The last hour

Tomorrow my partner and I leave town for a few days -- and while we are away, the old Webster's on Allen will close its doors until it gets a new downtown home. There's something surreal about being somewhere you know is going to disappear, about being in a place for the last time -- and knowing this fact. It's hard not to feel nostalgic. There's an almost unavoidable need to load the final moments with a significance they might not otherwise have: another day at the old hangout with nothing special going on suddenly becomes a blurry Polaroid of old friends saying goodbye pinned to the fridge with a souvenir magnet. Once in a while you take it down and look at it and sigh.

It's hard to resist the temptation to document this last hour. The doors haven't locked yet, the books are still on the shelves, the toaster is still plugged in, the wireless is still up and running. For all intents and purposes, it's just another Thursday afternoon at Webster's in the summer. Things are slow. The café staff have caught up on their work. No one stands in line. A handful of regulars are scattered throughout the store, doing what they always do: reading, surfing the 'net, talking. The book staff are in the midst of their usual business, the tasks that always mystified me, thinking in the secret language of books.

Time has come nearly to a standstill. The only thing that marks its passage is the slow saunter of the occasional patron across the floor, the progression of songs on Pandora, the lazy spin of the Stax of Trax Records sign. As always, there are countless fliers below the counter, some of them ancient and torn, others brand new. Cookies and teas sit in glass jars. A couple flip through the records, hoping to find some treasure. A man browses the books, letting curiosity lead him around the shelves.

It's nothing magical. Or is it?

I'm trying to figure out exactly what it is I'm going to miss about this place. Elaine recently noted that Webster's isn't the building, but the people who fill it. And in a way she's right: it's the convergence of this continually changing group of people that makes Webster's a social force in the community. But as a geographer, I can't help but think about the importance of space and location in the identity of this place. I won't just miss the assortment of people here (and many of them make strange bedfellows indeed), but also its relationship to other locations I frequent, the many paths I take to get here from different points in town.

I'm learning from this. I'm learning that everyday life isn't just about static destinations; it's also about our movements between them. Movement brings space for thought, anticipation, anxiety, meditation. What I will miss about Webster's isn't just the place itself, but the ways I have organized my practices around it, the ways it has changed my experience of life in this town, the ways that this space and I stand in relation to one another.

Time's almost up. In twenty minutes I'll walk out the back door, and by the time I return that door will be locked. I'm going to go live it now.

Directions

Last week I noticed a young man sitting at the table beyond mine. About twenty or thirty minutes passed before he was joined by a woman of about the same age. They were meeting about something, planning some kind of gathering. They talked about how to fund the event for a bit before turning to the subject of its location. The conversation went something like this:

Man: "It's on Walnut Street, this little street that even the locals don't know exist. It's off [street name deleted]."
Woman: "Walking north or south up [street name]?"
Man [gesturing broadly]: "Uh, that way."
Woman [suppressing an eye roll]: "Okay, south down [street name]."

It was a brilliant reversal of traditional gender norms. Only at Webster's.

The politics of local

Ever since the news hit that Webster's Bookstore Café in downtown State College is facing eviction and quite possibly its end, a lot of people have been saying a lot of things. A number of news stories have surfaced, activist groups have formed, and the community in general has rallied around the store with petitions, protests, and letters of support.*

The response has been overwhelming to say the least. I've watched as a mix of emotions have played across the faces of owner Elaine Meder-Wilgus and her employees -- sadness, anger, fear, and in fleeting moments, hope. I've watched as the petitions have circulated and impassioned regulars have announced meetings. I've watched the comments pile up on the support pages on Facebook -- some of them touching, some of them despondent, and some of them hopelessly misinformed. If anything is clear in this situation, it's that there are people who want Webster's to survive -- and these supporters cut across racial, socioeconomic, occupational, political, and sexual lines. There are Borough Council members and university professors, locals and students all fighting to keep this space open -- each and every one of them a regular with a real understanding of just how important Webster's is to the community.

I am concerned, however, that these efforts -- as moving and well-intentioned as they are -- have the potential to make things worse. A recent commentary in VOICES of Central PA (made by Joel Solkoff, a regular who is equally invested in saving the business) accused some of the supporters of being unfocused. This same commentary blasted the store's owner for failing to meet with an attorney, for choosing to liquidate her books rather than fight to stay in the space, and for being a "rotten businesswoman" in general. With all due respect to the author, I feel a need to raise some counterpoints to his commentary. To begin with, let's add some context to the story:

1. The landlord informed the owner that he wanted Webster's to vacate the store just before the July 4 holiday. The news wasn't made public until July 5th.
   
