Café Hippy

I spend much of my time studying at home, pretending to be productive. I justify it by telling myself that I save money by being a hermit.

Eventually, I admit I’m not learning anything about wind power by playing guitar and fluffing the couch cushions. My flat is a breeding ground for procrastination. So I venture out into town, where homely distractions don’t drag me from my desk.

Cafés are my preferred workplace, but I brace myself every time I pay for a cappuccino in Sweden. Those coffee beans had better damn be fair trade. At that price, the whole Ugandan village should be brushing their teeth with caviar.

My favourite Café is a spot called Los Vegos. Everything they serve is plant-based. It’s one of those places that really tries to look shabby in order to charge more. Patrons may opt to sit in an old, tattered couch which was obviously bought second hand to, like, save the planet, man. If you find used furniture too luxurious and wasteful, then seat your bottom on their plastic crates, turned on their side. Such spaces are reserved for VIPs.

One could also sit at a normal table, like a conformist swine. This is what makes me stand out as a counter revolutionary in a sea of enlightened indigo children. That and my lack of dreadlocks. The hairstyle seems to be a way for hippies to identify each other. As though the smell wasn’t enough. Tattered, loose-fitting garments, somewhere between pants and a poncho, sewn together by Cambodian child labourers. Clothing allows the hippy to be unique, like every other hippy.

Lunch hour is not a good time to be at Los Vegos. It’s when all the hippies take a break from playing bongo drums at the train station or begging on behalf of Amnesty International. They flock to Los Vegos, but in a totally unique way. With their identically unique garments flowing around them, wafting their unique scent – unwashed – in their wake.

They speak all at once and at the top of their voices, like hundreds of weaver birds in a single tree, competing for attention. “I’m going to Ghana to volunteer in the Planting Trees for Peace project.” “We’re going to fly over town in a hot-air ballon and drop marijuana seeds to combat global warming and end wars.” “Capitalism is suffocating my spirit animal.”

Hippy parents bring their indigo offspring into the café, carrying babies in cotton slings – handmade by destitute Colombians. The parents let the entire establishment know that Moonbeam was born vegan, can’t drink breast milk and shits world peace.

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