Of Detours and Daydreams

Strolling down Redford Boulevard, it was quite easy to lose oneself in the opulent storefronts of high-fashion boutiques and luxurious jewelry stores, one’s eyes dancing between sparkling bracelets and $4,000 handbags, surrounded by flocks of tourists and shoppers browsing along the sidewalks. Spending an afternoon there being an experience of its own, locals like Juliet knew to appreciate the labyrinthine maze of twisting alleys that branched off from the bustling shopping mile. Undoubtedly, the only viable option to maneuver one’s way through the district without being swallowed by the sea of people.

Traversing the area in such fashion also posed an opportunity to unearth its dormant treasures. One spot in particular had become somewhat of a must-visit for her. A destination that lay beyond the antique-looking archway at the crossing where Lockhart Street met Redford Boulevard. Following the paved road until passing by a petite-looking pop-up store selling handmade soap bars, one would encounter a majestic-looking Greek Orthodox Church, with its blue-tiled dome looming over the neighboring rooftops. Rather unorthodox, on the other hand, was the café situated right next to it. Calling it a café in the first place was somewhat of a stretch. No entrance, no waitress, no seating, no bar. Nothing but a cup of plain, fresh-brewed coffee served through the ornate window of a Biedermeier-style building — and maybe a packet of sugar if you happened to ask nicely. Imagine a drive-through, but for pedestrians. Call it a walk-by if you will.

Those who weren’t put off by its rather modest appeal, were being rewarded with arguably the best-tasting coffee the city had to offer. The latter being the very reason she became a frequent visitor of the place. Well, that and the handsome barista who worked the weekend shifts there. A charming, soft-spoken man, blessed with the kind of face that made you look back twice. His butterscotch-like skin tone making you wonder what entwinement of cultures could bring forth such unique allure. Was he Hawaiian? Or perhaps Indonesian? Certainly European to an extent — most likely French with a sprinkle of Irish. While she never could muster enough courage to ask him out, at times, she felt like the “what-if” was enough to satisfy her romantic desires. Daydreaming about their future together on a nearby bench, until she was jolted back to reality by the jarring sound of the church’s bell striking the hour. “Who needs a three-bedroom condo anyway?” she sighed and went on about her day.