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11:03 a.m. - 2005-07-28
reflections on consuming coffee and where
So I was at the coffee shop the other day, reading my new book which is not NEARLY as satisfying as J.K. Rowling's latest work of genius, which I have finished and which left me feeling empty now that it's over...

The coffee shop I go to regularly is pretty much in the ghetto. It's an eclectic, arty, organicy place visited by individuals with varying levels of tattooes, piercings and varying levels of deoderant usage. My people. I'm not really one of those people, but I feel settled and comfortable being in their midst. Nothing is more calming than a glimpse of torn fishnets and combat boots and a whiff of indignant B.O. mixed with the smells of cilantro and vegetarian chilli wafting from the kitchen.

While inside the urban vegans read and smoke and bitch about the president, outside, the prostitutes saunter by, crack addicts fight with each other and cry and make up, and people wait for the bus or stand near the people waiting for the bus, hoping for change or an audience.

Inside the coffee shop feels quite safe and I wonder if I feel safe because it's almost all white people with the occasional rastafarian in dreads and glasses comes in for a cup of tea to drink while he writes music in the corner. When I walk outside to my car, I hurry a little. I'm not afraid...really. But I'm not 100% comfortable like I am inside. I don't want to be asked for change. I don't want to be bothered.

We, inside, probably think we're really cool, really progressive, really brave for venturing into the ghetto to consume our fair trade, shade grown caffeine. And maybe, to some people, we are...I know plenty of folks who think you automatically get shot if you are white and you walk down that street. Where people get those doctored views of reality and why they decide to believe them, I'm not sure...

The point is just that I love it that the coffee shop isn't in a strip mall. I love it that the neighborhood has real character and some real characters...like the woman who comes in and asks me very politely if she can use my cell phone at least once a week. I dial the number for her to make sure she's not calling China and let her use it, though I admit that I am silently praying that she doesn't run off with it. I love this place, but right outside it's door is a different world that feels less safe and less sensible and less predictable. The people that hang out outside rarely come inside. A few do, out of desperation...bathroom...a coffee with the dollar they came up with...But they know they aren't really welcome. No one would say that out loud, ever. Because, come on...we, the people behind the glass steamed up by organic Chai...we're the ones that know what the word gentrification means and we're certainly not doing it ourselves. Are we?

I live five blocks from this place, so I know I have every right to be there. There's nothing wrong with it. I can get coffee wherever I want, and this place is much better than most in terms of what they sell, how much it costs and the general purpose of their business (to feed people good, healthy, affordable food and provide great local art and music.) But if I didn't notice and acknowledge the people outside in relation to us, within, I'd be a little worried about myself.

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