2. The Central Pennsylvania Festival of the Arts began on July 7th and went through today (July 11th).

As anyone familiar with State College is aware, it is well nigh impossible to get anything of any importance done between the holiday and Arts Fest. Local businesses are swamped during the festivities -- and Webster's was no exception. I am a bit puzzled by Mr. Solkoff's criticism of Elaine for not having met with an attorney during this period. I have been at the store almost every day since the news broke, and I've seen the incredible amount of work Elaine has been doing. To suggest that she is somehow irresponsible or remiss is, frankly, to miss the mark.

In the onrush of support from the community, Elaine has had to make a number of difficult decisions in a short amount of time with limited access to legal and financial offices because of the annual festivities. Mr. Solkoff questions Elaine's business sense and her decision to liquidate her stock of books, yet it's a decision that makes perfect sense given the circumstances. With only 30 days to vacate (an order that is firm, according to the news outlets), financial difficulties, and a warehouse full of books across the street, liquidating the store's stock during Arts Fest was a wise decision.

In a sense, the timing of the landlord's order -- and Elaine's decision to sell off the books -- couldn't have been better: it allowed for a critical mass of supporters to come together and take advantage of the mass influx of people to State College to sign petitions, offer their reflections on the store, and make their dollars count. In the two years I've been frequenting Webster's, I have never seen lines of such epic proportions at the book counter as I have over the last five days. I wonder whether her decision to liquidate during Arts Fest has generated more cash for the store than it might have with business as usual -- hopefully some hard numbers will be released that can clarify this.

Mr. Solkoff's comments imply that Elaine has not made any efforts to contact an attorney. I'm not convinced this is actually the case. It is unclear whether Mr. Solkoff made an effort to contact Elaine directly to ask her whether she's contacted an attorney. With no quoted sources to verify his assertion, it comes across as an unfair -- and unsupported -- accusation. Elaine has repeatedly asked the store's supporters not to vilify the landlord; perhaps we should also be asking people not to vilify the business owner by failing to provide factual context for their statements.

Mr. Solkoff also lambastes Elaine for complying with the landlord's orders rather than immediately resisting them, and for considering finding an alternate space for the store. He says:

Joan of Arc did not say, when she was fighting to save France, “If this does not succeed, maybe we can relocate to the old Verizon building, across the street from the State College municipal building.” Elaine’s initial instinct to get rid of the books in her store and talk about an alternate location is a mistake. You do not give up a battle before you have lost it. Now, the bookstore reminds me of Oliver Wendell Holmes’ poem Old Ironsides, “The harpies of the shore shall pick / The eagle of the sea.”

It's a wonderful, poetic sentiment that works in theory. The problems with it are that:

1. it assumes Elaine had the time necessary to look for legal assistance regarding what, again, seems to be a very firm decision from the landlord,
2. it assumes that Elaine would want to keep the business in its current location in the wake of the landlord's orders (which, I would think, would put a strain on landlord-tenant relations, even if there were some magical solution that would allow the store to stay in its current location),
3. it assumes that Elaine has the legal and financial resources to fight the decision in the first place, and
4. it fails to take into account the time-sensitive nature of the circumstances -- 30 days notice to vacate, 11 of which were lost to the holiday and Arts Fest.

I doubt Joan of Arc was under such time pressure. Moreover, as I understand it, Joan of Arc had access to a hell of a lot more resources than Elaine does right now.

Mr. Solkoff and I agree on one point: there is some disorganization here, and that disorganization runs the risk of destroying Webster's' chances for survival. The resistance has a huge task before it: it must come up with an organized and carefully detailed plan of action. And it seems to be happening. People are fielding suggestions, researching financial options, and offering ideas about where to relocate and how to use the resources that are available. But if that doesn't come together in a single, clear plan that Elaine agrees to -- a plan that provides some measure of financial stability -- then we all risk losing Webster's.

I believe it is time to take a hard look at the business as it stands. Numbers have to be made available, and even more difficult decisions will have to be made based on them. For example, it might be worth consolidating the business back into a single downtown space (and if that's the case, we have to consider the needs not only of the 12 employees of the Allen Street store, but also those at Aaron Drive and at the warehouse). Any plan to move forward must be holistic: if the organizers want to save the downtown store, then they have to consider the interplay of finances and operations across locations.

