Big Small World

By Barbara White

In May and June, Princeton’s Small World Coffee invited its loyal patrons (i.e., all us dependent, unrepentant, overly energized, and often alliterative, addicts) to enter their “Joe to Go” Photo Contest on Twitter.  I was one of three winners.   The contest closed just as I was making a drive to Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, so I took a cup with me for company and got, um, a little, well, involved in photographing my to-go-1000-miles cup as I proceeded North and more North.  (Candy, who helped me with the first photo, said, “Oh! It’s kind of like Flat Stanley!”)  So the archive below not only documents my two-day drive but also proves—not that any proof is needed—that the high octane level of Small World Coffee hypes up the recipient as far away as Canada, and even if there is nothing left in the cup . . .

Taste of Maine, Woolwich: Candy asks, “Regular or jumbo?” Already at the edge, I just snap.

[Candy is the name not of the lobster, but rather of the restaurant manager who kindly asked what size lobster I preferred and even staged this stunning composition.  Geoff and Scott pointed out that the claw bands are a good idea given the power of the cup's contents.  And Mark asked, "Did you eat your model after the shoot?  I've heard of predatory photographers, but this would sort of take it up a notch."   I did not eat my model, but only because I did not think of making the photo until after I had already eaten a lobster roll.  Candy even turned Ms. Regular and Mr. Jumbo over in order to give me a lesson on lobster genitalia after we took the photo.  (I am not making this up!)]

 Northern Maine: “Limit” means lower limit.

 It’s blurry, but that’s a 9. And the one behind the SWC cup is an 8. Yes, 89.

“Katahdin” means “greatest mountain,” and yet, she seems a tiny bit shy . . .

 (Though she doesn’t mind kissing the sky).

The inner horizon and beyond. As the book says, emptiness is fullness.

 

Small Potato, red potato . . . sung to this melody.

Remember Texaco? A 1970s fuel stop, before there was triple double soy latte.

Curious custom: no border-crossing documentation permitted. (But the official was very polite about it.  She asked if I had any weapons, and I told her “Just a shakuhachi.”)  Canadian line’s behind the cup.

It’s time to . . .

(at least for tonight). Allez! Bonne nuit, Petit Monde.

Day 2.  Fredericton, New Brunswick: “Ceçi n’est pas un windmolen.”

They must be attending; haven’t seen any. Too bad: eager to know which plural they prefer.

Dear Small World, wish you were here. Really. Grumpy with no monkey.

‘Hoping all is well in Nova Jersia.

A Trenton Double, to go . . . with a some air, a droplet of sweat, a stroke and a half-spin.

Speeding at twice the temperature rather than the other way ’round. Nice change.

Only 19 more days to go before my next double soy latte . . . can’t wait to pick up that $10 prize.