Wherever you go, airports and backpacker’s hostels will be the same. As will the luxury hotels. Mother needed her caffeine fix, so we went to a place where the chances of getting good quality coffee was high. The five star Mövenpick Hotel. An enormous building in downtown Accra. Outside, the streets are bustling with honking taxis and coconut vendors, but inside the hotel grounds, one could be anywhere. Dar es Salaam, Monrovia, excepting the outdoor pool and the occasional palm tree, even in Stockholm. Or nowhere. It’s this bland, stylish place, with lots of space and quiet, unprovoking music on as a faint whisper in the background.
Now, to honor the season, there were some lavish Christmas decorations in the lobby. Just to put a touch of color into this otherwise cool atmosphere.
Fifteen years ago, when I lived in Dar es Salaam with mom, we used to go to a place called Slipway every weekend. It was this outdoor mall/plaza kind of place, with some small boutiques, restaurants and cafes. Protected, of course, by guards at the entrance, so that we rich people could feel safe while walking around in there, socializing, shopping, eating ice cream. Mom went there to drink coffee at the Italian cafe. I was only eleven, so I didn’t drink any myself, but she would let me spoon up the foam on the top of the cappuccino. They sprinkled cacao on it, and mixed with sugar and a hint of coffee, it was delicious. Cappuccinos still make me think of Saturday mornings at Slipway.
Now I’m twenty-six and I ordered my own cappuccino. I don’t normally drink coffee now either, but I thought the occasion and location deserved a special treat. And just as I got my cappuccino, “Fool again” with Westlife started playing in the background. I’m not particularly proud to admit this, but that was one of my favorite songs when I was eleven. Back when I was living in Dar es Salaam.
It was as if this was meant to be.
So, I stole a fork. Just because.
Katja Malmborg 