I spend a lot of time in coffee shops. An awful lot. I used to write in cafes. For years. Way before laptops. Hell, way before the internet. Notebooks (the kind made of paper), pads (of paper), anything. During the Eighties I was writing my novel. During the Nineties I was writing my journals. During the Two Thousands I was reading books. This decade I do art in coffee shops.
I suppose it gets kind of expensive at times, especially if I visit a café two or three times on the same day. Even though I have neither the stomach nor the palette for fancy-schmancy coffee drinks, those decaf Americanos, black and bitter just like life of course, do add up. Especially when you consider that I am not a Tim Horton's kind of guy. I'm even too uppity for Starbucks. I try to stick with local independent joints or some of the better, and local, chains. Fair trade is always a plus. Being a cheapskate I still try to avoid having to spend more than three bucks per Americano. Not always easy, especially on hot days when I like it iced.
The places I hung out in during the Eighties could be charitably called diners. That was back in the mean-spirited days of the minimum charge. But there were still a number of decent hangouts, some soaked in atmosphere where you could huddle in a back booth for an hour or two, nursing the same cup of black and bitter (no espresso in those days, coffee was coffee was coffee) and perhaps a muffin, or a slice of cut-rate pie, or a plate of French fries long grown cold soggy and fit only for mattress stuffing. My table was often a revolving door for people who wanted to stop and visit, chat, tell a few jokes, cry on a welcoming shoulder. After everyone was gone I would remain in my seat and resume writing, journaling, reading...
This was in the days of table service. You only stood up to put on your coat or, if you were a male, go to the bathroom. Then, in 1987, the first Starbucks opened in Vancouver. It was a novelty: standing in line while young baristas alluring in black poured or made your exotically sourced coffee for you: generally students, bright, engaging, friendly and sometimes very interesting. It was at the Waterfront Station, a decent place to sit at a counter and stare out at the people and the huge Edwardian windows full of sunlight. One day one of the baristas said they were opening a new location on Robson Street. I checked it out. Before I could even wait my turn to make my order something in my stomach fell through a trap door and I left vowing never to return. I also came to avoid the original location.
I still haven't really reconciled to Starbuck's, unless it is my clients' preference. They are a massive US chain that shows absolutely no mercy to the many local establishments that end up having to shut down because of the marketing power of their brand name.
I suppose I enjoy the human contact in coffee shops. They are neutral ground, making them a safe environment and the constant streaming human parade is like endless free entertainment. There are drawbacks too, especially when brain-dead parents try to turn the corner café into the local daycare. But there is something seductive about a comfy armchair and table by a window, or back in a corner, or wherever. I do all my writing these days on my laptop, the old-fashioned way, at home. Reading occurs at home and on the bus.
Why do I do art in cafes? I wish I had a simple reply. Truth is I don't really care for the attention, one way or the other. But it is nice when someone wants to stop to chat or seems to enjoy my art. There is something about being around people that inspires me to create. It is not the recognition, it is simply that irreplaceable human presence. And art seems to attract people, in a positive way, and if I can do or be anything to stimulate the positive then count me in.
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