An Open Café

Christmas morning dance

Christmas morning.

I wander through the city looking for an open café. People have a right to their rest, but I also have the right to want a latte and some toast. After a while, I finally find one — in the next town over, actually.

A young couple runs everything. He greets me at the entrance and wishes me a Merry Christmas. She stands behind the counter, listening as I place my order with her partner: “A latte and some toast, please.”

“Certainly.”

I sit in a corner and look around. Three occupied tables, with more people coming in. All older. Clearly regulars, judging by the conversations and the jokes the young man shares with each of them.

I deliberately choose a seat with my back to a TV showing the news. I’d rather learn what’s happening in the world through people who see, think, and write — not those who regurgitate a teleprompter. I take out my phone and open Substack, curious to see what Christmas looks like elsewhere.

Only then do I notice another TV in front of me, further back in the room. It’s broadcasting Christmas mass from St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. I don’t know who it’s for — probably the regulars, likely religious, unlike me. Still, no one is watching.

Outside, on the terrace, two tables are occupied. It’s six degrees Celsius, but the customers seem warm enough, cigarettes doing their quiet work.

My latte and toast arrive.

“Enjoy,” the young man says.

The latte is darker than what I usually drink. The toast is made from thick slices of sandwich bread, lightly buttered.

Best toast I’ve had all year.

I look around again and realise that everything here is a negotiation — between desire and fulfilment, supply and demand.

The café is open on the morning of December 25th because there are people who want to be here, and a young couple willing to make it work. The customers sit outside in the cold to satisfy their craving for a cigarette. I drove several kilometres in search of an open café for the comfort of a latte and toast on Christmas morning.

Life feels like a dance floor — people moving to rhythms only they can hear, trusting whatever DJ helps them feel safe, relieved, momentarily free from the burden of free will, even though the music is written in their own heads.

I look around one last time. Every table is now occupied. More customers are coming in. It feels right to leave, to make room for the next pair.

As I’m leaving, the young man comes back in with plates and cups from the terrace tables. He waits for me to pass, but I hold the door open for him and smile.

“You’re working. I’m not.”

I enjoy leaving the party dancing.

Perhaps next Christmas I’ll be back.