I boarded a train bound for Philadelphia three weekends ago and surprised some dudes at a bike store in North Philly. Walked in on a cold, damp Friday evening and was met with a lingering bear hug from Paul, who I hadn't seen in over a year. The newest and youngest addition to the crew - blonde, blue eyed Mike, who I had only spoken to on the phone on previous occasions, was working too. Izzat wasn't there so I hung out with those ace mechanics until closing time.
Had dinner with little brother and Hanan that night.
Had dinner with little brother and Hanan that night.
Saturday started early. We had breakfast at OCF coffeeshop in the walking distance Fairmount neighborhood before opening up at 10am. Izzat initiated the work day by playing Bobby McFerrin's Don't Worry Be Happy, a song I find suitable to be used as a torture tactic against the people you despise the most, especially if you take into consideration the cruel taunting of the message in that context, especially if played on repeat, and even if I am unequivocally against torture. But the song has been a permanent fixture in the store's daily playlist since the inception of Kayuh Bicycles and the most I will say to express my objection to the song is a simple, "hate this song." To which Paul once immediately switched to another tune as a gentleman would, I guess, but my brother tends to believe that no one is more capable to endure painful things more than I. To some extent, he is right.
Why do Westerners need help with everything? What's wrong with being a bad conversationalist? My theory is that socially inept people tend to become good conversationalists when meeting "their people" finally. It is worth the wait, in my opinion.
Because what's so bad about struggling through life?
Or having breakfast alone at the bar seat?
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