I'm heading to this coffee place that's so tucked around the corner of my neighborhood that tucked should mean hidden in the same place socks disappear to in dryers.
It's like one of those joints you wouldn't even know existed unless you lived in the area for years and got tired of going to the same places.

I walk in half asleep because that's where I've been lately without coffee( I promised myself never to be one of those people who say they're still half asleep because they haven't had their coffee yet because, you know, it always seemed like an excuse people made when they weren't, well, awake. Now, I do it and it makes sense. I'm not proud of it, but it makes sense).

And all I hear is French.

I'm not joking. Everyone in the room is speaking French. The table of four near the window? French. The young hip couple sitting behind them? French. The group of teenagers wearing Converse? French! French! FRENCH!

Without coffee this is terrifying.

"Um. Uh... what's going on?" I ask the blond Barista who's seen my morning hair a lot messier than today.

"I don't know. They all just showed up in a huge group at one time."

We both survey the room. The twenty tables are filled with a variety of French speaking people. Young. Old. This really modelesque looking brunette is throwing her head back and laughing at something this good-looking guy just said to her in French. It's like a commercial.

"Maybe it's a tour group?" I say while handing over my credit card.

"I'm pretty sure this place isn't a tour guide, though?" The Barista shrugs while handing me my coffee.

I was going to work at home, but for some reason I wanted to stay surrounded by words I didn't understand. I sat in the corner, pulled out my notebook and wrote while listening to accents flash through the room.

It reminds me of this time in Belize where I was sitting in a local bar made of a straw roof and no windows. A breeze that felt like someone had turned on a stove and took a fan to it's heat blew through the space while the beer I held dripped condensation as if I had just dipped it in to a pool of water. I was there vacationing from life back in Chicago-- a desperate need to get from the same places and try to see if I could understand what my next step in life was to be while miles away from home.

The locals in the bar were speaking Creole and I attempted to pick up a few words, but the blurring of conversations almost turned in to white noise. It was strange to feel alone in a place not even close to empty. At the same time it was exciting. It's in those times, when you realize there will be a lot of things you just won't truly understand because it's in a language you don't speak, where you realize how big the world is no matter how small the bar... or how small the coffee shop.

Something I always try to remember, but forget, is that no matter how much you think you understand about life, there will always be something that just throws you for a loop. Whether it's French people in the world's smallest coffee shop or not knowing our next steps; some things are going to just seem out of sorts no matter how hard you try to translate it all.

That's life. Or how the French say...