I feel almost as though I'm sitting in the middle of the street. My small square granite-topped table, perched on the edge of the café with its wide open front, is about ten feet from the street corner.

My ashtray is red, heavy plastic, a guessing game with an Australian crossing sign whose inhabitant has bounced out of it. Underneath the sign is "Win...d." What is that, fill-in-the-blank for "Winfield" or something? I don't understand.

The espresso cup and saucer are painted with flowers. I like the style, a bit art nouveau. The chairs are wood with plush purple seat cushions. I was given sugar cubes. Very quietly I can hear the Beach Boys singing "Barbara Ann."