S'ADAPTER OU DISPARAÎTRE

Cambridge, Massachusetts, 2024

It is often said, “S’adapter ou disparaître.”

We left behind those who, sitting on the sand at Crane Beach on a magnificent summer day, were discussing which LLM classes they would enroll in. My friend Aine and I decided it was time to roll up our trouser legs, check the temperature of the sea, see if the American shells had any particularity, and chat along the waterline (which is just, just in front of Portugal). Aine is Japanese, and like all the Japanese people I know, she is extremely polite, kind, and attentive, but she has a strong American side from having lived in Washington for many years: she is very enthusiastic, rejoices and speaks loudly. It was in this state of excitement, with heaps of shells in hand, that a red-haired, exotic woman passed by us, with very round, large eyes, looking as fun as she was intelligent, and she asked if we wanted a photo while holding a concave recipient with some engraved letters, which I assumed were her initials, from which a liquid with a greenish powder was coming that she sipped through a straw. I can’t remember if the photo was ever taken because we were both completely focused on this fascinating woman and her drink, which we hurried to decipher. We learned that she was from Argentina, that the drink was an infusion of the yerba mate plant, typical of the Guarani people, that she had come to Boston to pursue her PhD, that she met her husband here, and that they live with their two daughters next to Harvard Square. Harvard Square is the most beautiful part of Harvard, where Love Story was filmed and where Jen and Oliver throw themselves into the snow-covered courtyard, leaving angel shapes pressed into the ground, all to the sound of Andy Williams’ music that makes everything wonderful.

For all these reasons, the woman instantly became an idol, and I thought, we thought, we would never find someone who could give us such good recommendations about Harvard. We bombarded her with questions. The woman smiled with a very amused expression—I imagine our fascination with her must have been obvious. She told us the best café to go to is called Faro, and looked at me: perhaps the owners are even Portuguese.

It didn’t take long for me to sneak a peek at Faro café, which quickly became my favorite café. The café is truly extraordinary, with plants growing in pots in every direction. The staff are Brazilian, and I still haven’t been able to find out anything about the owners. There’s no rush in the café. The line is long because the two employees chat with everyone as if they were talking to old friends who deserve their full attention. Today, a gentleman waited for his coffee, a book in hand (così è (se vi pare) by Pirandello), and while he explained how much he missed Italy, one of the employees stopped making coffee and held the mug in the air to listen to him better. Laughter and bossa nova fill the air. Anyone can change the vinyl record that is playing because the turntable and the vinyls are available, but anyone who dares to open a laptop inside the café hears a reprimand. iPads are only allowed if used for drawing, a rule that benefits a girl I met who makes the café her office while working on her wedding illustration project. The tables are communal and long, alternating groups of friends who already know each other with people who bring books or iPads to draw, who often end up chatting. Since there are more people than tables, some sit on the floor, and there are dogs—lots of dogs.

I think you can get a sense of the atmosphere now. Next to me, someone was reading a book by Thoreau called Walden, and I, a professional collector of other people's book titles, peeked at the back cover and realized it was set in Walden Pond, Massachusetts, right next door, and talks about the days the author spent isolated in nature. Just him and nature. On one hand, I should go to Walden Pond; on the other hand, I can only go there if I read the book, and I, who love books... I think this one must be a tremendous bore. I pondered while sipping my cappuccino; I should read it, I should go. That was the mood, and my biggest problem. Just then, a guy walked in—I think he was Spanish, or perhaps from Lisbon, but I’ll go with Spanish. Beige pants, blue shirt, boat shoes, espresso in hand. Impatiently looking for a place, and moving at a thought speed much faster than everyone else, he thought he had less time than he actually did to find a spot without someone noticing that he looked lost. He rushed to an empty space between a girl who was drawing and another who was reading a poetry book. He didn’t look at the drawings or the poems. He sat with one hand over the other and switched their positions. He didn’t bring a book, or a Moleskine, nor could he use his phone, so he stared blankly at the white wall before rolling up his sleeves and switching his hands again. The scene was so distressing that I began to feel desperate for him, and I forgot about Walden, until the guy suddenly jumped up from his chair and greeted a man in a suit and tie. He was waiting for someone for a work meeting, which explains everything, but it’s still strange. Who thinks it’s a good idea to schedule a work meeting in the hippiest café in Cambridge?

If Woody Allen were here, he would walk over to the table, and we would see him throw his coffee in the trash in a liquid stream that suddenly became very long, while saying, "you can’t have work meetings here, goodbye." Or, like in the film Zelig, where the main character physically adapts to the context he’s in, we would see the older man quickly acquire a velvet hat with a colorful feather, and the Spanish a tote bag and black boots. But this scene isn’t from Woody Allen. Maybe it’s more of a Mary Poppins scene, as I felt like snapping my fingers to make them disappear or turn them into hippies.

S’adapter ou disparaître...