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January 10, 2020
Effectively Elena
Starstruck
By Elena Tucker
Special to the Prophet
There is little in my life as ceremonial and ritualistic as my dark-of-the-dawn latte. Most of the preparatory process is both private and secret, but I will say that it involves heating milk in a pan, old-fashion like Grandmother did and a dollop of Starbucks Irish cream flavoring big enough to ensure that were this to be my last day of life, I’d be cremated in a fragrant blaze.
This done, I sit down to my desk and perform other tasks that are neither of interest nor of concern. Partly, however, this involves writing letters back to the West Coast; ‘catching up’ it’s called. For example today, right down from our old neighborhood Starbucks is a memorial service. Everybody will be there, and afterwards a cluster of friends may adjourn, sitting around watching the perpetual fall of rain, drinking their coffee bean elixir and licking foam off their lips. They’ll rehash the service, talk about their children, debate an international incident or two and talk about the local hockey team. Part of me could wish to be there.
Despite the almost visible waft of Irish cream which daily throbs to the outer reaches of me, I have to confess: I miss my community Starbucks. It’s more than just a place to grab a quick cup, rather it takes the place of a pub for those of us who happen not to imbibe. It’s a gathering place. A place of good smells, where the measuring is both artistic and deliberate…where nobody hurries you. Where the dog is welcome (outside) and where, if you’re lucky, there are hissing gas heaters on the patio to drive away the chill. It’s where friends come together to chat. Where the Saturday morning newspaper may be read for three or four unhurried hours. Alone. Where both hikers and memorial service attendees may relax without sideways glances.
It’s not about the Seattle-based company. Not at all. But riddle me this: Where do moms go to exchange toddler information? Where do businessmen go to hash out the deal? Where do all of the shoppers sit down for a rest? Where do people take a breather between mad dashes? Where is information exchanged? Where does everybody come together? Is it about lack of place? Or lack of time? Where does the clock stop?
I haven’t found out yet and I miss this element of my previous life. But I know it must be here somewhere. There’s a small Texas town called Tahoka where the Dairy Queen performs the same function. In the city of Arequipa it was a marvelous joint called Manolos. When I was growing up, it was a bakery just down the street almost reverently, lovingly referred to simply as the ‘panaderia.’ A place to get together where no uniformed body will dirty look you if you just want a glass of water. Of course, bottled water is so much more chic.
At our old Starbucks a young vocalist would drop in from time to time with her guitar. She’d sing all the old easily harmonized stuff like ‘Leavin on a Jet Plane’ and I’d crowd in beside her, adding my rusty alto to her light tones. She didn’t play for tips. She just played because it was fun and a nice place to be. Some people listened. The odd participant joined in. Most just enjoyed her without appearing to, lost in their own books or exchanges of information. Friends. Warmth. Easy-going hours of respite. No schedule or time squeeze.
I’m homesick for this place. Let me know if you’ve found it.
This done, I sit down to my desk and perform other tasks that are neither of interest nor of concern. Partly, however, this involves writing letters back to the West Coast; ‘catching up’ it’s called. For example today, right down from our old neighborhood Starbucks is a memorial service. Everybody will be there, and afterwards a cluster of friends may adjourn, sitting around watching the perpetual fall of rain, drinking their coffee bean elixir and licking foam off their lips. They’ll rehash the service, talk about their children, debate an international incident or two and talk about the local hockey team. Part of me could wish to be there.
Despite the almost visible waft of Irish cream which daily throbs to the outer reaches of me, I have to confess: I miss my community Starbucks. It’s more than just a place to grab a quick cup, rather it takes the place of a pub for those of us who happen not to imbibe. It’s a gathering place. A place of good smells, where the measuring is both artistic and deliberate…where nobody hurries you. Where the dog is welcome (outside) and where, if you’re lucky, there are hissing gas heaters on the patio to drive away the chill. It’s where friends come together to chat. Where the Saturday morning newspaper may be read for three or four unhurried hours. Alone. Where both hikers and memorial service attendees may relax without sideways glances.
It’s not about the Seattle-based company. Not at all. But riddle me this: Where do moms go to exchange toddler information? Where do businessmen go to hash out the deal? Where do all of the shoppers sit down for a rest? Where do people take a breather between mad dashes? Where is information exchanged? Where does everybody come together? Is it about lack of place? Or lack of time? Where does the clock stop?
I haven’t found out yet and I miss this element of my previous life. But I know it must be here somewhere. There’s a small Texas town called Tahoka where the Dairy Queen performs the same function. In the city of Arequipa it was a marvelous joint called Manolos. When I was growing up, it was a bakery just down the street almost reverently, lovingly referred to simply as the ‘panaderia.’ A place to get together where no uniformed body will dirty look you if you just want a glass of water. Of course, bottled water is so much more chic.
At our old Starbucks a young vocalist would drop in from time to time with her guitar. She’d sing all the old easily harmonized stuff like ‘Leavin on a Jet Plane’ and I’d crowd in beside her, adding my rusty alto to her light tones. She didn’t play for tips. She just played because it was fun and a nice place to be. Some people listened. The odd participant joined in. Most just enjoyed her without appearing to, lost in their own books or exchanges of information. Friends. Warmth. Easy-going hours of respite. No schedule or time squeeze.
I’m homesick for this place. Let me know if you’ve found it.