Coffee shops - Part 1: A retrospective

I am sitting at a local coffee shop, drinking my medium coffee with one raw sugar and dash or two of cinnamon. When in Spain I enjoyed the espresso. When on a date with my wife I might have a latte or a cappuccino. When with my daughter(s) on a warm afternoon I will occasionally indulge in a frappacino or ice blended mocha. But the drink is not really what the coffee shop is about. My afternoon quest is to attempt to capture what it is about going to coffee that provides the relaxation or the diversion that I crave.

It all began for me in 1969, my sophomore year in High School. It was a time of anti-war protests, bell bottoms, and disillusionment. I thought myself an island as a thinking person in the midst of a high school oblivious to the outside world. The reality was, of course, not quite so simple. Our school had its share of unthinking juviniles, a few racists, an intellectual core, a few hippies and a lot of folks who had not figured out what they were. But we all saw the body counts on the news so while some did not express their outrage for one side or the other, the level of ignorance I saw at the time was not very accurate. My entire perspective that year was clouded by personal grief and a budding anger. This is the stage upon which coffee came into my life.

I do not remember now exactly how I happened to start going to Regan's. It was what was known at the time as a Coffee Shop, what today would be called a diner or a Denny's or an IHOP. As far as I know they had always been called diners but that was a term I never used. We went there on the way to school, ate a cinnamon roll and had a cup of coffee - or two. It is difficult to remember who was there, probably Al and Rich and Jim and ???. We talked about everything. This included girls and miscellaneous deep thoughts. All laced together with coffee. The waitress, whom I will call Gracie, was about 60 at the time. She was the essence of what would be called ADD today, at the time it would have been described using some other word for really hyper. I remember little besides her darting to and fro pouring coffee, complaining about the last table or complaining about us if we were less than polite. We went to Regan's throughout my high school years, though the participants and the frequency changed.

The next coffee shop I remember was not really a coffee shop but a coffee house. Picture hot chocolate or cappacino or coffee or apple cider, darkened lights, the occasional musician. The crowd was not the crowd that went to the woodsies on the weekend. For those who are unfamiliar with woodsies, these were the beer and cheap wine parties thrown on the backroads where hopefully the police would not come. No, the coffee house crowd were a mix of hippies and druggies and other things I was unaware of. Again, the focal point of the evening was not really the coffee and many of the purchases were made outside, looking over your shoulders. Again the memories are very dull but I vividly recall one of the purchases. Making my purchase required me to leave the coffee house and go to, we'll say, John's apartment. While I waited, John's roommate, being a sociable guy tightened the rubber hose on his arm, shot up, and then graciously offered me the needle. Being a little holier than thou, I declined, thinking how low he had sunk and how stupid and sad it was. I left John's, with my purchase in hand. I did not know John or his roommate. But I am pretty sure that one or both did not make it alive past the 1970s. So much for coffee houses.

Coffee shops were defined in the 70s for me as Sambo's. You remember the story, little black Sambo being chased by the tiger and in the Sambo's version, the tiger turns into a stack of pancakes. Perhaps the most politically incorrect restaurant theme you could pick. Ignorance runs high as Sambo was from India. I worked at Sambo's off and on over a period of about 10 years during high school and college. I learned first hand how to be a hyper waiter - thankyou Gracie for the early training. But still I went to coffee shops. Perhaps it was the people watching, the activity around me while I could become absorbed in whatever reading or working or thinking I needed. For many people the coffee shop represents the social network, the Cheers type of place where everybody knows your name. But while I had worked in soap opera like atmosphere of the coffee shop for years, my frequenting of coffee shops rarely caused me to be aware of or participate in these soap operas.

But in the 1980s and early 90s the frequency declined, the aura was broken as the demands of family took priority. The coffee shop became what it was to everyone else during these years, a place to get lunch, to stop for a break on a long drive.

To be continued…

She started it...

I had always like Miatas but driving through the back roads south of San Jose in my Ford Contour a couple of years ago put me over the edge. Not literally. While my Contour had a bit of pep and it was not an automatic, zig-zagging through the hills was fun but not exhilarating. I could just imagine what the same road in a Miata might be like. I refused to let myself imagine it in an Alpha Romeo or an old Triumph. I am not a mechanic and had little interest paying yet another college tuition - for the mechanic's kid. So the Miata was both something I liked and something that would not - knock on wood - be in the shop for half its life.

That brings up the story of the Audi I had, the one my wife likes to remind me of any time I look longingly at some new really cool Audi. Mine not only had a cassette player but also a microphone just in case I needed to do a little dictation while I drove (that ages me a bit). Perhaps when Mia is in the shop I can share more about Audi.

Mia is the other woman. Mia is a forest green (British racing green) 1999 Miata. My wife is at the point where she will tolerate forest green, that is good for the marriage. She would not be quite so tolerant of blonde. I would not normally name my cars. Who would? My wife's car when we got out of college was named Matthew. I am not sure why. I think I know the Matthew in question and I am still not sure why the car was named for him. Ignorance is ...

Now because everyone assumes that because I have a little green sports car I must be going through a midlife crisis of some sort. My advantage if it is "mid life" at my age. No, I was just too cheap to purchase a sports car until I would no longer need more than two seats on a regular basis. I suddenly realized a few months ago that the time had come. That was when my quest for the right Miata began. I was scouring the internet for a 2002 or 2003 Miata, low mileage, blue or grey, .... My quest ended almost as quickly when a friend, someone who actually knew how to buy a car, told me that he was selling his 1999 Miata. Two years before he had searched in surrounding cities up to a couple hundred miles away for the right Miata. He found it and now wanted to get rid of it. It was a great match. He wanted more seats and I wanted less.
But back to the naming thing. It was my wife who started naming the cars. Being the really creative person that I am, my little green Miata became Mia. It is much more fun to go on a drive with Mia than "with my little green Miata". So today this blog is about Mia and I. Tomorrow it may get serious or something else. But today I will not annoy my friends with stories of the latest ding on Mia's formerly pristine paint job, I will blog away in anonymity for now. At least I will do that after I walk around the car a couple of times to be sure no dings have spontaneously materialized.