Today it struck me how stupidly brave it is to eat alone in a cafe, when you can only order by pointing at the menu. Where do you avert your eyes? What do you do with your hands while you’re waiting for your food? What will the waiter think when you order a second glass of wine?
I ate today at Rodi Bar, near Recoleta. I didn’t have my book, so I spent the entire time flipping through my moleskin, going through old notes about movies that I wanted to see, books that I wanted to read, and clippings that I had torn out of the New Yorker. As I idled, I came upon this poem by Barbara Ras, which I think is lovely: