2022-01-27 - All About the Americano

Espresso Yourself. A nice, not too fancy coffee shop downtown -- and the only coffee shop downtown. A tad less pretentious than some places of its nature, it still attracts a lot of Gray Harbor's writers -- professional and less so -- who take advantage of the free wi-fi and the excellent coffee. It's a bright and cheerful place -- the owner, Eleanor Roen, is not seen much lately due to her advancing pregnancy, but day manager Della is a friendly and cheerful soul (particularly in the mornings). It's the kind of place patrons walk in and out of all day. Sometimes the barista sings along to the radio. Sometimes people laugh, or cough, or cry, or ask whether the wi-fi password changed. Most patrons appear to be locals. A few are folks from out of town, passing through, deciding to wait here instead of at the bus station for their connection to Portland.

It's difficult imaging something as exotic as a problematic customer; the shop doesn't serve anything alcoholic for one, and it's far too early in the afternoon to imagine such as a thing as a pub crawl ending up in the wrong place (it's questionable whether Gray Harbor has enough pubs to warrant a pub crawl unless you want to be extremely literal and, well, crawl, from the one dive bar to the one beach bar, and back). And yet there's something up with this one.

He's a tall, white guy in a black leather jacket and ditto jeans; one sleeve is torn as if perhaps something went through it and he hasn't gotten around to replacing it. A sleek laptop is tucked under one arm as he orders a cup of coffee, black, no cream or sugar, from Russ the barista who likes to sing along with the radio. Nothing strange about that, except for some reason the order is served not by Russ but by Della the day manager. She takes longer than you'd expect -- and when she does hand over a tall cup containing something pale and creamy, she does so with the cheerful announcement: "Your Dunkin' Donuts Frozen French Vanilla Swirl Coffee Coolatta with Skim Milk -- sans donut. Enjoy!"

The guy takes the cup. The expression on his face is a strange mix of exasperation and amusement as he withdraws to a table and settles, opening the laptop -- and ignores his coffee (where 'coffee' is shorthand for sugary mess in a cup).

A couple of other patrons chuckle. Russ the barista chuckles.

"You should stick to soy products anyhow," says a teenage girl and wanders over from another table to lean against the man's. "I bet this stuff isn't fair trade. And sugar is very bad for you."

"I was actually trying to get coffee without sugar," the man replies. He has an accent -- something that isn't proper British but trying very hard to fake it, like a European who has been taught English by someone with a part-time job as a BBC speaker.

"Well, then you got what you deserved," the girl returns cheerfully and without any trace of sympathy whatever. She hitches up in her jacket and heads for the door -- but not without throwing an, "Animal cruelty sucks!" over her shoulder.

Several people shake their heads and chuckle. Apparently that exchange is not so unusual either.

Part and parcel of a new position at a new job is learning where things are. Spare lids, thermometers, dish detergent for the cleaning of frothing jugs between orders, backstock of napkins and wooden twizzler sticks and bulk sprinkle-chocolate tucked to the countertop when that mocha needs a little extra something-something -- all of it lives in the small room tucked off to the back of the place. With a grunt, hidden somewhat behind a box marked by chunk-tip Sharpie as EXTRA NAPKINS, the newest hire appears again.

It's amazing how fast these things disappear, Ariadne muses to herself, as she hips her way beyond the waist-high swinging door at the end of the prep zone. She glances over her shoulder as the order is called out -- good lord, who wants that much sugar in their drink?! She herself doesn't mind a nice white chocolate mocha on those days where a pick-me-up is necessary, but the woman with her hair done up in a messy bun isn't about to drink anything making her think of tacking her tongue off the roof of her mouth.

The box is set down out of stepping path and opened, the better to grab a pinch of the biodegradable napkins. Della has good taste in this, Ariadne thinks as she floats from table to table, checking the dispensers. The conversation between the gentleman with the Teeth-Rotting Coffee and the teenager has her lingering with shoulder turned and attention perked nonetheless. Her brows knit. Sounds like an order got mixed up and the customer was too nice to argue otherwise.

