the izz and izznt of coffee shops

a coffee shop is:
a space for [insert any number of activities that you already know a coffee shop is intended or useful or enjoyable for].

a coffee shop ain't:
a space for watching youtube (or lubetube or facebook or netflix or home recording) clips (of a hilarious cat or a most recent sexual partner or your kid's birthday party or a bit by Jimmy Fallon (gawdlovehim!) or your most favouritest TEDtalk or a tragic scene from last night's news) at a volume that any other human can detect with their ears, as though your phone were the television (or radio or computer or morse code transmitter) in your home living room (or bedroom or basement or bathroom...*flush*).

we've been here before. (remember the nail clipper? and Little Miss Dora the Explorer?) yet dogma seems necessary when it's motivated by a reverence for common courtesy.

while we're at it, we might as well cover a few other activites that just aren't ok in a coffee shop, since (apparently) nothing is too obvious. so, you heard it here first, folks: the coffee shop is, unfortunately, also not a space where you can:
-let your dog lift its leg for just a quick pee
-run an up-and-coming clown training program
-have sex
-pedal drugs (though orchestrating pyramid schemes -- provided they're cleverly disguised as self-confidence-boosting small-business ventures -- regularly proves to be a kosher practice)
-can preserves so you can enjoy peach slices or pickled eggs or strawberry-rhubarb jam all year round
-draw chalk outlines on the floor, as though the coffee shop were a crime scene
-hurl doughnuts (whether fresh or stale) or cranberry-bliss bars at someone seated across the room
-use a sharpie to draw movember moustaches on the faces of strangers' babies, claiming it's all in the name of prostate cancer awareness

the list goes on, of course. feel free to contribute your own.

and now back to translating...

yappy days

imagine the sound of a parakeet. a squawking parakeet. a squawking parakeet with a penchant for hitting higher decibels and octaves than you'd thought possible.

or

imagine a high school hallway floor freshly washed by the janitor and now overcome by sneaker-sporting teens incessantly twisting about (like wedding guests on the dance floor, hypnotized by Chubby Checker's dogma), and digging deeper with every stop it already from the principal and teachers.

now imagine that that parakeet / those sneaker-sporting teens on a wet floor are dressed up for hallowe'en (more of a "trick" than a "treat") like a small yappy dog that's been tied to the bike rack just on the other side of the coffee shop window. and that its owner, seated comfortably on the inside of the café, thinks this is all very cute and, therefore, smiles and carries on with her saturday leisure reading.

and now back to translating...

cuckoo for coconut

six mocha coconut frappuccino samplers.
barely anyone in the coffee shop.
the barista circulates with her sampler tray.
no takers.
these thirty seconds after the samplers have been prepped, she returns, disappointed, to her station behind the counter.
manager, without flinching: ok. throw them out. if no one wants them in the next five minutes, chuck them. they'll start melting.

just a mocha coconut frappuccino reminder that we -- in our business- and consumer-obsessed world -- are effed. (alas, that's as much originality, subtlety and poetry as this moment will allow.)

and now back to translating...

all reptile, no magic

enter a puffy-chested man. caucasian. mid-height. fortysomething.

in spite of the bit of John Goodman hanging over his belt, he looks a whole lot like Don Johnson: tight white tee, wannabe gentleman's blazer, and the presumption that he's "all the ladies want" spewing out from his hair gel.

he places his drink order.

the barista enquires as to whether Puff would like his beverage made with whole milk. affirmative. then: hesitation, distrust. quickly inflating his chest further, Puff lets out: sorry, um, is this the first time you're making that drink?

affirmative.

at once, and deadpan, Puff signals to the other, more familiar barista (has he just snapped his fingers at him?): yeah, could you make my drink for me instead?

at which point a silent cloud of smoke seems to bleed from the collective nostrils of the other customers.

and now back to translating...

voices

here's what i first hear from the table nearby: you say you wanna go downtown? but we're already downtown, Buddy. the words are followed by a little chuckle -- a friendly sound that carries a hint of a kindly father speaking to his six-year-old kid.

