sleepwalking through lobito and drinking lukewarm espresso like it’s my job
i woke up to the sound of frying plantains and realized my hostel window had been open all night. the air’s sitting at 21.95°c-which for me, a perpetually sweaty backpacker hoarding 3-for-1 instant coffee packets, feels like a miracle. humidity’s at 68%, so my hair’s doing that thing where it curls like overcooked noodles. you’d hate it or love it, no in-between.
someone told me the mercado municipal here sells café zango for half the price of those tourist traps by the pier, but i haven’t found it yet-just wandered into a place where the waiter side-eyed my "extra sugar" request. found a 1980s-era espresso machine coughing out something resembling caffeine. worth it. if your standards drop lower than mine, hit up yelp’s list of "lobito’s questionable-but-functional cafés." there’s a rumor floating around the hostel that benguela’s fish market (an hour north) does grilled lobster for $5, but i’m too lazy to hitchhike today. i’ll stay here, watching stray dogs argue over a flip-flop.
oh, and the wi-fi’s trash. someone carved "use the library, idiot" into the hostel’s bathroom stall, which i’m choosing to treat as travel advice. checked the angola tourism board site-hard maybe on that. tomorrow, maybe i’ll care.
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