Once her pinch of napkins is dispersed and her palms wiped down the front of apron sporting Espresso Yourself in bold contrasting letters to its base shade, she wanders over to the European's table. There's a smile of greeting, something polite and inquiring by the lift of her brows. "Hey. I heard you were trying to get a coffee without sugar? You want me to swap you out? That sounded like something involving donuts and skim milk," she says, pointing at the offending, untouched cuppa. "It's okay to tell us when we've given you the wrong thing. You kind of paid for it, you know?" Her accent is mildly Midwestern by the subtle twang.

The man looks up. On the screen, a fancy house in the Queen Anne style sitting amidst beautiful flower beds in some local park or other. A text box describes,

The courtyard leads to the front entrance of the main house: a massive Queen Anne that takes decorative excess to the extreme, with its scalloped shingles and rounded turret, a massive porch with columns and archways over the windows, painted fancifully bright colors of green-and-yellow with scarlet highlights and delicate white filigree.

The logo says, Addington House -- Museum.

Ravn smiles. "I'd like a cup of black coffee, please. Just, black coffee. But I don't want to get you in trouble -- Della and I have a very long argument going, and today, she wins. Tomorrow, I steal someone else's coffee, and I win. And you have to admire this monstrosity, yes?"

He gestures at the abomination on the table. "Besides, you have to admire her creativity. I wonder how long it took her to find that thing on the internet, memorise the recipe -- just for a jab at me."

Ariadne smiles to herself. "I mean, I was wondering why on earth she was looking up Dunkin Donut-related recipes on her phone." The barista had happened to pass by behind Della at the espresso machine and glanced over in time to see the recipe up by name only. The text was too small at her distance for ingredients to be observed. "And...far be it from me to step into the middle of such a lengthy détente," she adds, holding up both palms as if threatened by the potential fallout of interrupting the argument.

"But you know, I think I've heard about you. You're the guy who, what... told her one time, that's not what an Americano should be?" The barista knows she's being nosy, but every customer's taken care of for the moment and this isn't any large conglomerate chain-run affair. She can dawdle and chat for a bit knowing there's no risk of Della appearing to chastise.

If she recognizes the information up on the laptop screen, the woman makes no note of it. She doesn't, spoiler alert, but she's also not here to spy on whatever the European is up to.

The Dane is certainly not trying to prevent anyone from seeing what's on his laptop; he couldn't be more indifferent to any glance if he tried. A small smile flits past on his lip as he inclines his head, acknowledging the label. "Ravn Abildgaard. A Danish idiot who once tried to convince an American barista that an Americano is in fact just black coffee, yes. Just because the rest of the world agrees on it obviously does not mean that an American would."

Behind her, at the counter, Della smirks.

Ravn pauses and then smiles again. "You are a new hire, I take it? I promise to not make a fuss. And to take any chance I get, to steal a cup of proper black coffee from your costumers. Most of whom already know to either guard theirs, or place a double order. Are you new in town, then?"

The woman can't help the thin, truly amused smile. Another glance over towards the counters and she catches Della's smirk; it makes her grin deepen in turn. Ah-hah: this is indeed the poor sap who went up against Della so underprepared in his argument. One of the many mysteries of work -- solved.

"I'll keep it in mind to watch for you when I get a double-order for an Americano then," she replies, slipping her hands into the pocket of her apron. Beneath it, she wears a lightweight buttoned blouse and beneath this, some sort of tee-shirt sporting an acronym which can't be read. Otherwise, black jeans and running shoes complete the look. "I'm new in town, yeah, how could you tell?" A good-natured tilt of her head. "These guys had mercy on me when I showed up and asked if there was a position available. Ariadne Scullin," and she reaches to taptap at her name tag. Indeed, it says 'ARIADNE'.

"You're...Ravn?" She likely doesn't get it on the first shot, inflecting it heavily with her own accent in turn. "And a local then?"

"Ravn. More round, but with the d chopped off," the Dane replies; at least the barista did not leap straight to Ray or Raven, or worse. He keeps a literal list of interesting things Americans have done to his name over time.

