An Espresso with Angela

An Espresso with Angela

It is just a coincidence that we are sat back to back.  The chairs separating us are nothing compared to the years between us. I can’t help but notice that her scarf is of the same colour and texture as my jumper. So when my sister, Sara introduces us to each other, I immediately compliment her on her fashion style. She was my sibling’s Uber driver once, she says to me. 

Angela is an elegant and delightful lady. But  I don’t learn her name until the end of our conversation; they can be so superfluous at times. 

She’s the perfect incarnation of autumn, enveloped in purple and yellow. “I’ve bought this shirt six years ago, and it still looks the same. I absolutely love this designer!”, she admits while stroking the sleeves of her blouse. I can see that my compliment has flattered her from the pleased smile that adorns her wrinkled face. I agree with her when she says that the longer lasting clothes are usually the cheapest ones. 

She’s sipping an espresso, “The way it should be. That’s why I always come to this Italian cafè where your sister works!”.  

“Yes, she was giving me a ride and she was telling me how picky she is with her coffee. So I told her to come visit us here!”, Sara adds. 

“And I’m very glad I listened to you”, she replies. 

My sister moves back to the counter of this little Italian gem in the heart of North Philadelphia, but me and Angela are far from being done with our conversation.

She asks me what I do, and I tell her that I go to uni in Manchester, UK. Even though, when I’m talking to her I say ‘college’ instead, knowing enough about American slang. She seems quite surprised, but after a couple of minutes of me describing England, she smirks and adds “Oh no, I hear the accent now”.

I can’t help but laugh thinking about how back in Manchester my friends still make fun of my Italian accent. But that’s what my life looks like, never quite belonging anywhere, but absorbing as much as I can from each place I visit, to try and fit there.

After she finds out that I’m studying English Literature, she interrupts me “I love Shakespeare! And a lot of British detective stories, they are just better than the American ones. I always watch all these series on BBC, they are so interesting!”. One thing that I already admire about her is the evident passion she has for everything she chats about. It’s in the way she gesticulates and speaks, typical of all African American women. She is fascinating.  I recount to her what the BBC studios are like in the city where I live, how its buildings, entirely made in glass, reflect the soporific waters of the canals encircling them.

I ask her if she has ever been outside of America. “No Hun, I haven’t . I need to visit my daughter first in Hawaii, but I don’t know how long she’ll be there for, so I’m waiting.”  

“What’s her job?”

“She’s a nurse but they constantly move her around. Before she used to live in Arizona!”.  She starts scrolling down the pictures in her camera roll, on the search for one of her daughter and her family. She settles on an image of the view outside their house instead. “Doesn’t it look absolutely amazing?”.

You can tell she is very proud of her. She then continues to look at the others  and shows me pictures of her granddaughter’s graduation from Temple University, one of the most renowned colleges in Philly. She has got longer hair in there and I almost don’t recognise her. She whispers, embarrassed, “That is just another wig”. I reassure her by saying that you can’t even notice she’s wearing one now. 

The more we talk and the more I can tell that she has no intention in leaving anytime soon.  She confesses to me that she is only taking a break from driving for Uber. She says she will start again as soon as she is done eating her panini, but her food has been sitting on her plate, barely touched since we started talking.  

She seems startled to hear that there aren’t many female Uber drivers in the UK. “There are a few here”, she replies.  I tell her Uber is not even a thing in Italy. Taxi drivers protested against it, so it’s basically illegal, banned from the country. She is very interested by that, and I can see that although she has never been outside America, she has a natural curiosity for everything that is new; like a child stepping in Disneyland.

She inquires about what I have seen of Philadelphia so far, and after a while she pauses me, “Have you ever been to the Magic Gardens?”.  

“No, what are they?” 

“Oh my gaad,  you need to see them. I used to live right next door. They have been decorated by this artist, Isaiah Zagar”.  She shows me the view outside the window of her old house, and all I can see is a jubilant appearance of every shade of colours. Mosaics, old, forgotten objects and glass all mixed up together to create a burst of originality.  

This time, I am the speechless one. I am staring at the screen and all I’m thinking is that I’m so jealous of her for having been able to live right by such a unique place. I wonder why she left this paradise and she simply replies, “I had tourists looking over my gate and fence all the times. Taking pictures and stuff. I got tired of it, there wasn’t much privacy. Sometimes I had to tell people to move to take my car out of my driveway. But I lived there for many years and there are lots of wonderful memories attached to that house.” 

“I understand that, I’ll definitely ask my sister to take me ”.

“And you should, I’m sure that you’ll love it”.

Finally, she notices that her panini is still there and that the time on her clock is ticking. 

“I better gotta eat my panini”, we laugh and then I turn away to give her time to eat.

Before she leaves, I stand up and  hug her, and I know that she would rather not go.

“Well, hopefully I’ll see you again before you fly back to England.”

“I really hope we do!” and I mean it. I’m still smiling even after she’s gone. My sister is surprised, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you talking this much, what did you speak about?”.

“You know, literature, cinema...stuff”. Her eyes roll back all the way.  Despite our different age, culture and background , Angela was so intriguing and easy to talk to. And that’s when I decide that I’ll write about her, to not forget.

[This short story was used for academic purposes]