Tag Archives: coffee

Coffee Shop Chronicles: Overheard Conversations

Starbucks

Livonia, MI

Have you ever just sat in a coffee shop and listened to conversations?

This can be done anywhere really: in a park, on a bus, at a college football game, a kids’ softball game, in a lunchroom, at your coworker next cubicle over. Anywhere. What does that say about them?

I’ve listened everywhere, partially because of boredom, partially out of curiosity. Dad always enjoyed being in the Now, and that’s why I’ve always enjoyed people-watching and people-listening.

I’m sipping my Clover Reserve coffee, the West Java Preanger while it’s still available. What are people saying here, today?

What’s This Song?

A guy finishes humming and says, “Do you know what that’s from?” The woman with him is shaking her head. “It’s from the movie the Officer and…the one with Richard Gere.”

ME: It’s An Officer and a Gentleman, geez. You don’t even know the title? I didn’t hear that tune in it at all. Maybe you should try harder. Are you trying to impress this girl, like on a date, or is she a friend who tolerates you? Does she know movies? Does she care? She just tapped some sugar into her coffee and walked away. You, you’re dumping about…is that four or five packets of sugar…in your coffee? You’re both staying here, and you have to-go cups? Don’t you see my for-here mug beside you as I mix my Splenda and steamed 2% milk? I’m saving a cardboard tree. You’re drinking that coffee black. Ugh.

A Guy and His Buddy

A guy walks in, shakes his buddy’s hand. “Free car?” the guy says, a smile in his voice. I don’t hear his buddy’s response, but the guy says to him, “You can get a car for a reasonable price of a truck.”

ME: Sounds like buddy’s in a world of trouble. Is he poor? Is he desperate? Why does he want a truck, or is that something the guy wants? I’m thinking pickup truck–I mean, what else is there?–but buddy’s got a jean jacket and a laptop. He doesn’t look the truck type. The other guy, he has that sauntering attitude around his beefy self. I could see him wanting a truck but stuck driving daddy’s Caddy. Or am I just thinking of my ex-boyfriend’s lawyer-to-be friend from those oh-so-many years ago?

About Bill

“I went to Bill’s class on Friday, and it wasn’t filled.”

ME: Is he a college student? Probably, since it’s around 1:30 pm. That’s too early for high school to be out. What does Bill teach, and why isn’t he filling up his classroom? Does the girl he’s talking to know the class or Bill? Is he not a popular teacher? Could it be that the subject isn’t fun? Does the class happen at an awkward time? As a college student, I couldn’t handle morning classes. The 9:00 am ones were tolerable, but the 8:00 am classes were too much, too early. At least you’re there to support your friend.

What does this say about me and interpreting them? Some of this stuff is so perfect that, as the cliché goes, I couldn’t write or make up this stuff.

I feel a little jealous. I’m left out of the loop. Something cool is going on, and I’m not a part of it. Why am I not a part of it all? Maybe that comes from being picked last for sports teams in grade school.

If I was curious before, I’m more curious now. There’s the context behind the above comments, and I’d love to know more about them.

Listen.

Coffee Shop Chronicles: Writing Letters

9 Replies

Tuscan Cafe
Northville, MI

What is that woman writing?

“Hey, behind you,” I whisper to my husband. “There’s a woman writing.”

We’re sitting along the wall in what I’m calling “our spot.” I seem to default here when I come in; the light is good and I’m out of the way from the main path. My husband finished his mocha coffee latte drink a few minutes ago and is checking something on his phone. I glance over his shoulder and see a woman writing.

I don’t know how I know that she’s writing something personal, but I do. Maybe it’s the slouch her shoulders, determined but relaxed. Maybe it’s the slow way her hand moves, the pause she makes, deliberate yet light and free. She’s focused but not intense. Is it a story? Journaling? A project?

I’m curious.

My husband half turns, that way, when you try to casually stare without being obvious. I’m staring directly at her. She doesn’t notice me.

“I can’t tell,” he says.

Neither can I, but it’s time to leave.

“I want to see,” I say.

The exit is behind me; there’s no reason for me to move in her direction. I stand up and shrug my coat on. I make my go-to excuse, and I say it loud enough so that if she was listening, she wouldn’t be suspicious.

“I’m going to use the bathroom before we leave.” That door is in front of me, so I can conveniently walk past the writing woman.

She is writing Thank You cards.