Then he shakes his head and leans back a little on his chair, making no move whatsoever towards actually picking up his frothy horror of a sugary dessert. "And no -- I'm not a local. I've lived here for about a year and a half, though -- so, local in progress. Gray Harbor is a small town with just one coffee shop -- Eleanor would be hard pressed to hire a new face and not have half the town comment on it. We're that kind of little community. Do I want to ask what prompts someone to move out here, instead of Seattle or Portland?"

Whatever Addington House is, it's clearly not interesting enough to keep the bloke from chatting with the barista instead. Maybe it's the scarlet highlights on the lime green background. It kind of takes a certain taste in architecture to properly appreciate that.

Ariadne's lips can be seen to form the foreign name again. By the twitch of her brows, she's not got it yet, but it'll be figured out at one point or another, surely. Her posture slips to hips-akilter, one sneaker ending up doing a silent toe-tap behind her heel as she listens. Ravn identifies an aspect of Grey Harbor she'd been suspecting since she began working here at the coffee shop: small town gossip. A new face, new news -- how delightful is that for the locals.

Granted: "In some places, they consider living there a year as being a local -- unless there's some hazing I haven't been through yet, in which case, guess that's coming up any day now."

Little does the woman know.

"But why here?" Ariadne's golden-hazel eyes drift away, towards one of the windows. It's not a dreary day outside, but merely winter-grey, a well-known state of solid cloud cover from horizon to horizon, always promising cold rain and sometimes delivering. A regional seasonal tradition. Thanks, Mother Nature. "I'm not one of those people who believe in destiny or fate or anything like that, but...I guess I got to wandering and ended up here and it felt...right?" Her brows knit as she glances back at Ravn. "Dunno if 'right' is the word, y'know, but it's close enough. It's not too busy though and folks have been nice so far. I haven't had anyone come back to the counter screeching about their coffee being five degrees too warm and shy of one pump of sugar-free dulce-de-leche syrup and the froth was too frothy. I get the impression somebody like that wouldn't last long around here," she laughs.

Ravn reaches for a packet of sugar from the little bowl at the centre of the table (you'd think he had enough in that diabetes inducing horror of his). It starts to dance, across knuckles gloved in black kidskin, in an act of quite neat manual dexterity; he pays it little attention, much like a man who is clicking a ball pen or tapping a rhythm out with his fingers. How he feels the packet well enough to manipulate it like that through his gloves is anyone's guess. Practise, perhaps.

"It's not -- as unusual as you'd think," he says after a moment. "That sensation of being drawn here. Some people will call it destiny. Some, coincidence. Myself, I was hitch-hiking from Seattle, headed towards Portland -- got into an argument with the driver who dumped me right outside here, in Main Street. And here I am, a year and a half later -- didn't get around to moving on, and now I have a fixed address. Bit of a failure as a drifter, I suppose, but Gray Harbor has that effect on a lot of people. You'll be surprised how many strangers live here, and from how far they've come -- Europe, Asia, India, though I suppose India is Asia, you get the point."

He glances towards the counter and Della behind it, talking to Russ. "But you're right. As far as unruly customers go? I'm it, I'm the trouble maker. And honestly, if I were to file a regular complaint to Eleanor Rřn, I'd get the coffee I order."

Curious pronunciation of Roen, the owner's name, though.

Ariadne figures the sugar packet is going to be a fiddle-object. Hell, she does it herself, with one of her doodads on her keychain. What she wasn't expecting was the display of dexterity with it. Her mind immediately goes to sideshow tricks -- sleight of hand -- a magician? It's a truly solid snag of her curiosity. Her eyes rise from watching the sugar packet's dance across knuckles and follows Ravn's glance over towards the counter.

"Della probably would stop giving you hyper-sugared drinks, yeah, but would it worth the scowl?" A little shrug. That's up to Ravn. "But really? It's not...weird to feel that I should be here?" Dubiousness, thy name is Ariadne. One hand appears to tuck a loose strand of deeply-auburn hair behind her ear. She makes a mental note to go fix her lazy-bun up-do in a few minutes. "I mean...I guess I did notice the variety of folks. You can hear it in their voices, their accents. Not everybody's American -- or from around here, the Pac-Northwest." Spoken like a true resident of the region. "My parents are in Seattle and that's such a hotbed of international work, it probably didn't occur to me at first that it'd be odd around here."

