Tag Archives: coffee

Coffee Shop Chronicles: Coffee, books and the end of an era

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img_7200Borders Bookstore

Canton, MI

April 2011

I came here because I have a coupon.

The coupon is for 33% off one item or 20% off your entire purchase.  I’m upstairs sampling the vanilla bean loaf, and there’s this weird aftertaste.  The black tea is helping only so much.  I’m glad I have a peanut butter sandwich with me.  It’s not gourmet breakfast, but I do feel like a queen as I look over the café railing down upon the bookstore.

It’s 9 o’clock on a Saturday, and it’s a bustling morning.  I stood at the door as the store opened, and now I’m in my favorite seat here, a table along the railing.

I think, dream and wonder…why do I have only one coupon?  I want to walk out with the whole bookstore.  Right now, I want one particular book.  I’ll go tease myself and see if the paperback is out yet.  The vanilla loaf taste is still hanging on my tongue anyway.

Tongue.  Teeth.  Fangs.  Vampire fangs.  Vlad the vampire.

I’m into Young Adult books, but I don’t like hardbacks.  Hardbacks are heavy to carry and you can’t fold the covers back to make it comfortable in your hands.  I got sucked into this vampire series by…oh, I don’t recall how or who introduced me to it.  The first book was in paperback, I know that, and maybe the smiley vampire face on the cover caught my eye.  I’ve read eighth grade through eleventh grade, but Vlad’s senior year is still a mystery.  It hasn’t been a year yet–the standard time between hardback release and paperbacks–but a girl can hope and think, dream and wonder.

I walk instinctively to the right side of the store and look under “B” for Brewer.  My eyes jump from bookend to bookend, shelf by shelf.  Hardback–hardback–hardback–paperback.  There it is!  Paperback!  Tucked at the edge of the shelf, hidden in the shadows of overhead lights, is The Chronicles of Vladimir Tod: Twelfth Grade Kills.

I grab it and drop it on the floor.  I’m so excited I can’t even hold it!  I dash over to my husband who wanders the CD racks, of course.

“Oh, this trip was so worth it!” I say.  I have waited so long.  I smile, I gleam, I may even be glowing.

How many more times will I feel like this?

How many more times will I be this excited about a book series–so excited!–so excited for a paperback because it’s cheaper and lighter and more flexible than a hardback?  How many more times will I be able to walk into a bookstore, pick up a book made of paper and walk out with my treasure?

A purchase.

The glisten of a glossy cover.  The ruffle of pages flipping through them.  The smudgy fingerprints in margins from cheap ink.  The triumph of finding what you want.  To leave with the treasure.

There’s joy of being able to flip through a book for a sample; through the entire book, not just some random chapter.  In fact, by doing this now, I find another YA novel to buy.  That book is here but more expensive at $9.99.  I’ll wait for another coupon.

An actual purchase.  Even the smell.  I pull it up to my nose, to make sure.  There’s that musty, raw dusty smell.  Yes.  The delicious anticipation.  Page One awaits.

With the dying brick-n-mortar stores going the way of the Dodo, I will probably not have many more moments like this.

I walk by the shelves one more time to relive the glorious moment.  It’s the only paperback there.  Or it was.  It’s mine now.

Vlad is $8.99.  I use the coupon, but I would have bought it without one.

Even the receipt is a bookmark.

 

Coffee Shop Chronicles: Playing with Toys

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Starbucks

Bear, DE

April 2006

I expected one thing from this morning’s workshop hosted by the University of DE, entitled, “Reconnect with Your Creativity”, but took away something completely different.

I want toys, now!

That’s what the first workshop session was: toys. Slinky, Lego, twisty ties, magnetic 3D designs, balls, stretchy toys, flip frogs…all that stuff that we played with as kids. We were each given a secret task. It turned out that everyone had the same secret task: draw a flower. I thought of my college Roomie and her flowers and drew as she always did: one stem, two leaves, five petals and a cloud in the background.

There were only pink and green highlighters on the table. No other colors? I wondered. Well, these will do.

