The Coffee Shop Is More Than Just A Place
“I realized that individual freedom, when it’s not connected to some sort of community, or friends, or the world outside, ends up feeling pretty meaningless.” — Bruce Springsteen, 1988
I clutch my black tea, fingers wrapped around a mug that’s almost the size of my face, yearning for the caffeine to surge through my veins. The outside air frizzes my curls, the March wind howls, the threat of rain teases the afternoon. I tell people that I’m not a fan of March. Right now, a relationship in my life is under duress, just like piles of snow that trap us inside, that keep us stuck.
My eyes scan the pages of a novel — chick lit with dark undertones — but I’m fixated on an overt typo in the text above me. “Life’s to short to drink cheap coffee.”
I’m comfortable here because I’m reminded of a lounge in Brooklyn. It’s where I grew up, it’s a part of me, and this place happens to have an ambiance that’s warm and intimate. Snug.
One wall dons a baby piano, clarinet, flute, sax, and trombone. It dares you to stare, to be captivated by its flashiness, its allure. For me, it’s not about the demonstrative flair. The brick wall is Brooklyn, inviting me to stay for a while.
I arrived at this coffee shop with a sense of restlessness, and a desire to find something I can hold onto for a bit. A close friend wasn’t talking to me. I wondered if I was going to lose him. I just wanted to stand still. Emotional rollercoasters are tiring, and I was exhausted.
I avert my eyes away from the typo on the wall and make note of the guy next to me. Late twenties. Longish hair. Kind face. He looks my way. Words flow from our mouths, hesitant at first, but as they pick up speed and take flight, my tension eradicates. I temporarily forget about loss and its heartbreaking components, because here I am with this person I just met. Connecting.
I left the shop two hours later, hair flowing wildly in the March wind.
Open mic nights are held every week. Acoustic stylings. Quirky rock. 90s covers. Bluesy soul. Music spawns unity — it triggers common ground, a shared purpose. But when the music dies down, what you’re left with is the community and connections that are forged with other coffee-shop goers. They, too, are most likely seeking a sense of belonging.
Strangers become familiar. Strangers sitting in the same space or standing across the coffee bar become friends, real friends. Friends who confide in one another; friends who stay up all night; friends who can talk about everything and nothing; friends who spend a summer together; friends who come into our lives when we unequivocally need friendship.
When I first started coming to open mic nights, a few of us would play a couple of games of Jenga. I’d nervously attempt to retrieve a wooden block, hoping that I wouldn’t be the one responsible for the tower’s demise. For it crashing onto the table with a loud thud. But it did fall; it did topple over, leaving the pieces scattered, lost. All we could do is rebuild. Begin again.
The twenties bring about uncertainty, a state of limbo, a time when constants are few and far between. Yet, this coffee shop is more than just a place. It’s a significant chapter of my story. It’s memories that will ultimately render nostalgia. It’s necessary.
I don’t go for the tea. I go because it feels like home.
