A better word with too much sugar

People here start their day early. Very early.
By 5 a.m., the metro and bus stations are already full. Rushed, tired, maybe dreaming… but never fully present.

Some, like myself, would buy travel tickets from the huge, cold machines scattered through the underground stations. Others lined up at the counters, their eyes lost somewhere far away.

In the metro, there were staff members who guided lost passengers — if you didn’t know which train to take, someone could help you.
But at the bus stops… there was no one.

If you chose the bus — hoping to save a little money — you took a risk.
You might head in the wrong direction.
And the urban traffic? It could stretch your journey tenfold, without mercy.

Sometimes, a simple choice between two ways to travel turned into a lesson.
About patience. About wandering. About what it means to be a stranger.

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But before boarding the train, most of these commuters would buy their coffee — a daily ritual. A hot drink meant to keep them awake and focused until the first break… sometimes hours away.

What struck me the most was the size of the coffee.

Back home, I used to sip espresso from a small cup, just enough to enjoy the aroma and soothe my thoughts.

Here… coffee cups were the size of soup bowls.
Massive. Heavy. Like urban fuel for an overworked city.

You could still find espresso at the metro kiosks, but that early in the morning, almost no one ordered it.
It wasn’t about taste — it was about function.
Not a moment of delight, but a loud wake up in a paper cup.