Some years ago, just after they invented the wheel, or maybe it wasn't quite that long ago, some very well-meaning friends tried to cure me of my coffee addiction. Now, yes, I was hooked on it, but nowadays I am not doing so badly. I have gone the entire day today without caffeine, having started early this morning with French Colombian Decaf, and, outside of not being quite as energetic as usual, haven't been feeling terribly different today. Perhaps dragging my ass a little bit, but no headaches or grumpiness, and yes, I could go tomorrow without it as well, but we'll have to see.
Both my friends, two women of a certain age, were sure that my surly disposition was the direct cause of that dreadful vice of caffeine addiction. It was an awful chore to have to explain to them that they were the real problem. We were living together at the time as an intentional Christian community, and both my lovely little old ladies, especially the younger one, were driving me absolutely nuts. That they would simply take it upon themselves to not try to reform me of my addiction, rather than paying attention to how much their control and manipulation was hurting our friendship? Well, maybe one day pigs will fly.
We did eventually each go our separate ways, as generally befalls incompatible housemates who have lived to tell often do. I had a birthday. Guess what one of my dear little old grannies gave me? A lovely little bag of cheap commercial brand decaffeinated coffee. Yes, she did, Gentle Reader, and it tasted awful!
Of course, decaffeinated coffee is a contradiction in terms. In some parts of Mexico, Costa Rica and Colombia, three prominent coffee producers and exporters, especially the latter two, people have never even heard of decaf, nor could even conceive that such an oddity could exist. I myself could not believe that they would come up with a variety of decaf that had not been chemically treated with something very nasty, and left with a dreadful residue on the palette, not until sometime in 1992. A local coffeehouse where they also served good gelato had opened, only to be replaced just a couple of years later with a Starbucks (I will write more about THEM, in a future post)
The owners of said coffeehouse were a young gay male couple, one a young Catalan Spaniard from Barcelona, and his partner had the same name as me (back in those days I was still known as Greg Greenlaw) When the young Catalan was standing on the sidewalk offering free samples of decaf Americano, I tried, tasted and sipped and savoured and I was won. The first decaf that tasted not only tolerable but excellent. Had he not told me, I would not have known that was decaf. On that basis, in that establishment anyway, I began to cheerfully and voluntarily order decaf.
The young Catalan was himself rather interesting. Then, in his early twenties, we never became close friends, though he seemed very attracted to me, and also a shameless flirt. Over the next couple of years, he left his partner and began working in another, very hip establishment where I was also a regular. That was when I was in the process of changing my name, legally, and he still called me Greg. I reminded him one evening in the café that my name was now Aaron. He chimed musically, oh but you look like a Greg to me. I replied drily, well, you were only married to one long enough and he shouted "SHUT UP!!!!" Of course I laughed. And when I remember this, I still laugh. During that time, Jaume (that is the name I am giving my Catalan friend) took up with another young man, a skater punk who also seemed attracted to me. I was at that time an emerging artist and they were taking interest in what I was doing. Then one day they both offered to model nude for me. I wasn't about to take them up on it. And, they never bought one of my paintings.
The last time I saw Jaume, was in Yaletown on Davie Street. He would already be in his forties. He was pedalling around in circles on a busy sidewalk on Davie street, talking on his phone, his pet pit bull dog leashed to his mountain bike. I could only roll my eyes. He did remind me of a character from a film by Pedro Alomdóvar, but I still haven't figured out which one.
I will write more about decaf tomorrow, Gentle Reader...
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