The distinctive blue-edged windows have now been replaced, but the Dragonfly's facade has persisted, fairly unchanged, for eight years now. Or is it nine? I'm fuzzy on the details. A tree perches on the sidewalk; nearby, a few garden tables are clustered by the wall. Through the windows the silhouette of that Javanese dancer is visible.
Inside it is significantly dimmer, as about 30% of the paper lanterns overhead are defunct. After sunset reading inside is a bit of a strain (trust me, I've tried), but during the day the west-facing windows are the perfect addition to one's novel & cafe au lait.
The round tile tables are looking appropriately weathered. Every year some newcomer stands up too quickly, knocking the top to the floor where it shatters and, in retribution, coats his trousers in yellow dust. Nearly stands the huge table, which Lisa insists comes from an opium den. If this is true, I feel sorry for it. Opium was probably fun; now, it's reduced to a receptacle of kitsch.
The long wall displaying coffee beans, which an inquisitive child will occasionally spill. The shelves of various, unexplainable merchandise -- dog biscuits? Menorahs?
And the counter, behind which lurk the coffee slaves in some stage of caffeine addiction -- alternately hyper, sarcastic, delirious, bad-tempered, obsequious and blank -- but always up for a good bitching session.
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