The Espressiadic & Anxious Romance of Civility

Parking meter is right in front. I pull up and say hello and search for quarters. I don't like charging meters to plastic. It feels too petty a purchase to merit appearing on a bank statement. 

No quarters. 

Walking in as the expansive space is both warm and sterile. This old building, now serving a renewed ideal as the gods of La Marzocco steam their will into psychedelic visions of black and white and espressiadic romance. I thank them for their union and proceed.


No cash She says. 

For such an establishment to intimate an aesthetic so obviously infused with an aura of years past, to not accept my dear friend Abraham feels nearly discriminatory. In as much as my spirit longs for a cantankerous sparring of words and anti-establishment wit, I quietly acquiesce to their plastic standard of banknotes. I don't like drawing attention to the fact that until 60 seconds ago, this place was as foreign to me as the surface of moon or Woodstock or the 50's. 


Scanning the room for a table proves instantly fruitful as the real estate at present is most certainly a buyers market. I take up a corner of the leather sofa in the back. Nearly crimson in color; as if insinuating the bloodshed of a dear cow friend.  

I sit. Relieved and nearly certain that Dear Cow Friend is merely an imitation and is still very much alive and nowhere near this place and eating grass in Kansas or Montana or far far far from here. 

I want to take a photo or two but I pause because I am caught; afraid. As though taking photos is taboo. I know this fear friend as he never forgets to write. For such a place designed with such intention is nealy as a gallery where you look don't touch. 

"Look with your eyes not your hands..."

"Yes, mother." 

"No photography please." 

"Okay. Sorry." 

I know... more than likely... no such rule exists, but I am still ill at ease. I flip off the lens cap and point it at my shoes. Chuck Taylor squared, I say "hello." Whereupon "click." The symmetry of chuck and the tile floor and the table legs and the chair. 

I move onto the rest of the space and quickly decide I have to put my camera away because I'm self-consious and the problem of my generation is that we live like through our screens but I don't want to care about that because really all I want to say is screw it this is who we are and because cynicism is alway the cancer of youth. 

The wave of self-consciousness continues to swell because overthinking and over feeling is the fall I trip over everyday. I surrender to my book and my latte and decide that Patti is enough. I came to meet her here as I do in many a cafe around town. She is always on time and always has so much to say. She is becoming a dear friend, and though she might not know it, I am falling very much in love with her.  We take the M Train and become very much enamoured of the journey.

Reading leads to restlessness because every time I meet Patti I immediately know I need to find something to love and express. I leave, very much certain that I will be back. I always know when Patti approves of a cafe and when I meet her there.  I make the mental note as I pack my bag and move out.  


I take a few more photos and leave. Inhale. And exhale, grateful for coffee and the evangelists whose caffeinated conviction makes the day worth it. 

Goodbye, Civil. 

Your Friend,