In the rural part of New England I recently visited, you have to travel long distances to get from Here to There. Cities are separated by long and winding country roads, and cow pastures far outnumber places of commerce. I learn quickly that you can’t drive down to the corner for a latte on a whim. Ordinarily, my Garmin helps keep me from getting lost, but overcast skies + thickly forested areas = countless hours wandering aimlessly through unfamiliar territory while it’s “recalculating.”
So anyway…it’s 7:00 a.m. on my first day of the project, and I’m already feeling a bit overwhelmed. Nothing that can’t be remedied with a bracing cuppa coffee, I tell myself, as I grab the car keys and ask my GPS to find the local java joint.
A half hour later, I’m approaching Main Street in a neighboring township. The disembodied voice on the dash announces that the Promised Land is a mere "point two miles" from the stop sign where my car’s idling. But true to form, I make another wrong turn. Businesses give way to barnyards, and it’s not long before I realize that I’m leaving civilization. Again.
I whip my borrowed Subaru into the entrance of a car wash, where a beefy man in a tight-fitting tank top and cut-offs is sprawled in a plastic lounge chair, watching a John Deere tractor crawl down the highway in the opposite direction. He eyes me warily when I wheel into a grassy area close to where he’s sitting. I get out of the car and approach him with a smile, asking for directions while I’m walking.
As he rises to his feet, I take note of his numerous tattoos. Japanese characters crawl up his neck, and inked images cover all visible appendages. “You ain’t from around here, are you Missy?” he asks, rubbing his shaved head as he takes in my outfit and essence. It’s more a statement than a question. His eyes are kind, and his voice is reassuring when he gives me directions.
“Thanks for helping me,” I say, extending my hand. “My name’s Melodye. What’s yours?”
“Dante,” he says, and he squeezes my hand in friendship. As I return to my car, I’m stifling a (relieved) giggle. Lord knows, it helps to have guardian angels like Dante when you find yourself lost in the hinterlands as much as I do!
And so continues my sojourn. I find the coffee shop without further difficulty. The exterior of the building is charming; the interior is quaint. Distressed wooden planks cover the floor, and old-time pictures of the town line the smooth plaster walls. Here’s what it looks like from the street:
I’m soon reminded that I’m a long way from It’s a Grind, the neighborhood coffee shop I frequent in Southern California. The people behind the counter never crack a smile. Not once, during the entire three weeks I give them my patronage! When I try to engage the clerks in conversation, they cut me off. “What can I get for you?” they ask in bland voices, and it’s more a brush-off than an invitation. Refills cost extra, and more still if you drink from a mug while you’re there and ask for a to-go cup when you leave.
I watch the locals place their orders quickly and then cluster their chairs in the middle of the shop, sipping coffee while catching up on neighborhood gossip and jawing about the weather. It’s soon clear that they aren’t open to outsiders, so I retreat to a corner and watch the action outside the window. Dog walkers. Pipe smokers. Truck-driving construction workers, and hay-balers on their way to the fields. And I long for the companionship that usually accompanies this morning ritual. I’m used to baristas who know me by name, who ask how my writing’s going and want to know if I’d like “the usual.”
On my last morning in town, the door bangs shut behind me when I walk up to the counter. “What can I get for you?” the clerk asks, looking around me (or through me) with vacant eyes. Sigh. It’s the same order I’ve given him every day for nearly three weeks. He taps his fingers on the counter while I reach into my wallet for cash and a punch card. And as I plop down in my usual spot and stare into my cup, I’m acutely aware of what it is that I’m missing. I realize that I’m a "stranger in a strange land," and as such, these locals owe me nothing. But in a coffee shop, caffeine’s a given, and I’m paying good money to fuel my addiction. So how about throwing in a little kindness, no extra charge?
As I pull the door closed behind me one final time, I’m craving the cup of comfort that’s waiting for me back home.