But she can't help it. A smile slowly begins to creep onto one corner of her mouth as her eyes again drop to the sugar packet, flicker to his face. "You into magic tricks or something?"

Ravn blinks and then looks down at his hand, as if he had not really noticed what his fingers were getting up to. He actually looks a little sheepish at that, and then nods. "Well -- something. I'm not a stage magician. But I did earn my way across the States from New York doing little tricks on the sidewalk and in bus stops. The three cups and the nut game? That sort of thing. There's nothing magical about it, just a lot of practise."

And the ability to feel things through leather gloves, which he somehow has yet to question. To each their little mental speed bumps.

"I don't think it's weird at all. Gray Harbor is a curious little town." He smiles and -- adds another sugar packet to the little dance because why the hell not; maybe he likes showing off a bit. "It's not a bad place. It's got its problems -- the lumber industry isn't the financial power house it used to be, and the nightlife is two bars and a coffee shop, but the sailing is fantastic, and if you do want to dine fancy, there's the Casino island. It's a curious mix of very far out in the boondocks and somehow very cosmopolitan at the same time."

A slow, amused nod -- three cups and a nut. Ah, the shell and pea game, Ariadne realizes. Great wording, she also muses to herself, a glitter of deeper amusement flickering in and out of her regard. There's a moment where she looks around the place behind her, scanning customers at tables and checking for empty plates or mugs. Russ seems to be on top of it with no rancor. Della still hasn't gestured at her to stop jabbering. The redhead looks back at Ravn and ends up laughing quietly.

"That's a good way to describe it, boondocks with some hoity-toity. It helps that Ocean Shores is that way -- " Fingergun in the direction of the distant Pacific Ocean and the resort town. " -- and this is one of the stops for a bathroom break or another cup of coffee." Movement at his gloved knuckles makes her glance down to see two sugar packets in action. Her brows lift. Whoa, that is...actually pretty talented, holy smokes. She plays the piano, she can hazard what dexterity might be necessary here. "You've thought about doing stage magic though, right? Even small-time? Not everybody can do that kind of thing," and she tilt-nods her head towards the now-two manipulated sugar packets.

"I wouldn't like the attention. My house mate, though? He does that -- he puts up a show on the boardwalk in summer for the tourists. He's very good." Ravn smiles lightly. "Also, far more of a showman. He works with kids a lot -- one of those personalities that you just can't not like. To me, it's a hobby that sometimes bought me a ticket on the next bus to the next town. He also plays the mandolin, and is trying to learn the drums. Fortunately, our neighbours are patient."

He cants his head; one could almost get the impression that the Dane is quite sincere in not thinking that his little show is all that special. "It's not as difficult as it looks. Most magic tricks aren't -- they just take a lot of repetition, until your fingers can do them on their own. Which unfortunately leads to -- well, your fingers doing them on their own. In summer, though, the town has a fair number of street artists, small time grifters -- we have a lot of somewhat wealthy yachters coming through Puget Sound, nipping down to Olympia, stopping in for a visit to the Casino, that sort of thing. Most locals don't really mix with them -- there's this perception that we're all lumberjack shirt mill workers from the back end of the woods."

"Fair," shrugs Ariadne as to attention. It's a double-edged sword and she knows it. She grins to hear about the European's roomie and what comes of the summertime. It's high winter now and there's a good portion of the woman wanting the sun, whatever amount will come to this place so close to the ocean. She shifts her weight from one leg to other, an inversion of tilted hips now.

"If you're all lumberjacks, you're missing the plaid shirts and the beards and axes and the Blue Oxen. If you're keeping the oxen around here somewhere, I'd love to know. It'd have to be a pretty big set of stalls," she notes, another grin flashing over her face. It's a reference to Paul Bunyan and Babe the blue ox as things stand, quintessential Americana, something her father told her about when she was very young. "Maybe you can make pinecones disappear under the cups. It'd be in theme with the area and then you'd be fulfilling those awful expectations from the visitors, yeah? Maybe it'd be worth an extra dollar or two as a tip."

Yes, it's ridiculous, and by her expression, Ariadne knows it.

