Tommaso is the barista next door. But he’s really a radio engineer and his dream is to be a host of a radio station where he curates his own songs. He’s a musical connoisseur. This morning in the cafe, he was playing “I’m Every Woman” by Whitney Houston.


He was in mid debate with the other barista with his Italian going British accent  “...she says ‘it’s all in me.’ Meaning that I am my mother, my sister, my daughter—" when suddenly this woman who was summoned by the ghost of Whitney Houston herself sauntered into the cafe like some gust of wind and was like “HE GETS THE SONG! He gets it! He is absolutely right! I’m every woman is about solidarity! That every women is in me!” She said with pause. Between. Each. Word. For emphasis. And then she left the cafe. 


I think I stayed in that cafe for three hours today.

Tommaso shared his sandwich with me on his lunch break. We’ve become friends and we see the world similarly. It’s comforting when you find someone with whom you speak the same language. I then received some troubling news. (I’m okay, don’t worry.) Tommaso gave me a big hug. Said all the supportive things. But with the specificity in the way that I’d like. Gave me words to acknowledge my pain and release it all at once. Told me what I already knew. That I was resilient. That it wasn’t meant to be. 


I think the woman from earlier that day was right. He did get the song. About solidarity. About being every woman. He’s not a woman, and yet it was one of the most feminist acts of seen. Gently justifying my pain without ever doubting my strength to get through it. 


                                                                                                                                            Stories of Notting Hill
                                                                                                                             Monday, November 8th, 2021

Today I met Charles and Sascha. Charles is from France but lived in Hong Kong for 15 years since he was 25. He’s a restauranteur. Sascha is his devout and loyal customer. She’s been coming into his shop for years now. She’s from California, LA too. Been here in London for 13 years. She was there with her 9 month old daughter, Theodora, with the biggest bluest eyes that held an ocean in each one. 

She was eager to brag about Charles. His Michelin star restaurant in Hong Kong. His pasta from Italy. His orange yolked eggs from the local farmer. Sold cheapest here. Not the dull yellow back home, she said with a shared knowledge. His figs from Spain. Her three year old daughter always asks for them after swim lessons on Monday. Charles isn’t open on Mondays but Sascha’s daughter, Cleo, always asks to try anyways. Because sometimes he’s there. And he always, always, let’s them in. 

Being that he’s a restauranteur he recommended I go two blocks up and to the right for such and such butcher and two streets back and to the left for the Lebanese baker and the Moroccan produce and all the world and all the life spread between two blocks and the jars shelving his whole shop, like a dry foods alchemist. 


About an hour later I walked back, groceries in hand. From across the street through the window I could still see them—between the jars. 


She was still at his counter, cooing her baby in her arms and drinking the expresso he’d made for her. 


                                                                                                                                          Stories Of Notting Hill 
                                                                                                                      Wednesday, November 3rd 2021