I understand that Mr. Solkoff himself feels strongly in favor of keeping Webster's alive (and on Allen Street). As with the other community organizers, I feel his heart is in the right place. And I certainly commend him for raising the points he raises. I agree with him that more factual information needs to be available before a real plan can be put into place -- but I believe those facts should come directly from Elaine and her attorney. If nothing else is clear, there are a great many people dedicated to saving Webster's. I think there are a lot of great ideas out there, and while I am grateful to Mr. Solkoff for injecting a modicum of realism into the movement, I fear his curious mix of fact and poetry does more harm than good.

For what it's worth, here is my suggestion to everyone involved in the efforts to save the store (organizer and journalist alike): let's stop pointing fingers altogether. Let's roll up our sleeves, get our facts straight, look at the numbers, and make the hard decisions. And once those decisions are made, let's show up with dollars and bodies. Because god knows we need them.

* Here is a list of postings from the Centre Daily Times; there are not one, but two Facebook groups dedicated to the cause here and here; the Daily Collegian has posted a number of stories; VOICES of Central PA, which has a real stake in Webster's has been active from the beginning; even the local NPR station, WPSU, has aired a story about the situation.

Webster's

I am stricken. I am at a loss. A recent entry mourned my long-lost Someday Café, and with this one I begin mourning my current regular haunt, my home-away-from-home, the place I jokingly refer to as my living room. It is the end of an era for this little town. There are two independent coffee shops in town, and soon there will be one. What's worse is that this one is not just a coffee shop, but also (and primarily) a bookstore -- combining the best things in life in a single space. Its loss is a blow to this town and coffee culture both.

I'm a geographer by training (these days at least); understanding the importance of space and place is my trade. People talk about the loss of businesses -- especially local businesses like this one -- in terms of their economic impact, but they often fail to overlook the vital non-economic functions they play. So in my own little way I want to demonstrate just what it is this town is losing. Let us rewind for a moment, forget that loss is imminent, and pretend that it's business as usual.

There are characters here. At this table, there's a sweet young couple in love, holding hands, making eyes at one another, pretending that no one else in the world can see them (when, of course, they can). They whisper to each other, giggle, go back to reading, look up after a moment and smile at one another. Strangely, none of this is as obnoxious as it sounds; it's genuinely sweet, almost innocent. This, my friends, is a rarity in life -- and yet it happens here.

At another table, there's a young woman sitting with a friend. A guy in a tee-shirt, bike shorts and a cycling cap approaches, engages them in conversation. He is ten or fifteen years their senior, but the exchange is not awkward; they all know each other. They met here. They are joined by another guy, briefly -- a short bespectacled fellow dressed in patchwork pants who has stopped in between jobs. After a while, the cyclist takes his to-go cup outside and sits in one of the chairs. He doesn't work until evening. He has all day to just be. Eventually the young woman and her friend part ways. They have classes to attend.

Here, there's a guy in his mid-late-twenties pacing. He does this. He orders a drink, slowly walks the length of the store, steps outside for a smoke, and makes his way back out the front door. He occupies another of the chairs outside, takes out another cigarette. He will do this several times today. If you're lucky he might speak to you in astonishingly good French. If you're not, you'll catch him sleeping on a couch all the way in the back of the store. Sleeping is strictly not allowed, but it happens. He's good at it.

At one of the other high tables up front, there's a guy painting miniatures. He brings them in every Saturday. A box of paints partly hides his work from view, but he's always game to talk about them if you ask. He's a curious fellow, quick to join in any one of the conversations going on up front. For better or for worse, everything is public here.

There are engineers and astronomers, geographers and sociologists, students of English and German and philosophy. There are practitioners of medicine sipping coffee, artists drawing quietly, hipsters comparing notes on music venues. There are conversations about sexuality and gender, religion and politics, physics and linguistics. Someone has brought up the FIFA World Cup on his laptop, is watching a game live. No one looks like anyone else. The people are tall and short, thin and thick, black and white and brown. Some wear skinny jeans, it's true -- but others wear flowered prints or polo shirts. Some of them are tattooed and pierced. Others are not.