The cards are white, but they don’t have that white embossed shiny-matte, off-white texture of wedding cards. Her cards have Thank You in black, neutral font. The text is friendly and readable, not some flowery script but not a dull Garamond or Times New Roman. There’s a color design clustered in the center around Thank You–flowers, I think–but the style is neither masculine nor feminine. There’s a stack of cards next to her in a non-descript box with a flimsy plastic lid that you’d find in a Hallmark store. It looks like she’s writing with an ink pen, nothing fancy but higher quality than you’d get in an office supply store.

I see all of this in about 5 seconds, maybe 10. Staring can be creepy, and there’s no time to casually chat. I don’t want to disturb the magic. She’s intent and focused and fortunately doesn’t see me staring at her and the table full of notecards.

I walk out.
I don’t bother to fake-stop in the bathroom.

I think of this now because it’s April, the month of so many things: National Poetry Month; Camp NaNoWriMo; National Rebuilding Month; Testicular Cancer Month, Autism Awareness Month, and National Card and Letter Writing Month.

I started writing letters to my friend about two months ago. These are notecards from Target $1 Spot. The 8 cards are all the same design with the word “Gratitude” on the front. I bought them because they’re a friendly peach color with matching envelopes.

So far, I’ve received no letters in return and I don’t expect any. I write as if we were talking side by side and, yes, I write them when I’m in coffee shops. These small cards aren’t intimidating because there’s only room for a thought or three, just short and fun. And now I discovered a whole movement.

There’s a campaign called Write_On which distributed 10,000 free writing starter kits to encourage people to write a letter a day in April. I’m not a fan of setting daily deadlines; to me, it’s a setup for self-failure if you miss a day. Regardless, I signed up for and received one of the kits.

The six-card kit includes envelopes for mailing–as a papercrafter, I can say that including envelopes is the polite thing to do. There’s stationary with envelope, stickers, a colorful inspiration booklet and a gelly roll pen. I’m a writer. I like paper. I like pens. Any letter writing I do, once a day or not, spreads more joy than if I didn’t write at all.

I’ll never know what that woman was writing or thanking people for, but do I need to?

Coffee Shop Chronicles: The Virtues of Public Transportation

4 Replies

Espresso Royale

Ann Arbor, MI

“The niche is all yours,” the tall, lanky guy says, referring to this cluster of soft chairs he’s getting up from.

“I don’t need all this space. I like to be self-contained,” I say with a thank-you nod as I put my bag on one table. Then I smile at him. “Besides, this is the only clean table.”

It’s true that I like to have room enough to spread out, but not so much as to intrude on others’ space. Not so much the case for the previous coffee shop patrons. There’s a candy wrapper on one table. This coffee shop doesn’t even sell candy. There’s a coat on another chair as a placeholder, a reserved sign made of fabric.

“That’s trusting,” I say to the guy, pointing to a woman’s purse hanging on the back of an empty chair.

“Anyone could walk off with that,” he says.

Ann Arbor is a walking town. Most stores are close enough to each other that walking from your apartment to a restaurant and then the small, specialty grocery store before returning home is easier than driving. A bus passes outside on State Street. Even in the rain, public transportation is the better option.

“Yeah, or hop on a bus,” I say.

Growing up in the city limits of Pittsburgh, PA, public transportation was plentiful, much like Ann Arbor and its surrounding neighborhoods. Pittsburgh is a bigger city, of course, much bigger, and we used it all the time after our family car died. I remember Dad coming home after work with an armful of bus schedules. He plopped himself on the floor in the middle of the living room, spread out the maps and began to figure out how the heck you traveled to downtown from our house.

Fortunately, we lived on a bus route. It was a good bus route, one of the main ones, not far from a depot garage. Buses had a frequent schedule in my neighborhood, even on Sundays.

A light rail system was constructed when I started high school. That was my first exposure to “subways,” a misnomer I always thought because the T ran underground for only three stops. It was an above-ground transportation outside downtown proper.

“My friend’s dad could read the entire New York Times in a tight space on the subway,” he says.

I’m impressed. I could never stand and read on a bus. My survival skills in tight spaces came from sitting down. Maybe this is why I can be self-contained sitting down in a coffee shop.

Riders learn to multitask early. You eat a sandwich in your seat without spilling any on the passenger next to you; the tantalizing smell throughout the bus was out of your control. You sleep with your head against the window and intuitive feel when it’s time to wake up to get off at your stop. You learn how to place paper grocery store bags on the floor so that passengers won’t step on or trip over them.

