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.

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.

Table hopping

I'm an unabashed table-jumper. I suspect this is one of those things you're really not supposed to do at coffee shops that people do anyway. I do my best to make up for it by buying something small every time I jump tables, and by not leaving a mess behind. (I regularly see people fail to bus their own tables. Now that's a real crime.)

There's something to be said for hopping tables. You get a new perspective on the same block of time. If one section of floor is boring, you move to a new one, simple as that.

This morning I overheard the people next to me (despite their valiant attempts to remain hush-hush) discussing the employees. It was a young straight couple I see here fairly often. She's all about the sweet-young-innocent PDA thing, always touching his hands. It's endearing. They're a cute couple. They had one of those moments where they were trying to recall one barista's name:

She: Who's the other one? The one with the glasses?
He: I heard his name once but I can't remember.
When next she speaks, her voice is a conspiratorial whisper.
She: I swear I heard him say "Sequoia."
The two look around carefully to make sure no one is listening.

There's something about these kinds of awkward exchanges that just tickles me pink.

They were entertaining for a while, but then it was time for a change of scenery. I'll admit it: one of the little pleasures of table-hopping is the possibility that you'll end up sitting in just the right spot to observe someone cute.

Alas, no such luck today. Maybe next time.

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.

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.