God bless the Art Nouveau. This place blankets itself upon thee. Like a warm fur. It's melted chocolate, it's café con leché, it's fresh churros for dipping, but really it's so much more. It's the flowering wallpaper. It's the checkerboard art from fine artists it collects with the sweet nectar that only these bees know. This place is buzzing, and the noise, this irrefutable sound of living distorts and refracts and reflects off the old decorated glass on the ceiling and the grand mirrors and Tiffany lamps. There's a glow in the air with the smell of espresso and rich chocolate and I can't understand a goddamn thing. I fucking love it here. I want to come here to write all day and let the old souls and phantoms lingering between the tables whisper something meaningful in my ear. Thoughts of beauty and consequence and growth and immortality. Grand schemes I could share with them, if only. Hold themes and troubled dreams to talk through with the caffeine. If only I understood the language. In only I knew Spanish.
Muchas gracias, Cafe Tortoni.
