Ask anyone who knows me and they will tell you I love coffee shops.
I didn’t used to like them, I thought they were for adults and grownup people (not, as one might assume, the same thing) who had nothing more exciting to do than sit around and drink coffee or talk to their friends or read a newspaper.
But when I got laid off in 2007, which was the first time I had gone through a proper “Reduction In Force,” I found myself with a lot of time on my hands and not a whole lot of direction.
At first, I was intense on my job search, but in 2007/2008, the market was bad and no one was really hiring. I did have an interview in downtown Boulder (and since I’d lived in the area since 1971, I was grandfathered in with regards to any visa requirements for getting into Boulder County), early on. It was snowing that day, and the interview was over quickly and I found myself with time on my hands and on the parking meter.
So I followed the brick pavement to a little coffee shop, which, when the door opened, smelled so good and warm and welcoming, that I couldn’t help myself. I went in.
The coffee shop in question was a chic psuedo-Italian place called Amante’s on Walnut and 11th. It had little marble topped cafe tables, and a raucous selection of Italian flavorings, and that, along with the adorable question put to me by the barista, as to whether I wanted that “en casa.” En who? Evidently, there’s this trend of serving drinks in real mugs, if you’re drinking on the premises. I remember being charmed not only by the question, but by the idea. And then by sitting down, at that marble cafe table, right next to the window, and letting the warmth and the smells and the voices float over and around me.
I heard conversations that day, illicit listening-ins that supplied me with a whole lot of food for thought. One that sticks in my brain is a conversation by a male speaker about how he felt threatened by his female boss and as such, had a whole lot more sympathy for women who were in situations of domestic violence, but couldn’t leave. For though he felt battered, he too, couldn’t leave.
That was a red letter day. I had a lovely walk in the fallen snow and fell in love with coffee shops.
Of note, I recently underwent another Reduction In Force (October 2012), and welcomed it as an opportunity to haunt my favorite coffee shop, which is currently The Brewing Market, at any location you care to name. They have good coffee, pleasant baristas, and a delightful pastry called a “palmier” of which I can never get enough. It’s a cross between a croissant and a slice of cinnamon-sugar toast, and goes great with any coffee you’d care to order.
So, today, while I’m sitting there, drinking coffee and working on my novel, as well as reviewing notes for my web designer, I overheard something, well, not good, but interesting.
A man and a woman were talking. He was telling her about someone he knew, a man, a rich man, who lived in Aspen, who had this business he’d built up. There was a description of how well he’d done, how rich he was, and so on. Naturally, being not of those who could afford real estate in Aspen, Colorado, I tut tutted my indifference, swallowed my sour grapes, and continued with my coffee and my notes.
But the man continued. The Aspen Guy, he said, was only 54, and had been diagnosed with liver cancer. At first the doctors said that Aspen Guy was a good candidate for a transplant. The very next day, they informed him that he only had five months, at most, to live. That his beloved wife of many years, couldn’t handle it, and that a good friend of the Aspen Guy (also rich, it seemed) took it upon himself to do all the shuttling of Aspen Guy to and from hospitals, the picking up of prescriptions, and everything else that went along with being a good caregiver. For his part, evidently Aspen Guy did his best to engage his wife in a conversation about how she might manage when Aspen Guy was gone, but the wife, understandably, was unable to cope.
I sat there listening to this, watching my coffee grow a film while it went cold and felt cold all over, myself. There I’d been, grousing because I’d ordered too much latte to go with my palmier, and also had a whole lot of uphill climbing to get my blog and my book to the point where they’d both be a going concern. I was unemployed and had the time to do this, to visit my favorite coffee shop, and there I was overwhelmed and bitching to myself because it was simply too much, this gift! I was living the dream, and unable to cope.
But there was Aspen Guy, with only months to live, and me with all the time in the world, and boy, did I feel foolish. And unappreciative. And stupid.
So, I finished my coffee, and made myself keep going on my notes. Then I went to the grocery store and bought fruit and vegetables and a nice little steak because I could.
I always learn something from listening to other people’s conversations, and especially when I’m in a coffee shop and can take the time to think about what I hear. And I wonder if other people keep getting the same messages that I seem to, about how good life is, and how the future is a positive place, if you keep walking towards it.