I tend to start my mornings early – usually around 5 or 6 o’ clock in the morning. I sleep light but deep, so a few minutes is spent reminding myself of where I’m actually at that day. Yes, sometimes I’ve woken up thinking I’m in a different country than the one I’m in. Believe me, it’s an interesting experience, and it will happen to you if you travel enough.
I know exactly what I like. Coffee – typically a dark roast – brewed in a classic chemex. I like to grind my beans fresh if possible, savoring the aroma of the coffee as my water comes to a boil. I often wet the filter before putting the grounds in. It’s an old technique my father showed me that seems to result in a better, tastier cup. When you pour the first stream of hot water in, you can see the coffee bloom. I think that is the moment I really start to wake up. I’ll drink it straight black or with a dollop of cream. That part of it really depends upon my mood. When I’m on the road or traveling internationally, one of my priorities is to scope out a good coffee shop on arrival.
When I was in DomRep, I had my choice of two locations. The closest was an expat hangout that was aptly named Gringos. They were one of the few restaurants that opened up at a decent hour in the mornings, and for a very reasonable price you could get a hot cup of cafe dominicano or cafe con leche, depending on how much of a kick you needed that morning. The Dominican coffee came black and strong, and I drank it every morning if I was going on a dive. I needed it to clear out the cobwebs and the stories that were still circling in my head from the night before. The other spot was an Italian-owned locale that served espresso and ham & cheese croissants. The manager was a beautiful Italian woman with an eye for service and a slight hint of sadism. When I first arrived, and she realized I barely spoke any Spanish, she would refuse to speak any English. Later, when I began to be able to speak the local dialect at a decent rate, she would smile impishly before increasing the speed of her words just to confuse me. Frustrating, but all beauty comes at a price.
The best thing about expat bars? The expats. The worst thing about expat bars? Also the expats. Night after night I would return to Gringos and order one of my two staple drinks – a Johnnie Walker scotch on the rocks or a Cuba Libre – and observe the litany of characters that I came across. I met a German cigar-maker who insisted all other cigars were being “sprayed” and he was the last true artist of them all. Honestly, his cigars were pretty damn good. I met a French former special operations soldier who moved to the islands to teach MMA. He taught me a number of good lessons – namely why you need to block body kicks – and the only thing more interesting than speaking with him was hearing the stories others in the town had about him.
It always fascinates me to find out what would make someone leave the country of their birth for parts unknown, and I’ve found that the reasons are endless. There was a story of a man, an owner of an Italian restaurant, who came to DomRep on his honeymoon only to leave her for a local girl. The forsaken bride went home while the groom stayed and created a new life. I’m respect marriage, but after tasting that man’s pasta creations I was so happy he decided to never return to Italy. There was a Canadian former boxer who never met a shot he wouldn’t take or a prostitute he wouldn’t haggle with. Needless to say, he stayed pretty busy and I didn’t see a lot of him. But anytime I did, I knew I would be waking up with a headache and a story the next morning.
But hey, that’s what the strong coffee is for, right? Dame un cafe domenicano por favor. Now let’s run this back.