"Well...maybe if you can show me a really cool magic trick, I'll spot you your next cup of coffee. Sugar packets, I've seen it now, it's gotta be something else." A palm lifts in a friendly shrug.

"Have you visited the Pourhouse yet? It's the dive bar on Spruce Street. You'll see as many lumberjack plaid shirts as you could ever want, and then a few." Ravn grins; a slow, lopsided affair. "The lumber mill is the town's main industry. Don't think less of blokes here just because they're, well, very Pacific Northwesterners. Paul Bunyan wouldn't feel too out of place."

At least he knows about Paul Bunyan. Most Europeans wouldn't have a clue. Whether he thinks Babe is an Australian pig, though, is anyone's guess.

"I could probably show you a trick or two," the man agrees, and lets that little smile linger. "But I'd have to go home and get a silver dollar somewhere before I pull it from your ear. Or maybe I could nip over to the Safeway, buy a small bag of chocolate coins, and find a few of those in your nose, like a magician at a children's party. Maybe next time I come in, I will."

Challenge accepted, new barista. But for now, he'll stick with the vanilla abomination, untouched. "Have you found a place to stay yet? Please tell me you're not at the Murder Motel."

Ariadne blinks, taken aback by the nickname used by Ravn. "Okay, we're getting back to that Murder Motel in a second here because I do need to know about it with a name like that, but I'm going to suggest first that you try something other than the silver dollar or chocolate coin. I've seen that before. It's not old, but I've seen it." Her grin is just a hair apologetic. "Try something else. It'll make it worth the risk of Della glowering at me for giving you something other than a sugar glider's dream in a cup."

She then shifts again, now settling onto the flats of her sneakers and letting both hands rest on the back of the chair tucked in across the table. "But okay, Murder Motel. Shoot. What the hell is this place?" Her returned grin is half-present, definitely dubious once more. This is the pain-in-the-ass part about being a newbie in a place: learning what places and/or people should be avoided at all cost.

Ravn returns the two sugar packets to the bowl and steeples his gloved fingers; for a moment he looks quite like someone who should be sitting behind a teacher's desk, surrounded by open little minds into which to pour the wisdom of life. Or maybe algebra.

"Oh, it's called the Seaview. The locals don't call it anything else but the Murder Motel, though, and they'll happily entertain with horror stories of past tragedies." The man smiles lightly, perhaps shattering that scholarly image a little. "I haven't seen or heard of anything unusual there in the year and a half I've been in town. Place is haunted as hell, though, so I'm sure it lives up its name in some capacity or other -- if nothing else, then through bad beds and lukewarm showers."

He cants his head a little; a habit that seems to perhaps signify thinking. "In all seriousness? It depends on what you believe in. If you are the sort to believe in ghosts and hauntings? Avoid the old lumber mill in the woods, and don't hang around Gray Pond too much on your own. If you're not? It's just another sleepy little town full of ghost stories and lots of locals who enjoy hazing new folks, pretending to believe in them."

"...well...shit."

It slips from Ariadne after a second, accompanied by a sharp twist of her nose and mouth both. It's a moue of disappointment and discomfort both. "I've got a room booked there until the end of the week. I was looking into the Broadleaf Apartments over on Sycamore, but...god, no wonder Sam's antsy." Her nails run in perfect file along the back of the chair and might evince the impression of piano keys before she grips the chair hard and lolls her head back in exasperation. A mutter to herself in...Hungarian of all things.

"Sam's my dog. Samwise," she explains as she drops her face into view again, lips now pursed hard. "He's a good boy, but he's been struggling with the move. I need to get into those apartments sooner than later, crap... Lukewarm showers," the redhead then says, laughing under her breath with a note of regret. "God...getting what I paid for in that room. I figure those lukewarm showers are bad piping and not ghosts, but..." Her teeth fret her lip in passing before she shakes her head slowly, eyes downcast to one side. "...world's a weird place sometimes."

She might have suspected something and been conveniently, cheerily dismissing it as stress from their recent relocation, it appears.

