Page 39 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
“Is your meeting going to change the path of scientific discourse?”
I stare at him like a goldfish. “Definitely not. It’s about a project to test out a new time management tool.”
“Time management?” Gramps sounds, for a moment, like this might pique his interest.
“You know, tracking how we spend our time during the workday. Logging the minutes spent on emails, meetings, spreadsheets…”
His face droops down again in disappointment.
“Can you find somewhere else to have your meeting?”
I bite my lip, my heart pounding in uncomfortable frustration. Ihatethe feeling of a meeting going on without me, the idea that my co-workers might think I’m slacking. It gives me a panicky, fight-or-flight feeling. But I have no choice but to agree with Gramps. This is his home, after all.
“Okay. Sure.”
He nods briskly and returns to his room.
Sweating slightly, I type a quick message into the meeting and update my Slack status. “Internet troubles. BRB.”
I hurtle downstairs to the communal library. It’s a small room with plush chairs and couches, and a couple of bookshelves lined with tattered paperbacks. I try the Wi-Fi here, but it requires a password.Come on!I scan the room looking for a sign or poster of some kind with instructions on how to connect, but no. And of course, there’s no one around to ask.
There was a coffee shop in town. I’ll try there.
By the time I climb out of my Uber in front of the café—quaintly named Paradise Coffee—I’m extremely disgruntled. My meeting has ended, and I have another one starting in twenty minutes. No offense to Florida, but my hopes for this coffee shop are not high. In Seattle, we have a coffee shop on every corner with free Wi-Fi and all the alternative milks you can dream of. If there’s no internet here, I might have to take an unplanned day of PTO. Kat would not be pleased.
I weave through the sidewalk tables, where clusters of people are enjoying their coffees in the sun, and push the door open. A bell tinkles to announce my arrival. Inside, the space is small and warm, but there are plenty of tables, about half of them occupied, so there’s a pleasant ambient buzz of chatter.
“How can I help you?” The middle-aged woman behind the counter has smooth, tan skin, an impeccably chic curly bob, and, surprisingly, a French accent.
“Hi,” I say, quickly scanning the menu on the wall. “Oh my God, you have oat milk?”
Her mouth forms a moue in amusement. “Yes. As well as almond and coconut.”
“Can I have an iced oat milk latte, please?”
As I pull out my wallet, I notice a sign on the counter that reads:
Wi-Fi: ParadiseCoffee
Password: joiedevivre
Yes! Now, this is civilized. I love a place that doesn’t make you ask for the password. I’m beaming as the man behind the counter hands me my iced coffee.
“Enjoy,” he says, and I detect a hint of a French accent behind the word.
I’m so happy and relieved—an oat milk latteandfree Wi-Fi!—that I find myself making small talk. “Are you two from France?”
“Oui,” the woman says, rubbing hand sanitizer into her hands and smiling. She really does have amazing skin, with just a few lines around her dark eyes. “But we ’ave lived here for almost twenty years now.”
“What made you move here? I mean, I would never leave France!”
The man laughs heartily. “Have you looked outside?” He points out the window, where the gulf is visible across the street.
“We came here on holiday with our children, and we never wanted to leave,” the woman adds. “So we didn’t!”
“I mean, I guess it is paradise, right?” I take a sip of my latte. It’s impeccable. “How many children do you have?”
“One daughter,” the woman says. “She moved back to France after she married a Frenchman. And one son.”