I did develop strong legs and a sense of balance to stand upright and not tip over as the bus bounced and jerked and turned corners. You learned to politely shove your way through a smash of people to exit at your stop. You talked with the people you saw every day, creatures of habit you all were, work and school schedules always the same. You gave up your seat for people with packages, women with children, and the gentle older folks.

This guy must be a rider of sorts because he continues to discuss public systems. He says the John P. Getty Museum in Los Angeles is located at the top of a mountain. The area has a great system in its three-car train that goes up the mountain. The ride is smooth and the flow of traffic is easy.

This reminds me of the Duquesne and Monongahela Inclines in Pittsburgh. It’s a unique experience to be pulled up a mountain. I guess it’s like what a ski lift is like, except the inclines are big boxes that hold about 50 people. They’re fun to ride, especially when seasoned riders scare the first-timers by saying, “Oh, I hope this doesn’t fall and plummet down.”

I smile and nod with the guy, saying. “The lessons you learn on public transportation will help you through your lifetime.”

Coffee Shop Chronicles: Are You the Trusting Sort?

6 Replies

Corner Bakery Café

Horsham, PA

Billy Joel had it right: it’s always been a matter of trust.

3:43pm

A strange little coffee shop that is, or was once, a restaurant. This place serves the typical coffees and latte espresso drinks, but it also offers a choice of real food, not just the token pastries. I ordered my sandwich and soup at the counter like I’m at fast food restaurant, but the staff delivers it to your table or booth. This place has booths. They look comfy, red leather-ish, but I’m at a four-person table. There’re just a few other people in here, so I don’t feel guilty taking up the room. I see the employees bussing other tables, a strange mix of customer service.

The guy behind me is the only other business-y person here. I know he’s a “professional” because he’s been on his cell phone since he arrived. I’ve refilled my coffee twice; he hasn’t stood up yet. Doesn’t he have to use the bathroom?

“My wife can tell you better….”

He’s got a small briefcase at his side with a thick black leather day planner of sorts. He wears a blue button-down shirt. A bag of chips with his sandwich, not baby carrots. An iced drink not hot, and a tablet-type laptop he’s working on.

“I’m a relationship guy myself….” I overhear.

I can tell that.

3:56pm

He finally hangs up his phone and walks away, leaving all of his stuff on the chair. He’s not careless; he’s natural.

There’s an unwritten code of trust in coffee shops—don’t touch other peoples’ stuff. It never crosses my mind to do anything like that. I guess he feels the same way. It’s also echo-y empty in here now, safety in no numbers. Regardless of how many people are in a room, I, leave my computer and my bags open while I stand, stretch or go to the restroom. I recently started putting my laptop monitor to sleep when I step away. Not that I’m writing secret recipes of potato chips, but I feel protective of my writing these days.

Being casual with my stuff does not mean stupid. I always carry my purse and cell phone when I walk out of site. My purse holds the important things in my life: car keys, wallet, Office Guys, writing journal and lip balm. After that, everything else is replaceable. Losing my current writing drafts, my photos, and those expensive power supply plugs would suck–especially since I haven’t backed up my work in months–but I don’t need to pack up and carry all my stuff when I walk 10 feet away.

I learned the potential danger of having my purse out of site years ago while grocery shopping in New Jersey. I was digging through a pile of apples when this guy walks up behind me. “You shouldn’t leave your purse unattended in your shopping cart,” he said, startling me. “Anyone could walk off with it.” Like he could have, I thought. I thanked him for that advice and continued shopping with my purse on my shoulder. Because of that, I always carry my driver’s license and credit cards close to me. My laptop and pens are worth money, but they’re really only valuable to me.

Is it because laptops are so cheap these days?

No, there’s just this hands-off vibe, this respect for other patrons. Haven’t found it in any other stores, food places or restaurants. Just coffee shops.

Is it the clientele? Does the cost of drinking expensive coffee give you higher morals? Are people too wrapped up in themselves, like Cell Phone Guy behind me? Maybe we’re all too intense on working that few can’t be bothered with thievery?

Is it the neighborhoods which coffee shops live in that breed safety? Even in a questionable strip mall like this one, where the coffee shop is on an exposed corner next to a European wax salon and a chain Mexican restaurant, I feel secure.

Is it exclusivity? Remember, this coffee costs money. People like Mr. Cell Phone can afford it. Even me, a freelance writer, I splurge for the luxury of space to write.

Is it chain store vs. Shop Local mentality? I would never leave my valuables in some McFastfood joint, for example, but I’m not threatened in coffee shops whether it’s an independent store, a local chain or a big name chain. I have no paranoid delusions, no sense that somebody’s watching me. There’s just something about the atmosphere, the expectation.