"Sam might just be antsy because it's a cheap motel full of smells of people who stayed there in the past. I can only imagine what that must be like to the nose of a dog -- all those perfumes, clothes, sweats, human smells. And I am pretty certain that any actual ghosts at the Murder Motel have more interesting things to do with eternity than screw around with the plumbing." Ravn chuckles -- and for a moment he imagines it: Some monochromatic old coot meandering from room to room, fiddling with the thermostats in the night, muttering about how he died freezing and everyone else will too. Ghosts tend to act with a lot less intent than that.

He dismisses the mental image, grumpy little man with horn-rimmed glasses and potbelly and all. "I've heard nothing bad about the Broadleaf Apartments. The manager there -- or owner, I'm actually not sure -- is a bloke named Hawthorne, Conner Hawthorne. Quiet sort, good with a power tool. He's done a good job with our local community centre -- where, regrettably, we have lots of volunteers and very little actual, hands-on experience with those power tools."

It's a recommendation of a sorts. Ravn looks back to the woman; she doesn't look like someone who's completely helpless in the presence of a screw driver, either. "If you're a handy sort, there's cheap properties for rent or buy in the Elm Street area in particular, too, and in the outskirts. I suppose it depends on what you're looking for -- whether you decide to stay around, look for something more permanent later on." He chuckles. "I spend most of the year on a small sailboat on the marina, myself."

Even if she hadn't wanted to, Ariadne does appear somewhat relieved to hear a 'local' assure her that the sucky plumbing has nothing to do with things going bump in the night. Oh good -- no chance of the Twins in the Shining happening at the motel. She still makes a mental note to do a Google search on her laptop tonight, after she's taken the sighthound for his evening walk and doody-duty and they're both lounging on the small hotel bed. Maybe a little thing of Ben and Jerry's will make things better. Time to stop by Safeway and see about that Dublin Mudslide.

It's also reassuring to have those Yelp reviews echoed by someone in person rather than dubiously behind a keyboard. She nods, running her fingernails across the back of the chair again, as she files away the manager/owner's name (Conner Hawthorn, like the tree, Conner, must get a face to match this). When Ravn mentions the sailboat? She grins brightly. "Wow. My cousin does the same thing up in Shilshole Marina, up by Seattle. You're as brave as he is. The stories he tells me -- if you don't tie things down..." She flares her fingers off of the back of the chair and shrugs, laughing softly. Imagination can surely supply what might happen to various, sundry items stashed inside a sailboat's cabin. "I wish I was the handy sort, but I'm not better than somebody who can fix most things around the house and calls property management for the rest. I'm sure I could learn and I'd be happy to, especially if it was a reoccurring issue like some piping leaking or a loose piece of wood along the wall. If I end up hanging around longer, well...maybe I'll take a look at those other places over by Elm Street."

A beat and she adds, frowning and amused at once, "Makes me think of horror movies, geez. But eh, I'm sure you poor folks get told that all of the time by the passer-throughs. Why a sailboat?" she then asks Ravn.

"I'm Danish," the Dane replies with a grin as if this explains everything. And because it actually does, he helpfully adds the explanation: "You can't get to an hour's drive from the beach in my country. Move far away enough from the Atlantic, you're about to get your feet wet in the Baltic, or either of the Belts. I grew up sailing -- so when I spotted a Finnish boat for rent here, it's a King's Cruiser, the most common sailboat back home. Just a small thing, definitely no luxury yacht, but it's big enough for me and my cat, and it lets me have that feeling that I can pull up anchor and go where I want. Somebody sailed her over here in the 1980s and sold her, and there she was, an abandoned nightmare in pink, slate, and turquoise, sitting on the dock, waiting for me."

He pauses. "In summer. I have to dry dock her in winter here, for the storms."

Then he glances at those slender fingers of his own. "I'm honestly not Mr Handy either. I can do -- the basics, paint a wall, clean a drain. But I'm not one of those blokes who buy or rent some ruin and by means of fairy dust, miracles, and good cut scenes turn it into a craftsman's paradise."

Ah-hah. Danish. And here Ariadne was thinking of inquiring about this too. The accent is far too incriminating to be anything American whatsoever. She returns the grin if with less intensity out of good manners. Even with no knowledge of sailboats but for their most basic design and some of the way they function, she can still appreciate the humor of that color scheme because wow -- definitely a nightmare. Russ laughs loudly at something another customer says and it makes the redhead check in with him. He smiles and gives no indicator of needing her assistance. It's only those blessedly calmer moments in the café as a whole.