If the people here share anything in common, it's that they simply don't belong in that bland, whitewashed, equalized universe in which humans seem cut from a single mold in body, style, aspiration, and orientation (political, sexual, moral: take your pick). They stand in stark contrast to the clean lines and fresh paint and slick stylings of Corporate America. They want something local. They're not perfect. They don't always smell nice. They aren't always charming and debonair. They have bad days. But in the end they see something of value here.

Lest you think I'm being rosy about this, let me assure you: they don't all like each other. One of the best things about this place is that for all the diversity of knowledge, there's also a diversity of opinion. You can tell that for any patron, there's at least one other who gets on her nerves. But that's okay: no one is rude about it. People just accept it. I suspect they have all, perhaps unconsciously, come to the conclusion that we all have an equal share in this place. With enough courtesy, most things can be forgiven -- or at least tolerated.

There is a false dichotomy that seems to pervade society concerning that which is public and that which is private. For example, we think of our abodes as private space, and yet there are laws that govern and regulate the condition in which they can be kept. Likewise, a business like this one is surely a private thing -- the owner can, at any time, ask any of us to leave without any real reason. And yet this space is so very public in so many ways. We waltz in like we own the place. We make ourselves comfortable, interact with others as though the space belongs to us, and yes, we judge one another. Somehow it all works.

This is public culture. This is what we are losing. We cannot default to The Chain when this place we love is gone.

Years ago I was of the opinion that if you treated everyone like equals, inequality would disappear. I was operating under the false assumption that we all start from a level playing field. This was a piece of youthful naivete on my part (and I blame Iris Marion Young for opening my eyes to the importance of recognizing difference). The truth is, systems that attempt to impose equality on people by doling out equal slices of whatever pie it is they're doling out miss the mark. You can assume that we are all born equally valuable -- but you cannot assume that our needs are equal, or that we all become interchangeable parts. Life doesn't work like that. We are all modded, and we are all modded differently. That's the beauty of it.

And that's why The Chain -- in its soulless neutrality and its carefully measured slices of pie -- just doesn't work for us. In The Chain, public culture is stifled because we are no longer allowed to recognize difference. Overlook it, says The Chain. Overlook the qualities that make them all a little different, concentrate only on the universals. Don't let on that you know they're unique; that invites disaster.

It is this mentality, incidentally, that leads to practices like the over-roasting and over-brewing of coffee to the point where it's a bitter, burnt disaster of a beverage. Because over-roasting and over-brewing ensure consistency -- and consistency is integral to the imposition of this punitive version of equality The Chain peddles. Extend that from coffee to culture and you see the source of my sadness.

I don't know where we will all go in the end, but my gut feeling tells me that things won't be the same. In losing this place, we are losing a piece of the community. It's a place where misfits of various kinds can gather. In its time here it has served as a space for fostering the development of friendships, activism, intellectual growth, art, and academic collaboration. It has brought together a number of small local businesses that have few other visible outlets. It has provided a unique environment where the patrons felt a sense of ownership (frustrating as it may be for the staff) strong enough to allow us to interrogate one another, and to experience the fast-dying spark of public life.

Humans are remarkably adaptable, it's been said a thousand times. We'll all find other outlets for collaboration and socializing. But none of them will be quite like this one.

Youth

Overheard in my regular haunt just now:

Young guy: Even if I never do a comic, I'd be happy working as a freelance illustrator... I'd be happy living a modest life...
His friend: I think that's what people always say at our age.

Heh. Funny 'cause it's true.

Synergy, or something like it

Summer is here and life has slowed down, and I'm back to frequenting -- and thinking about -- coffee shops. It's a bad habit, I'll admit it.

I collect them, you see. Everywhere I go, I have to visit at least one independently owned coffee shop. Over the last few months I've been to several, in a few different cities -- Montreal, Philadelphia, Washington, DC, and Albany, NY -- in addition to my regular haunt. There are a couple that stand out as favorites: Caffè Art Java in Montreal, for example, or Tryst in Washington, DC. And they're great spots! The lure of people watching at Art Java is hard to resist, and the fact that you can buy alcohol at Tryst makes it a perfect evening hangout.

But there's one -- a time-honored favorite of mine -- that I've really been missing lately: the Someday Café in Somerville, MA. By some accounts it was a run-down, filthy, cliquey shop frequented by too many homeless people. By others it was a quirky, cool, edgy place that served as a seat of hope for artists and activists in Davis Square at the height of its hipness (much to my dismay, recent reports suggest that the hipness is fading away as business and activist alike are priced out and flee for the safety of the mothership of bohemian life, NYC).

