But right now I have to finish my coffee and run off into speech-land.
The world is quiet, my coffee is hot, and optimism is in the air.
My coffee date arrives wearing his token Angry Birds sweatshirt, takes a seat and slides his business card across the table.
Carlos knew just how I took my coffee, and would stay up waiting for me if I came home late at night.
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For a while, I forgot all about my coffee experience in China.
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When he returned with my coffee, I got my answer in the form of a mobile battery pack with an Android charger attached.
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Just a few hours ago, I walked outside to see status quo as my coffee-cup carrying neighbors walked their dogs with grocery bags in hand.
My coffee is hot and yet my hands are unburned.
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This I do know: a seemingly mundane little innovation that few people probably even notice has made my life appreciably better by keeping my coffee hot and by keeping it from spilling.
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At least until two weeks ago, when my new coffee maker changed my life.
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Now if you will excuse me, I have to get another cup of coffee in my Philadelphia Flyers coffee mug.
"Oh, I've heard about that one, " the barista at my local coffee shop whispered.
" But Rhona tells us: "Very bad start to the morning - my favourite coffee shop was closed.
Standing in line at my local coffee shop, I heard a shrill beeping sound coming from the customer behind me.
It happened on 10AM on a Friday morning, as I was walking along my usual route for coffee on my way to work.
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Once in a great while I stray from my own travel norms, but most of the time I prefer my travel experience the way I like my morning coffee: consistent, effortless, and predictable.
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For 30 days, each morning I would walk through the city, stopping to buy my baguette and coffee, pretending to be offended when the waiter laughed as my grim attempt at French was replaced by sign language.
But the agave nectar served with my Starbucks Viva instant coffee that accompanied the pumpkin and pecan pies peaked my interest.
It was in Florence that my love for coffee started to blossom.
As I was thumbing through the Financial Times this morning over my oatmeal and coffee, I came across this letter by Marc Chandler of Brown Brothers Harriman and Jim Glassman of JPMorgan Chase.
Each morning my friend, Emily, would bring a thermos of coffee and take my phone away to charge it.
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Why, this year, even my wife's coffee-klatch president jumped into the ring.
But someone unexpectedly sent me The Rum Diary and, desperate for brainfood Sunday morning, I grabbed the book on my way out to coffee.
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As the miners sipped mugs of hot coffee, my mother laid out bowls of chow chow relish, minced onions and cole slaw to accompany the beans.
Sitting with my laptop in a coffee shop in the East Village, I clicked and scrolled through Facebook profiles and Twitter feeds for possible New York-based targets.
But, this morning after my third cup of coffee, a couple thoughts jumped out at me from yesterday on how to ask for help well in all situations.
And I oftentimes have conversations with young writers and writers my own age at coffee shops or at bars, and they're always saying I just feel so discouraged.
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