The instructor watched us a bit. “Why didn’t you ask for other colors?” she commented. “Why did everyone draw the stem green?”

“How often do we not ask for help at work? How often do we do things because ‘that’s the way they’ve always been done’?”

Woah. Deep thoughts. Why didn’t I ask? I thought about it, almost did. But didn’t. I was already being chatty. I want to be that energetic “Wow” person. What held me back?

That’s a rhetorical question. I think.

Ashley made me a thick, yummy Mocha Light Frappuccino just now. She gave me the leftovers in a separate cup. That’s on my left and a half-eaten slice of reduced-fat coffee cake is in front of me. I’m at the corner table with the sun full on my back. I’m so warm, so comfy.

I wonder as I look around how many people would benefit from this type of this. The playing, I mean, not the food. Or maybe both, the indulgence of it all.

“Why didn’t you play with the toys?” she asked us. “What held you back? Why are you or why are you not creative?”

How am I creative? I write. I journal. They’re the same things and yet they’re separate. I draw or sketch on my journal pages. I scrapbook, a little bit.

How can you coax creativity out of others? That’s a really good question. I write letters, so maybe my friends will write me letters back. There’s something personal and imaginative putting pen to paper, even if you just write about the weather like Dad always did. Playing board games, perhaps? I don’t have many local friends, but I do have my coworkers.

Everything relates back to my job. Do those same reasons hold you back at work? Why don’t you ask questions?

We explored office atmosphere. Imagine the office you want. How do you get there? Provide toys at staff meetings. Create “our” traditions or ways of doing things, not “mine” or “yours.”

I shared this with my boss. I was so hyped up over this!  He seemed to get it, some of what he has been saying all along. Think new aspects for what he has said in the past.

When is a good time to reinvent myself? Do I need to? I will be that bubbly person I see myself as, the same one my friend, Tina, sees in me. The chatty person Dad taught me to be. In my mind’s eye, I see me chatting at new scrapbook stores. I see mentioning at a crop, “Who wants to do lunch with me?”  I can invite other Penn State alums over the house for company. I see me being the fun person in the room. Maybe I’m not ‘The One’ everyone flocks to at a party, but still.

Do these people here see that? The baristas do. Natalie and I have a chat. “Give us your email,” she says, “so we can stay in touch.”  Yes!  They do emails with previous employees when they leave.

Liz beside him says, “Well, you’re like an employee.”

So…I imagine what I want to be and be it.

Could it be that simple?

Coffee Shop Chronicles: The Details of People

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Great Lakes Coffee Roasting Company

Detroit, MI

July 2015

Here I am.

How dependent we are on our electronic devices.

I love that the baristas here write names on the for-here mug.  I feel personalized.  I’m drinking the Brazil, so this reminds me what cuppa of coffee to get next : this or try something new.

Wi-Fi here keeps flickering, and I can’t connect my tablet to the network.  So I’ll write here, in my journal, by hand.  There’s no going back now.  It feels personal.

Speaking of, I just had a conversation with the man next to me.

I always wonder what motivates a man in a business suit, complete with a tie and tie clip, to be in a coffee shop at 3:10pm on a Friday afternoon.  Me, I’m done with work for the day, and I’m waiting for a storytelling event nearby.

The man has an accent.  Middle-Eastern, I think.  It’s a soft voice, casual and smooth.  I would never know that if the Wi-Fi wasn’t jittery.

I met with my editor the other day.  She commented that she can run her entire magazine from her laptop at a coffee shop.

I agree.  It’s pretty amazing.  I can write for any publication anywhere and talk via email to anyone.  However, the life you write about is up there, beyond your keyboard, above your laptop screen.

Staring at my screen, I’d never have noticed his light blue, long sleeve shirt.

He would never have seen me smile at him.

Coffee Shop Chronicles: The 5 Senses

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FullSizeRender (4)

Starbucks

Route 1, Princeton, NJ

September 2000

 

Why do we stop ourselves?