Coffee Shop Chronicles: Playing Games

6 Replies

Tuscan Cafe
Northville, MI

It really does come down to games, Dominos or not.

This afternoon is my writing time. I’m sitting at a table against the wall under the lamp shade so I have light to type by. I just finished two Americanos, light on steamed milk. The first Americano had a smidge of gingerbread syrup to spice up the holiday season, and the second was just straight up. You’d think I was a serious coffee drinker, but, really, I’m just a novice who latched onto some impressive-sounding coffee name. I feel like I belong here.

Tuscan Cafe: environmentally friendly

I’m gathering my laptop and notebook to leave when a guy and a boy walk in and sit at the small circular table by the window. From what I overhear, he seems to be a Big Brother to the 13-year-old 8th grader.

I’ve got plenty of room on my rectangular table for everything I have, so I stop packing up and pull out my journal to record the moment.

BB leans forward and asks, “How’s the relationship with you and your brothers?” That’s what makes me think Big Brother in the first place. That and the time is now 3:30pm, which is just after school.

I overhear BB say he likes that the boy plays Minecraft, that “…it’s a game that requires you to work as a team.” I don’t know the game, but I feel like I should. I’ve heard it enough in pop culture media. Note to self: look that up.

Now BB teaches the boy how to play Dominos. This is significant because last night I watched my Season 2 DVD set of Major Crimes. The last episode I saw is what I call the Lost Horizons episode. Tim Conway plays the episode’s main character, Howard. In one scene, he flirts with the female lead, Capt. Raydor, mentioning Dominos.

Howard: “I could teach you to play Dominos, but I, uh, don’t have my Dominos with me.”

Capt. Raydor: “I already know how to play Dominos.”

Howard: “I bet you do.”

At the same time, in another room, Lt. Provenza questions someone else who talks about Dominos.

Provenza says, “It always comes down to Dominos.”

So here I am, watching BB teach the boy to play. I don’t know how to play Dominos, actually. I know how to match numbers but not the rules of scoring. I also know how to stack them in a row so they all fall down. Who plays Dominos?

I half listen as I write and half watch without trying to stare directly at them. I want to hear BB explain how to play. The big window gives me an excuse to look in that direction. If we accidentally make eye contact, I can glance over at the bike chained to the tree or the church across the street or the cars driving by on Center Street. I could even turn my head to the left and stare at the long, roomy wooden table that divides the coffee shop into thirds.

2016-1Jan-TucsonCafe-DeadwoodCoffeePic-MiracleYahtzee

Coffee drinks and games: together time

My husband and I play games in coffee shops, usually Yahtzee in various Starbucks. It’s a Travel Yahtzee game we, ironically, bought at Starbucks a few years ago when they promoted toys and activities among their products. We have Travel Scrabble from that time, and we’ve bought other portable games through the years. These are our “date nights” because we get out of the house, spend time together and drink coffee. A long table like that one would be roomy, but distant. We choose cozy tables like this one I’m at or the one the guys are sitting at now.

I miss any Dominos explanation over the mellow music playing overhead, but the discussion of games continues. BB: “I wasn’t good at Tetris when I was young.” Now I have a frame of reference of the guy’s age. He’s a child of the 80s.

Then BB asks: “Is that coffee making you tired?”

Boy: “Yeah.”

Thirteen years old and introduced to coffee. That’s our society today.

BB and boy wrap up their visit and pack up the chunky white tiles into a snap-close metal box. I never hear how to play Dominos, but the game box looks like it was the original BB had as a younger guy.

I’ve seen some people play games in coffee shops. Last week, at Miracle Coffee, two women had a pile of board games, they looked old, worn and well-loved. Gathering their games up when we arrived, they saw us pull out our Travel Yahtzee. We all got talking about board games. They may have mentioned that there is a Triple Yahtzee game out there, a game I vaguely remember, like maybe I had it as a kid. Maybe I still have it. I’ll look through my childhood toy box in the basement.

Classic board games have become “the thing” these days. The box designs look retro, but they’re all too new, looking fake. I believe in using authentic items. In scrapbooking, I use the real photo, scan a copy if it’s precious and irreplaceable. In mixed media art, I incorporate real tickets, tea bag tags, and cancelled stamps. Because of this, I prefer original game boxes that hold the authentic game.

Games are a good thing, old or new, especially if they bring us together.

Deadwood Writers Voices

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