Take a walk through the morning crowds, through giant restaurants with Italian and Spanish and Latin names in front. You make a stop and try to figure out names on menus and find out that they just serve same food for tourists, then you decide to keep walking while at the same time hoping to be able to just grab a coffee. Anywhere.
Then you reach a crossroads with four possibilities to walk further, pick out one alley that seems with less crowds, stroll through smaller and tinier cafés, many of which are still closed. Some of the open ones have tiny tables outside, a father and his son sitting there, having breakfast with ice-cream.
Then you are kindly reminded by a street worker, he cannot speak English, but just yell out and point direction on the ground and you realize you dropped the jacket. Pick it up, say thank you to him and he just laughed, a bit shy.
And there is this cafe, for which you have to wait another 10 minutes to open. This is the place you chose to spend your morning in, because if one is patient enough to stand outside of the old, narrow window you see all the old wooden decorations and black white jazz poster and one old video projector on the wall with scarlet bricks.
This is where you sit at a tiny round oak table in the morning and start first coffee and light first cigarette.