of stunt they might pull in a country where coffee is served in cups that look like doll furniture. Nobody’s awake enough to know better.
It’s the first time I’ve left America in nearly a decade. I live in a world where this is rare: as an employee of a multinational corporation, and also a white person who went to liberal arts college, my unmarked passport is a curiosity…
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rakanarjani 