I'm thinking back, trying to remember just why I loved the Someday so much. Maybe it was the storefront -- great big windows looking out onto Davis Square. Maybe it was its location beside the Somerville Theatre (which, at the time I knew it, was more of an art house joint than it seems to be these days). Or maybe it was just the vibe in Davis Square at the time.

Before I slip too far into the misty realms of nostalgia, I want to offer one thought: maybe (just maybe) what made it so great wasn't the combination of second-hand furniture, graffiti-covered bathrooms, local artists, and late hours. What the Someday had going for it wasn't just its fortunate accident of location, but also the peculiar combination of people who frequented it -- and the way people used the space. It wasn't unusual to see people playing chess or checkers, artists drawing for hours while their coffee went cold, and meeting after meeting of book clubs, gamers, and activists. I won't say that everyone coexisted peacefully, but most were respectful of one another.

Most importantly: if there was tension between the communities whose paths crossed there, that tension only seemed to fuel their relative desires to Do Great Things, even if those Great Things would have worked at cross purposes (though in my memory, that was rarely the case). I think, in short, what the Someday did best was harness the power of Being Seen that coffee shops tend to cultivate -- and turn it into a constructive, collective force.

And so a much belated R.I.P., Someday Café. No shop can replace you, but your spirit lives on. I'll be looking for it.

Memo-random

Sometimes I must remember that wobbly, spill-inducing tables and tight, labyrinthine floor layouts are part of what make coffee shops magical, wonderful, charming places.

Bad music, however, is unforgivable.

An adventure

I have never had so much trouble boarding a bus in my life. It helps, I think, if you speak the language of the driver fluently -- and, simply put, I don't. Three years of French in high school is not enough to help you understand the rapid patter of an STM bus driver in Montreal. Gestures translate rather well, however, so when he taps on the fare collection mechanism as he tells you that you have to pull the fare out of the coin return and reinsert it, it all kind of makes sense.

I like a good adventure, I really do. And yet I find myself taking comfort in the familiar: cities are cities, and although each has its own character, it's hard to feel completely out of place in a city like this. There are universities, after all. Universities are, in a strange way, universal.

I suppose I could have gone to a coffee shop in a French speaking part of town, but instead I'm hunkered in the Caffé ArtJava among faculty and students from McGill, working.* It's comfortable in part because I've been here before, and in part because, well, it's a coffee shop. Much like universities, there is something universal about coffee shops. At least in North America.

It's a slick place, this. There's jazz playing over the speaker system. It has perfectly-spaced laminate-topped tables, black plastic and vinyl chairs with aluminum legs, a counter along the streetside window, and a back room with red vinyl chairs, a couple of end tables, a TV or two on the walls. The bar itself is split in two: there's the counter where you order and pay, and where all the food is, and beyond it, tucked neatly into a corner of the shop, is an L-shaped counter where the barista makes all the espresso drinks. It's a good system they have.

I wouldn't say it's inviting, exactly. It's not warm and homey like some places -- but it's not sterile either. It has character. It's not huge, but it doesn't feel cramped. Somehow, they've managed to avoid that pitfall most of my favorite places suffer from: overcrowding. Then again, it fits perhaps half the number of people.

Business is bustling today. There's plenty to see here. I won't be moving along anytime soon.

* Of course, I'm at a coffee shop, which means the prospect of "work" is questionable and must be read with scare quotes around it.

A sight

Way back when I was in college, there was among my acquaintances a very attractive woman who would occasionally wear a brown leather jacket (men's, of course), one shoulder strap ironically adorned with a nice, big cock ring. She was the kind of person men and women alike swooned over. She carried herself with a curious mixture of sharp wit, quiet confidence, strong presence, and a good dash of devil-may-care audacity. She was, in short, the hottest woman on campus, and you wouldn't doubt for a moment her ability to top another girl in a heartbeat. (She once directed my hand, her eyes twinkling, to her crotch as proof that she was packing that night. It was a moment of utterly wicked delight.)

These memories came back to me in a flash this afternoon when I saw, in the coffee shop, a young man in a black leather jacket with two hula hoops hanging from one of his shoulder straps like military cords. Good heavens, I thought. What a massive cock he must have.

