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.
29 March 2010
05 February 2010
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.
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.
22 January 2010
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.
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.
19 January 2010
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:
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.
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?There's something about these kinds of awkward exchanges that just tickles me pink.
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.
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.
13 January 2010
Seen
Non-coffee shop-goers often labor under the illusion that people go to coffee shops to work. The depth of this illusion proves just how misunderstood coffee shop culture is. To be fair, we ourselves often misrepresent our reasons for frequenting these places. Witness, common things we tell ourselves (or others) about our habits:
And those guys/gals who do tuck themselves away in a corner with a book? They're not fooling anyone.
- We want to read the paper over a good cup of coffee (with or without the requisite biscotti).
- It's a convenient place to meet with people to discuss business, projects, love, life, whatever.
- It's a change of scenery from the office/department/house/hotel, one that is somehow (and inexplicably) conducive to Getting Work Done.
- To kill time.
- To observe others.
- To be seen.
And those guys/gals who do tuck themselves away in a corner with a book? They're not fooling anyone.
07 January 2010
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.
I love this place.
03 December 2009
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.
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.
28 November 2009
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:
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]Classic. And funny because it's true.
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]
Welcome, and a warning
Let me begin with a warning: I'm going to cheat a bit.
Make yourself comfortable; I'll explain. This is not my only blog. I don't want you to get the idea that I'm a one-blog kind of writer -- I don't want you to feel betrayed come the moment when I double-dip and post the same entry here and elsewhere. I want to be up front about this. No broken hearts here. It's not that I'm fickle, it's just that one blog isn't enough. Each one is a different kind of outlet with a different audience.
Frankly I've been down to one active blog for far too long now. Time to liven things up a bit, stretch out a little, feel anonymous again. I like beginnings. They're exciting, fun, full of hints and innuendos about wonderful things to come. Endings have a habit of disappointing people, but beginnings? Beginnings are like crushes on mysterious strangers: they never fail to stir up hopes you'd thought had long been dashed.
Let's hope this blog serves as one ongoing beginning.
A little about me: I'm a writer, a self-styled flâneur, and a student. The order of these things changes depending on who I'm talking to, but for the purposes of this place, I'm a writer first, a watcher of people second, and a student third. This means I won't be complaining about my work here, but I will be writing about things I see, things that inspire me. Occasionally I'll post some fiction. Maybe I'll post an essay (and there I can't promise to avoid overlap with my scholarly interests, but I can promise that my audience, dear reader, is you and not academia). I won't post too many personal details because, and let's be honest, you really don't want to hear about that shit, and I get sick of thinking about it.
Let's make this an escape for both of us. No obligations, no promises, but one little deal: you keep reading, and I'll keep my eyes open, my gears turning, and my fingers typing.
Make yourself comfortable; I'll explain. This is not my only blog. I don't want you to get the idea that I'm a one-blog kind of writer -- I don't want you to feel betrayed come the moment when I double-dip and post the same entry here and elsewhere. I want to be up front about this. No broken hearts here. It's not that I'm fickle, it's just that one blog isn't enough. Each one is a different kind of outlet with a different audience.
Frankly I've been down to one active blog for far too long now. Time to liven things up a bit, stretch out a little, feel anonymous again. I like beginnings. They're exciting, fun, full of hints and innuendos about wonderful things to come. Endings have a habit of disappointing people, but beginnings? Beginnings are like crushes on mysterious strangers: they never fail to stir up hopes you'd thought had long been dashed.
Let's hope this blog serves as one ongoing beginning.
A little about me: I'm a writer, a self-styled flâneur, and a student. The order of these things changes depending on who I'm talking to, but for the purposes of this place, I'm a writer first, a watcher of people second, and a student third. This means I won't be complaining about my work here, but I will be writing about things I see, things that inspire me. Occasionally I'll post some fiction. Maybe I'll post an essay (and there I can't promise to avoid overlap with my scholarly interests, but I can promise that my audience, dear reader, is you and not academia). I won't post too many personal details because, and let's be honest, you really don't want to hear about that shit, and I get sick of thinking about it.
Let's make this an escape for both of us. No obligations, no promises, but one little deal: you keep reading, and I'll keep my eyes open, my gears turning, and my fingers typing.
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