With a new internship comes a new challenge faced every time such a turn comes in my life.
The coffee machine.
It against me. Me against IT.
My basic coffee needs are to be served in a cup, arabica, Israeli, Italian, maybe Brazilian.
Depending on mood, maybe a tad of milk. Never sugar.
Espresso machines are greatly appreciated, and after a long fall out due to technical problems we are now best friends and I am able to skilfully stab it with a blunt knife in its capsule-filled heart if it is having a fit. I know all its whims of flashing red and green light.
This new one.
We have started off on the wrong foot already. It asks me for money, it’s a beggar. A real Italian specimen would not stoop to such lows.
I see people conversing with it, the only input it gives is a plastic cup. A horrible tall, beer-like, plastic cup. My first attempt yesterday at finding common ground by pressing what I thought was the correct button ended up in a ghastly sugary messy black liquid in what seemed a medicine cup from a local hospital.
40cents remains for my future friendly encounters with the gender confused coffee machine giant.