Overheard

Overheard at the table just in front of mine this evening: a petite woman explaining to two international students the difference between mass murderers and serial killers. The title America's Most Wanted came up.

I love this place.

Becoming place

There are tables at the coffee shop I think of as mine.

I don't have any special claim to them -- I just use them a lot. There are reasons for this. For example, I like the view they give me of the main door, or of the street, or of the people walking through. Knowing who's here changes the nature of the place, and so being able to watch them come and go -- even if I don't really know them -- makes a difference to the way it feels to be there.

There are other reasons, too. Accessibility is a big one. It's important to have access to an electrical outlet. Even if I'm not working, chances are I'm listening to music, and that requires both internet access and electricity. It's equally important to have access to the counter. True, you always have access to the counter (that's the nature of counters, after all), but being able to jump into the queue when it's short is crucial. Otherwise, you could wait forever for a cup of coffee, and no one wants to wait that long.

But there's something else involved here. It's not enough to say there are structural factors that make some tables desirable over others. Some tables just feel right. They suit me. I've become accustomed to sitting there, and people have become accustomed to seeing me there.

There are tables I associate with others. They don't always sit in these spots, but I know they prefer them for one reason or another. When I walk through the shop, my eyes go directly to those places, in search of the people I identify with them.

This is where it gets interesting.

Having a seat that feels like mine or that is in some way identified with me actually makes me closer to the place. Like everyone else there, I use the space. I move through it, come to rest in certain locations, and interact with others in it. But having a spot (or two) that is tied to my identity is what makes me part of the place. Same goes for anyone else who has their own spot in the shop. They are part of the place by virtue of being identified with specific tables.

The best part about all this is that it isn't ownership. It isn't even stewardship. It's a lasting (if intermittent) identification of person and space, pure and simple. The shop owns the space. The shop is responsible for cleaning and maintaining it. And in reality anyone can sit there. But if people look at that table and think of me (especially when I'm not there), that means I've become part of it, and in becoming part of that table, I've become part of the identity of the coffee shop itself.

We don't often think of people as places, but in a very real sense, we are.

It gets complicated, too. Like when two people who don't normally interact are affiliated with the same space. Suddenly territoriality is no longer purely spatial, but also takes on a temporal element. On Thursday afternoons, the two-top in the far corner belongs to the Undergrad. On Friday mornings it belongs to the Artist. I might borrow it once in a while, but it never really belongs to me.

What happens when you layer all the people who belong to a given spot on that space? Palimpsests of use, of motion, of significance. We are all always there, writing ourselves into places, being written over, and writing over others, waiting to be read.

Regulars

I spend most of my work hours in a local coffee shop. The running joke is that it's my first office and my second home. I do have an office -- it's in a square, dated modernist building in which the faculty have massive offices along the outer walls and the graduate students are crammed half a dozen or more into spaces two-thirds that size around the core. This means, of course, grads get no windows. It is a wonder that my little pothos plant manages to continue sprouting new growth in our dim little cave.

Consequently, I'm a regular at the coffee shop. It's not always an easy space to work. It's a popular enough spot with certain crowds that there's no guarantee of finding a table -- and sometimes the noise isn't conducive to reading. I see lots of grad students with their laptops open, flicking between PDFs and Pandora, trying, trying, trying to work.

This shop has three sections of seating: the front of the store (by the counter) has long tables and window seats; the middle of the store is the café floor; and the back section is all bookshop with small tables set in nooks of shelving. Each section has its Regulars. I spend most of my time up front, but once in a while I end up in the café section.

The Regulars all come here under the pretense of doing work, but in reality we're all hoping to be seen by someone (anyone). It's the easiest social scene ever: low-impact, high visibility, community-targeted. Sooner or later you'll have to talk to someone. And really you have no choice but to overhear other people's conversations. But you're a Regular, so it's okay.

It must have been a couple of weeks ago, sitting in the café section, when I heard two women talking about the Regulars. The first had clearly been here before -- maybe she's a Proto-Regular. The second, it seemed, was not quite familiar with the place-culture. Their exchange went like this:

[awkward silence]
First woman: I love the way people dress here.
[short pause]
Second woman: How so?
First woman: Skinny jeans and scarves. Hipsters.
[awkward silence as First woman looks around to determine whether anyone heard her]

Classic. And funny because it's true.