Surely it won't last forever as is always the case, but for now, she glances back at Ravn. His wording in particular makes her laugh quietly. "Cut scenes. Can't say I have access to those things. I feel like they'd be useful. I gotta know though: how'd you manage to get a cat used to being on a boat? I know there are some cats who don't mind water, but the rocking and the noises on the hull...? You got the cat really young?"

The Dane shakes his head. "She's a stray. All I did was let her have my sandwich on the pier. Then she marched on board and declared that the boat is hers and I have the honour of being her provider. I've wondered about it but I am assuming someone else taught her at some point. She loves sitting in the stern though if there's too much rocking she'll slip down into the back seating area since there's not really any railing to stay safe behind. I have had to go fetch her on the marina five times both autumns because she does not want to live in a house, she wants to live on the damn boat."

He dips into a pocket and, with the pride of parents everywhere, produces an old Samsung phone in an even older, sparkly pink Hello Kitty cellphone casing. A few taps and he holds it up -- showing a picture of a small black cat with yellow-green eyes, sitting comfortably on her butt in a violin case. "Kitty Pryde. Because kitty is proud, and I am a nerd."

"Aw...!"

How many times has Ravn heard that soft sound of approval at feeding a stray and earning their love? Probably enough times. Ariadne can't help the smile when she hears of the cat's insistence to be on a boat. Her mind briefly traipses into the world of musical mockery a la Lonely Island and it twinkles through her eyes, there and gone, a muted bubble under her breastbone. But who can resist cat pictures? It's an internet phenomenon, no one can, so of course the barista leans in to peer at the offered display of Stradivari-puss.

"What a cutie. Great eyes," Ariadne notes. "Great name too. I get it," and Ravn also gets a finger-gun. "More of an Avengers gal myself, but hey, solidarity. I don't have a cat myself. I've got Sam, whom I mentioned as being back at the motel right now. Here, let me find a picture..." Because when the phones come out for pets, everyone gets to see the fur-babies. Ariadne has something more modern and sleek in a nondescript phone case appearing to be more protective than fashionable and scrolls for a second, frowning lightly. "Where's...ah, here we go."

The screen turns to display what appears to be a fairly long-haired sighthound of a smaller size, brightly brindled in ochre and black, with white socks, a foxy tail-tip, and underbelly which reaches up his throat to abstractly blaze his face. Think of a small greyhound with much more fur. His narrow mouth is parted in a goofy pant and his brown eyes sparkle with the simple joy of being a dog seated on green grass "Him is my boy," coos the barista. "Samwise after the Hobbit, of course, but otherwise just Sam." And every ridiculous variant of the name possible, surely, but the redhead doesn't share these as she slips her phone away again. "He's my jogging and biking buddy."

"He's gorgeous," Ravn agrees and cants his head for a proper look. "I've never seen that breed before -- is it a local breed, or have I just not been paying attention? It reminds me of one of those Afghan dogs, all sleek and graceful with long, wavy hair." He looks up. "So, does that make you Frodo? And is your fellowship recruiting?"

He pauses. And then chuckles. "Sorry. That was not a bad come-on. I walk a fair bit myself to keep in shape, and I know several other people who own dogs. It was more of a 'welcome to the group of people who are encountered in odd places at odd times, often accompanied by some more or less enthusiastic four-legged individual, on a leash or otherwise. Her Little Majesty is friends with a German Shepherd named Elsa -- a friendship I think she will come to regret given that Elsa has a lot more energy than Kitty does."

Fur kids. It's a thing to bond over.

"You'll probably run into people who do serious hiking in the forests and parks around here -- Elsa's owner among them. Myself, I'm more of a pavement and paths person, but I'm under Coach Kelly's orders to walk for at least an hour a day for asthma, and well... It works, so I keep doing it." Small town mindset already -- of course everyone knows who Coach Kelly is. Maybe it's that nine out of ten people here went to the local high school and everyone does in fact know Coach Kelly.

