Capuccino-gasm

I was staring hard at my watch as it neared 5 o’clock, waiting impatiently for the Cappuccino I ordered in the seemingly nameless café at Plaza De Rodrigo Botet, in Valencia.  The sun was beating down on my skin, and its rays from my weeklong trips to the beach had left it sore and burnt.  It physically hurt to sit and wait.  I drummed my fingers on the table hoping it would distract my impatient mind for a moment. I guess I hoped the distraction would enlighten me on to how I intended to drag my luggage all the way to the train station, and still manage to make it on time for my outbound train to Barcelona.  See the problem was I had been sightseeing on a bike that same day, and it was safe to say that after sitting on that bicycle for the better part of the day I wouldn’t be able to walk properly for the next couple of hours. At the least.  

My eyes shifted to my watch again, noticing the arms tick closer to 5:15 pm and it made me wonder just what in the world kind of cappuccino they were brewing in that kitchen. It got me hooked on the idea that I guess it would be something that should knock my socks off.

 I barely finished that thought when I saw a waiter heading towards me, with the long awaited tray. He set down the silver tray and slid my cappuccino towards me. To be honest I half expected it to spill all over me, almost did. I sighed and took a look at my hot beverage and I noticed it was nothing like the typical Italian version of itself.  Their version included whipped cream, which I found rather heavy but delicious. It was later that I found out that what I was drinking was indeed the Viennese version of the Italian cappuccino, the Kapuziner. 

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