–5:42 PM–

There’s a woman here without socks on, sandals with toes sunning themselves as legs boldly thrust forward into the world.  Chunky heels, a firm step, a heavy stomp.  Somehow it makes them stronger.  Women who wear pointy high heels, they teeter-totter and tip over.  These are practical feet who want to walk.

My feet, also in sandals, while bare, they have an ankle strap.  These are easier to walk in, but don’t look as free.

It’s a Frappuccino night despite the A/C making it downright frosty in here.  I treasure my nights here, despite it being cold.  Without socks on, my feet are cold.  I definitely need a sweatshirt.

–6:25 PM—

A blonde haired mom and two kids walk in.  The round boy and the girl in a blue dress squeal and play hide-n-seek between her legs.  She says, “Hush!” when they yell.

I smile at her.  “They’re cute.”

“It saves them from a lot,” the mom replies.  “If they weren’t cute, they’d be in a lot more trouble.”

I flip through the book One Day My Soul Just Opened Up and it speaks of closure.  Famous Kitty Carlisle says to her reflection every morning, “I forgive you for yesterday.”

Be compassionate; it’s as simple as that.

–7:35 PM—

A little brunette girl walks in behind her dad.  She is all sunshine, excited about everything.  She pushes her dad’s unshaven but fit legs away as he almost steps on an ant.  The floor is dry.  She moves the “Beware. Wet.” yellow cone by the counter.  She is as free and expressive. as we all should be.

What prevents us from being our wonder-full selves?

Okay, I forgive myself for the pity party I threw myself on my previous journal pages.  I allow myself to move beyond my distress and enjoy the happiness I’ve been given.

I will not always be happy and I am allowed to dwell on the negatives for moments in time.  I forgive myself for being moody.

–8:50 PM—

I go up to the counter for my second venti Frappuccino and I smell flowers, like a shampoo or shower gel.  The scent is not overly floral sweet but like bubble gum candy.  It’s the woman behind me.

“What are you wearing?” I ask.  “It’s delightful.”

“It’s cucumber melon antibacterial gel from Bath & Body Works,” she says.  She wasn’t aware anyone else could smell it.  I don’t know why.

Her male companion pipes in.  “It’s a great smell, huh?”

“Do you use it?” I ask him.

He rubs his hands together.  “Sometimes she gives me some.”

“A man who appreciates a good scent,” I say with a proud nod.  The friendly couple smiles.

My second frapp is vanilla, but it doesn’t taste very vanilla-y.  I don’t feel like going up to get another one.

–9:00 PM—

Two guys now sit across from me, reading.  One of them takes notes on a yellow pad of paper.  He asks his friend about “syllogisms.”  I’ve heard of the word, and I wish I could interject with the answer, but they are both devastatingly cute.

They look older than your typical college student if that’s what they are.  Who else would read in a coffee shop?  Syllogism Guy has dark hair and a dark goatee.  He’s wearing a black shirt, black shoes holding a yellow highlighter in his right hand.  He reads from what looks like a library book.

It’s a quick glance I make because staring is too obvious.  I pretend my gaze radiates throughout the store.  Yep, I’m suave.

They discuss logic, both respectfully silent when the other one talks.  The only sound between them is of the pages turning.

The other guy, I’m attracted to his voice.  He argues respectfully with Syllogism Guy.  He wears faded blue jeans, a grey T-shirt and has dark hair.  His fit body is pleasing, too.  Could I be worthy of such a guy?

Should I give him my phone number?  The idea both thrills and scares me.  Be safe?  Or risk?  Another glance.  “Venti CM” is written on his cup.  Does that stand for Caramel Macchiato?  I could ask him.

His phone rings.  He ignores it.  He has sideburns.

Suddenly, Syllogism Guy closes his book.  They stand and walk out.  I was not courageous.  I watch them through the window as they drive around in a circle.  Rugged Voice left his coffee cup on the ground in the parking lot.

He’s too good not to be taken.  If he’s here next week, I’ll talk to him and offer my phone number for sure.  After all, what’s the harm in that?

