My dear reader,
This afternoon, I find myself in Saint Augustine, a bustling tourist town – though this is just a thick coating of glamour over the ancient roots of a place that’s been peppered with pirate raids, mass murders, and the hidden misdeeds of tycoons. In America, this place is a bit of an oddity. We preserve our ancient 200-year-old history with reverence, but here in Saint Augustine, you can buy a cup of coffee from a place that used to be a blacksmith’s shop, whose walls are 250 years old (or older), and you can smear jelly on them if you want. History is not meant to be viewed in awe here – it’s meant to be experienced like a theme park. Consumed, lived, re-fashioned, glamorized.
It’s good espresso, though. Rather good, actually. And the shop is small enough that I am not much disturbed and can go about my work in peace. Though the anoles scampering over the table now and then is a bit distracting.