i haven't looked up yet from the document i'm translating. i don't look up until i hear the same voice gently say: i don't think she heard you, Buddy. 

that's when i notice the twenty-year-old guy, wearing a black ball cap, black spongy runners, and thick unmatched socks pulled halfway up his calves, who's sitting at the same table as the thirty-something voice.

with an innocent, endearing, goofy grin on his face, Twenty slowly turns around to look me in the eyes and repeats what he'd apparently said before: hi. then he adds, articulating the syllables equally slowly: you're beautiful. i thank him, a couple of times (beaming goofily now myself), and then Voice -- clearly yet calmly proud of Twenty -- says, still with the hint of kindly parent: yep, that's how you make friends, Buddy. you say hello, and then they say hello back.

immediately, Twenty -- whom i can't take my eyes off of -- turns to the young woman at the table on the other side of them. hi. you're beautiful! he says.

the woman responds much like i had. and then, through more friendly chuckling, Voice announces: ok, Buddy, i'll take you downtown now.

Twenty slowly, eagerly stands up from the table and moves towards the door, completely unaware (it would seem) of his precarious footing, and having perhaps already forgotten about the other woman and me. but no one minds. the thrill and urgency of getting downtown are palpable and contagious. and, besides, we are now all basking drunk in the loud sun of friendship.

and now back to translating...

patchouli and hoohas

these are the yoga scents and twenty-year-old-girl sights privileged at the coffee shop today.

and now back to translating (with my nose plugged and eyes closed)...

Sun Day

every Ottawan longs for the same momentous day of the year. no, not the day the canal opens for skating; (certainly) not Canada Day; not the day when we find out whether the Sens have made the playoffs either (though yesterday afternoon's elgin street party may suggest otherwise).

no: what Ottawans collectively and viscerally yearn for is today -- Sun Day! the first day of the calendar year when we can finally go outside without having to wear a balaclava and waffle-textured undergarments. the day when people are instantly pulled from the depths of their months-long winter bitterness and reach new heights of delirious optimism.

and so, outside, the patios are once again busting at the seams with giddy patrons. and the east shore of the canal is newly littered with bikini'd women (while piles of snow still cover the ground on the opposite side of the currently unkempt waterway).

enthusiasm is equally "everywhere" inside the coffee shops. iced teas and lemonades are the order of the day; a six-year-old boy has just wrapped his little mouth eagerly around the spout of the self-serve metal cooler that dispenses citrus water (sucking plenty hard on the teat); and, through a big-but-bashful smile, an eight-year-old girl is now waving vigorously at me from across the way.

Little Eight's enthusiasm is particularly notable because, after sitting down with her family, she proceeds to pass by me some ten times, deliberately trying to make eye contact with me, each time throwing a giant grin my way but never saying anything, in spite of my returned smiles and eventual hello.

she's clearly coming up with excuses to pass by -- throwing a straw in the nearby garbage; fetching yet another glass of citrus water (evidently unaware of Little Six's earlier visit). she seems to know me. but i have no idea who she is or how i've managed to attract her wonderful attention. (admittedly, i start to wonder whether i have some lunchtime burrito bits trapped in my hair.)

then i remember how things often come in threes. in this case, the threes of familiar-ish faces:

ONE: when i first arrived at the caé, i saw the lookalike of a guy i briefly dated a couple of years ago (a kind of hallucination that required an anxiety-ridden double-take to confirm away).
TWO: while in line, i ended up beside the manager of one of the campus coffee shops (who awkwardly seemed to not want to recognize me).
THREE: this little girl, who -- i now realize -- i saw for the first time earlier this morning. she was in the elevator with her mom, heading out for a bike ride together, and had been just as shy-meets-smiley then, saying goodbye to me with that same enthusiastic wave as i exited our apartment building lobby.

this is, i think, what we really love about Sun Day: in the wake of winter's inadvertent everyday scowling, Sun Day brings smiles that are delivered repeatedly and for no reason at all.

and now back to translating...