What I find remarkably creepy is that someone in the same coffeehouse as I am has the exact make and model laptop that I have. I know, it’s not too strange that Hewlett Packard has indeed manufactured thousands of my current computer for public consumption (not in the food sense), but it’s just weird when you own something, the exact same thing, as somebody else you’ve never met before.
It’s just like a car. When the same color and brand and everything is in front of you at a red traffic light. Or it might be clothes. The same T-shirt.
But we also don’t find it odd when someone has the same kind of Chuck Taylor’s: be they red, black, camouflaged, or plaid. And also when someone wears an identical sports team jersey (here, it would be a Indians shirt, or the upper portion of the Fenerbahçe kit: yellow-and-blue in my case). In these instances, there’s a nod and an intriguing kinship that forms, not an awkward sort of realization on both sides, one that you might not mention out loud even though the same thoughts are in both your heads. You’re supporting the same side; you have similar taste in cool kicks. It’s allowed.
For some reason, it’s almost normal – at least for me – to think, “Why does this person have the same HP laptop I do? How dare she bring it into a coffeeshop with her and use it when I am using mine?”
And now, after reading through this post once over, I think these insinuating questions are even lamer than the McCafe commericals for McDonalds.
I really enjoy the Caribou near my house. Occasionally, I will head up there with my laptop and just write a bit while sipping the daily brew and maybe even do actual ‘work’ that I would find too laborious while at home.
The whole regularity began in late 2006 to early 2007 when I was hunting for a decent job. I would write parts of my novel here and also edit like a madman. Then there would be the applications to Oxford Seminars to fill out, and then I actually stumbled across the link to my school in Istanbul (ET). I bought my plane tickets abroad as well here at this Caribou. It holds a bit of my soul with it even if I’m far on the other end of the planet.
Right now, the majority of customers here are bilingual. It’s so cool typing this while a elderly couple talks a few feet from me in French over minuscule cups of Espresso. Then near the creamers and sugar, there is a group of three gents talking in some Eastern language that sounds like Bulgarian or Ukranian; it’s tough for me to tell which one as I really don’t know.
There’s a woman on her laptop, silently typing as I am. Who knows how many languages she knows as well?
All perfect, here I sit, creating this entry, and I turn up my head and gaze at a new latte advertisement hanging beneath the “ORDER HERE” sign. It reads: “A LATTE LESS CALORIES.”
The editor at the main corporation must have been off the afternoon these prints went through. I cringed as I read it. Lofty and breaking fast from the feel of a Starbucks-y chain almost ready to commit forever to this place, and now there’s that faint taint. That tiny sullied moment. That letdown.
I want to get a giant Sharpie and a chair and be the one to cross off “less” and put “fewer” where its under-appreciated self should be.
But I’m too lazy. So I remain here glowering at whoever made this error. And there it stays. Glaring at me. Taunting me. Breaking all the rules.