He may have thought the same of me.

Coffee Shop Chronicles, Father’s Day edition: Saying goodbye

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FullSizeRender (3)Starbucks

Rt. 40, Delaware

April 2006

Last week, I hugged Roomie down in Maryland, and that’s when it hit me: I’m saying goodbye.

I almost cried.

I’m moving soon, so it’s time for those farewells, that talking to the people I should’ve been talking to all along. My Grande Java Chip Frappuccino turns into a venti with extra ice added. More room to cry in my proverbial cup of coffee, if I did such a thing.

It was a wonderful chat, in a Starbucks of all places. We discussed families. Her boy is having some of those young child sensitivities, including separation anxiety. I totally get that today.

Her second baby is due in August, and she thinks she’s having a girl. Will a family of my own be in the future?  We laughed about keeping kids occupied with a video or DVD for an hour. Years ago, we never would. Now, that’s an hour well spent!

I lamented our distance to come. She said, “We’ll always be friends,” casual as if saying the rain has stopped outside.

Then she drove away. When I arrived, the parking space next to my car was empty, so she had parked there. An hour later, when I left, her spot was still empty.

Coffee shops should be places to say hello, welcome people with hugs and squeals, or at least a handshake. I’m here in my usual spot drinking my usual drink, missing my familiar places already. I’ve taken them for granted.

Looking out the window into the dark night, my car’s in her usual place, headlights facing towards this store. Too many nights like this, I sat in that car, talking to Dad on the phone about his frustration that Mom wasn’t getting better and she didn’t seem to be trying. We talked and I stared into Starbucks, feeling empty even though there were lights inside. I willed the night to go away so I could forget him, Mom, and my own heartbreak.

Dad’s been gone for one year and three months. I miss those talks. They weren’t all bad. We compared notes every week about which one of us saved the most money with our grocery store coupons that week. It was a pretty even matchup. We talked about my job, his bus rides and talking to the regulars there, Pittsburgh sports and how terrible my high school teams were playing, and always the weather.

Dad would be tickled that I’m moving to Detroit, the place where he and Mom honeymooned. They toured the Ford manufacturing line, and that’s all I ever knew about it.

I wish I could ask him now. I’m curious about what else they did.

As if a higher power is watching over me, a little girl and daddy walk out of the Red Robin next door. Pink shirt, jeans faded, red balloon. Leftovers, two boxes of Styrofoam. Dad’s in long sleeves, maroon, and tan pants. He buckles her in the backseat, a minivan with silver doors and auto close. He puts the food on the front passenger seat. They back out now–how charming, how happy and content. Unlike a family of four just moments ago: the mom yelled at one girl while dad takes another girl in the restaurant.

What a shame.  A wasted opportunity.  I’d never take that for granted.  My throat closes up at the thought.

I can’t take this. I need to write. My journal is filled so far with my newspaper article transcripts, notes about the houses we’ve already looked at in Michigan, reactions from my coworkers at my announcement and, funny this, a list of the four closest Starbucks to the area we’re looking at moving to. Now I add to that:

“At K’s parents’ house, I couldn’t find my School Days book. Did I take it to Delaware already?  Worry, worry. An hour ago, found it. Looked through it, found Krista-TN stuff, letters Dad wrote me. Read one, his familiar print, all caps. A Penn State item taped in the letter. Weather report. Shows he videotaped for me. Mom and Star Trek group news. I missed Dad and I cried. I talked to him, to no one, about how I miss sharing this Detroit move news with him. I have to believe he knows, but I miss hearing his voice, his thoughts on it all. Cried more. Then had the strength to go into our Home Theater room and watch my wedding video. Father-in-law took it, used to think that was distracting from our ceremony. I am so blessed to have those images. Dad smiling. A smile! A cough. His large glasses, his cane. And somehow, that comforted me. I still cried.”

Gotta stop here. I’m about to cry again. Time to go out to my car and cry into my cup of Frappuccino. Time to say goodbye to this night.