Ariadne does purse her lips against a smile because that was...okay, it was not a bad come-on per the claimant. There's the impression of the Dane getting the reference and more, but he continues on to further educate her on what she'll likely run into around town. Priorities. The barista pays attention. There's a German Shepherd named Elsa, alright, sounds good. A guy named Coach Kelly who told this Ravn person to walk because it'll help the asthma and she nods thoughtfully. It makes sense.

"I mean, I'm a little tall to be Frodo, but maybe I can be all melancholy and mope about before my first cup of coffee," she replies firstly, grinning. "We'll see about hiking though. Sam can get to be a muddy mess pretty quickly, so I tend to stick to the paths when I'm running or biking with him. Picking pine needles out of his feathering is rarely actually on the to-do list I make while brushing my teeth in the morning. He's called a Silken Windhound. They're a fairly new breed in the scheme of things, bred to fill a missing niche in the sighthound family, according to aficionados. People wanted a longer-haired, small sighthound. I love Borzois, don't get me wrong, but Sam's just the right size. Afghan hounds are kind of...spacey, from what I've seen. Sam's a smart cookie. He does the hokey-pokey," declares the dog's owner as proud as a dog-mom might be. "Which hey, I might see if he'll show you if we ever catch you walking on the paths. I'm glad you're able to get out and about like that. I bet it helps." The woman unconsciously touches at her collarbones twice, indicating the chest and related asthma concerns.

"My mother had a friend who owned an Afghan hunting hound. Gorgeous dog, beautiful. So dumb I always felt the urge to check his ears for small transmitters reminding him to breathe in, breathe out." Ravn nods, with a hint of amusement. The barista's enthusiasm about her dog and its breed does not give him any pause; and why would it indeed -- he's well aware that once he gets started on some topic dear to his heart, he's certainly capable of giving far longer speeches.

"He was a kind dog who lived in a world full of sights and scents and squirrels. Sometimes, some woman dragged at the other end of his leash and if he could only remember who she was and why she was there, a lot of things would probably have made more sense to him." The Dane recalls the dog with a chuckle; beautiful, but in terms of the evolutionary race? Hadn't even made it to the starting line.

He allows himself a small smile. "And this is Gray Harbor for you. Small town, everyone tends to know each other or at least of each other, but on the by and by, most of us are friendly enough. And you're going to be asking yourself in short time why everyone is telling you to get back on the bus and get out while you can, too. Please don't take it personally -- it's got nothing to do with you, and everything with people feeling trapped in a small town in the middle of nowhere and wondering why they didn't get back on the bus."

"That does sound like an Afghan to me," Ariadne agrees with another one of those soft laughs. She's taken up tapping her sneaker-toe on the floor again as she stands at the chair. What Ravn says next, after the tale of the dog requiring transmitters, makes her smile lessen and eventually disappear. "Well...geez."

It's a quiet murmur and she lets her eyes slide off to one side again, but only for a second. Catching this display of uncertainty, she immediately drags her focus back and politesse about herself. "I mean...I know I'm new here and maybe this is coloring things for me, but I don't think it's really that hard to figure out how to get back on a bus." Still, her thumbs pop alternatingly off the back of the chair, one-two-one-two-one-two, deliberate, like the twitching of a cat's tail.

Ravn's probably seen this before too: the quiet disconcert of someone who knows, at some level they don't want to admit to themselves, that something they can't explain save for idioms like 'gut sense' and 'walking dream' brought them here. Of all places. Grey Harbor.

"Still, I won't take it personal, since I've been warned about it. Probably be surprised too if folks actually say 'get back on the bus'," she then adds, making herself laugh in the process, more than likely at the potential situation. "Maybe I'll have to change perfumes," the redhead further quips to try and lighten the conversation.

Hearing Russ on the other side of the counter say something involving her name, the barista looks over at him. "Yeah, be right there!" she calls back. Ravn's given one of those ineffably polite smiles again. "Sorry, duty calls. Remember: you show me some little trick not involving coins and I'll see about that black coffee. Enjoy yourself in the meantime." A little wave and she's off to collect her box o' napkins and assist Russ. Something something grinder something knocking it with a wrench something do we actually do that something maybe don't tell Della. Oh dear.