Are you being served?

Sitting outside my favourite cafe, on a quiet yet bustling corner of the street, I steal a glance at the French waiter currently preparing my order. Dark tustled hair wisps around his face, distracting me momentarily from his deep brown eyes. He smiles slightly, lifting my spirits.

I remember his thick accent flowing gracefully from his soft lips as he stumbles to find the words to ask me of my desire. I think about what he must have left behind, to come here and experience life as a foreigner in a city which to me seems anything but foreign. Did he leave behind a job, a girlfriend, a boyfriend (one can hope!), a network of family and friends to come here to a place which doesn't speak his language. What drove him to this? A spirit of adventure, a need for escape?

And what must he do here to continue this adventure he has chosen for himself... Endlessly serving others in cafes, restaurants and bars. Giving of himself, day in and day out so that his adventure lasts that little bit longer...

He carefully and precariously carries my coffee and hazelnut twist to my table. It's not quite what I ordered, and I go to correct him... but then he smiles at me with his cheeky grin, looking deep into my eyes with those chocolate brown delights of his, and I humbly accept his offerings.

He could bring me whatever he wanted, and I would take it...

Ironically, I start to contemplate just who is serving who, and my mind again turns to thoughts of travel adventures somewhere over the sea.