Café Ritorno

I’ve been contemplating for a while what exactly to do with this blog. Every attempt I make to write seems to end in trailing sentences. I get shy, unsure of why I’m posting to a blog that—from what I can tell—only a few people read. Often, my attempts feel insincere. I want to seem like I’m having an exciting time, a productive work visit, that I am being, on the whole, an interesting and well-rounded person.  Well, I’m pretty much my same old predictable self here when it comes to the important things. And we all know one of those important things is coffee, coffee-consumption and cafes. 

So, here I find myself at a quite charming and rustic café on Odengatan, situated across from a modest park and an unfortunate bout of construction. Walking into Café Ritorno, one is greeted by a peculiar and transfixing man known for his eclectic tastes in hats. He stands behind a prohibitively high display case (from my perspective) that hosts a mouth-watering mix of pastries. I’ll give the Swedes one thing: they take their pastries very very seriously here. Today, the gentleman of the hour sports a plastic green tophat of sort with a fake flower popping out the left side. Beneath the hat, a bush of curly grey hair. Perhaps his own, but most likely an added feature of the hat.  When I walk in, he throws out a cheerful “hej!” in my direction. One of the few words I’m able to consistently identify around here. 

Behind the ordering spot is a doorway into the main sitting area. The café is, in short, asthetically confused. But in such a way that you can’t help adoring it. No less than three chandeliers hang from the modest sized room, while regal paintings of landscapes don the walls. The walls are mustard yellow and red, red curtains partitioning off the archways. I find myself a spot beside an old jukebox that is secured to the wall. It seems not to have worked since the available artists were in their hey-day: Bobby Darin, The Tornados, Duane Eddy and Johnny Burnette to name a few. The café is filled with students and others just looking to grab an afternoon fika.  An unexplained television perches above a fire exit. Again, this TV’s glory days have clearly passed sometime ago. 

I order a coffee as usual. I’m not one to get fancy drinks, but even a regular coffee in Stockholm is fancy. For one, they simply do it better than American style brew. More bitter, more taste, just more in general. But sadly, any coffee bought out in Stockholm is fancy in terms of cost. I dish out 25 crowns for my own cup (that’s nearly $4 CAD for anyone keeping track).  After parting with what still feels to me like monopoly money, the gentleman-in-hat points vaguely toward the main room, telling me that my coffee will be in there. “What is this?” I ask myself “What is this Nordic custom of serving yourself?”  Indeed, the coffee table is quite apart from the pay point itself, separated by a dirty glass wall. If I were a less honest person, or simply more caffeine deprived, I would take the liberty of refilling my cup again and again. And the beauty is that not many people are looking. But alas, the Swedish trust in my honesty is too sweet. I feel obliged to follow the rules. 

I’ve been here for hours now, and no one has shot me a disapproving look or asked me to leave. I might have found a gem here. And I haven’t figured out how to use the internet yet, which forces me to—you know—do things. Do work. Do that thing I’m supposed to be here for. Or write blog entries. All of these are options. 

In the next room, someone plays a harmonica. No coherent tune, just some rambling melody they just made up. Twenty-somethings in their striped shirt poke meaningfully at their mac books. I feel less insexure about my own bunker of a laptop considering the dress-me-down feel of the café.  I’ll come back here, yes. But in the meantime, off to my next adventure. I’ve got my high-waisted hipster uniform on, so perhaps I’ll wander into Södermalm.