Memory Post One Week One

This morning, after a run around the aqueduct where I sat on a stone ledge around a medieval castle (of what I hope to be a princess, because how cool would that be?), I wandered to breakfast at Bar Duelle. Here, in this skinny building echoing of American pointing and repeating Italian words, I order a panino and wait for a cappuccino, watching the brunette girl behind the counter smack, tap and steam her way quickly through the process. Laughing at something I don't understand, I flip the bar magazine's page, coming across an ad for a bike, slogan telling me to "rise up my darkness." People surround me and I look up to watch the owner of this bar clamber over her poodle, tied to a chair, to demonstrate the art of cappuccinos. As I raise my hand to try and make my way back behind the counter, it's a Sunday at J. Christopher's and some snot nosed teenager has asked me for a J's Turtle Latte without the caramel and hazelnut, and what he or she really wants is a cappuccino, so could I please bring that before taking the order. I grab the packet of espresso and smack, tap and steam my way through the process, just like the brunette girl in this bar. But unlike the "grazie mille" from Sydney, sleep deprived and caffeine deprived, as I hand the cappuccino over to the snot nosed teenager in America, texting his or her significant other or bashing my waitress-ing skills via Twitter, I am unacknowledged and left needing a raise for this.