Night shift at the ferry café

The last ferry comes in at ten past one. The first one leaves at five. In between, this café is the only light on the harbour.

This is Room Tone. I'm Ada Lindqvist. It's just after midnight, and I'm at a counter by the water with Rosa Varga, who has run the night shift at the ferry café for nine years.

Your tea's getting cold. Drink it, it's on the house.

Who walks in at two in the morning?

Lorry drivers waiting for the early boat. Deckhands finishing a shift. Nurses from the hospital up the hill. Fishermen before they go out. And sometimes someone who missed the last ferry home and doesn't know what to do yet.

What do they order?

Soup, mostly, and toast. Nobody wants anything clever at two in the morning. They want something hot that they can eat with one hand while they look out of the window.

Do people talk to you?

More than in the daytime. At night people tell you things. Nobody is in a hurry, and there's nobody watching. I've heard about divorces, new babies, a man who sold his boat and regretted it the next morning. I listen, I pour, and I don't repeat anything.

Not even on a podcast?

Especially not on a podcast.

Has the menu changed in nine years?

Once. I added porridge in winter. A deckhand asked for it every night for a month until I gave in. Now it outsells the soup from November to March.

Do you have regulars who come every single night?

Three. A driver called Petra, who parks in the same corner and does a crossword. A retired captain who can't sleep and says the engines are the only thing that relaxes him. And a cat, who is not mine, but who I feed anyway.

You work the whole shift alone?

Alone, eight hours. I do the cooking, the till and the washing up. I know where every spoon is. If something breaks, I fix it or I work around it until the morning crew arrives.

Is it ever frightening?

Rarely. The harbour has its own rules. The drivers look out for me, and I look out for them. If someone has had too much to drink, a deckhand walks them to the taxi rank without being asked.

What's the hardest part?

The hour before five. Everyone leaves for the boat at the same time, and the café goes from full to empty in four minutes. Then it's me, the dishwasher, and the gulls. That hour is very long.

And the best part?

Watching the first boat leave while the sky goes grey. Then I go home and sleep while the rest of the city goes to work.

Rosa Varga, thank you for the tea.

Come back on a stormy night. It's better.

That's Room Tone. More from the harbour in the show notes. Next week, Tomás talks to a sound recordist who asked us all to be quiet for thirty seconds. It was harder than it sounds.