My Book Café (From Flower Blog Two: Stories From Down Under)

I think, perhaps, I know why I’m in Melbourne. It has nothing to do with finding myself, love, or any other great cosmic purpose; oh no, it’s about the coffee. This city is renowned for producing a good cup of joe and she hasn’t disappointed me. Every latte I’ve had has been blissful; each one made with espresso that has been roasted, ground, and prepared with care and accuracy and milk that has been frothed to perfection. The best of the best, I’m told, can be found at Seven Seeds and while the coffee I had there was quite possibly one of the best I’ve ever had, it’s a different café I’ve decided to frequent for the duration of my stay.

Books? Good. Coffee? Good. I think I'm in love.

I walked past it the first day I was here and I immediately knew it was something special. It’s on Swan Street, just a short walk from my house, and called Book Talk Café. The storefront windows are filled with examples of the “new and pre-loved books” advertised on the sign and the BLT sandwich and two lattes I enjoyed at the café inside didn’t disappoint. Plus coming from a world where most local bookstores have been replaced with big shiny chain stores and the local Starbucks is usually a safer bet for a good latte than the independent place on the corner, it’s just so darn cool (yup there’s that word again) to find a place like this.

The inside of the shop is cozy and welcoming. Tables and shelves of books occupy the front of the store, with a café table or two in between. A sign explains how the store works; i.e. you can buy books, trade books, or sell books. The books are organized by section and, while the space isn’t large enough to house a selection equivalent to that of Barnes and Noble, there seems to be a little of everything. There’s even a good selection of coffee table and other good gift-giving books as well as a new release section. I’m so impressed and excited to find a real live bookstore in my neighborhood, in fact, that I’ve decided to swear off Amazon (do they even have Amazon in Australia?) for the duration of my stay and only shop for books at my little book café.

The café area is in the back half of the store and has a decent amount of seating. There’s even a cozy little area in the very back with a couch, armchairs, and a coffee table. The latte I had there the other day was so delicious I had to have two and, with a café menu that includes both hot and cold options for breakfast or lunch, I can’t think of a reason to go anywhere else. I feel comfortable in that store, I feel at home there drinking lattes among all those books, all those thoughts and words and stories. So even if the coffee was crap (which is most certainly isn’t), I’d return because after a week that felt like a month, in a city where I feel awkward and not at all like myself, a city that is so very far away from home, it’s nice to have a place to go to that feels so comfortable.

One-Way Ticket to Denver

I worked at Starbucks the first summer I lived in Vail. It wasn’t much fun and it didn’t pay well and that’s why I don’t work there anymore. It was, however, a good introduction to the kind of people who visit Vail. I’d always worked food and beverage jobs but until that summer every position had been in South Haven, Michigan. South Haven is a small town on the southeast coast of Lake Michigan and is to Chicago what the Hamptons are to New York City. I felt pretty confident in my ability to handle loud, impatient, ornery, rich tourists when I moved to Vail. I discovered while working at Starbucks, though, that Vail attracts a different breed of ornery rich tourists than my hometown and spent that summer learning how to handle them.

During my time working in Vail coffee shops I’ve seen grown men nearly cry over too much whip cream, been yelled at repeatedly for not offering Splenda, and dealt with 13-year-olds with credit cards and iPhones. My co-worker at Bailey’s Coffee House, which is located in a pavilion on the top of Vail Mountain, was once told she should do something about the poor cell service in the building. The man was very serious and held her personally responsible for the situation.

These people blend together in my head and it takes a unique individual to make an impression, to shine through a crowd of crying children, antsy fanny-pack wearing parents, and frantic foreign nannies. One fellow, a customer who came into Starbucks one day, was the type to make such an impression. He was so fascinating that I still think about him from time to time. He was a giant man, almost too tall to fit through the door. The overstuffed backpack he carried, his tattered clothing, wild dreaded hair, and offensive body odor immediately set him apart from the standard upper class Blackberry-toting Vail Starbucks customer.

He came into Starbucks three times that day. The first time he asked for a taster cup of coffee and he ordered it as if it was just that, a beverage rather than a shot-glass worth of coffee. He accepted the free sample and carefully added a calculated amount of cream and sugar to the small amount of brew. "Peace and love dudes," he said before he exited.

The man returned later with a Starbucks card, a gift a stranger had bestowed on him. He ordered a Venti Italian Roast and told a story about Ethiopians and Italians mixing bloodlines. He said something about there being Italian Ethiopians out there due to a promiscuous Caesar. His eyes were wild as he spoke, wandering in different directions, pausing on me for a moment then flying off in another direction. It was a bit confusing but he held the attention of most of the Starbucks staff and patrons for quite awhile.

I was a bit nervous the third time he came back because I found him to be both intriguing and intimidating. This time he got a slice of carrot cake on my recommendation. He talked about the places he'd been, from Africa to Denmark to Los Angeles. He talked about music and said he'd heard Coldplay once in Denmark and thought Chris Martin was a great guy. He said it as if he knew him and I thought for a split second that perhaps he did. He talked a lot about Starbucks too and said this location was one of the best he'd been too, although he'd been to some nice ones back in LA.

When he was on his way out a woman stopped him and gave him some money. He tried to refuse it, telling her that she had helped him. She said that he had helped her too and that people are just supposed to help each other out like that. He took the money, but it seemed like he really didn't want to, like he just took it as a way to thank the woman.

I saw him later sleeping on a bench in the Vail Transportation Center. As I sat there waiting for my bus I wondered about him. I wondered where he was coming from and where he was going. I wondered where he'd been and how he'd gotten here. I wondered where he'd grown up and how old he was.

A month or so later one of my coworkers and a customer were talking about homeless people and their place, or lack of place, in Vail. My coworker told the customer that a few weeks ago the Greyhound deposited a homeless fellow in Vail. The guy wandered around for a few weeks, came in and out of Starbucks, and slept in the transportation center. One day he came into the shop and said, "The police here are so nice, they just gave me a free one-way ticket to Denver."

Romanian Mami

I met Mami four years ago during my first winter season in Vail. She visits for several weeks at a time, usually over Christmas, and stays at the Marriott. She spends a couple hours every day in Bailey’s Coffee House where I work. Her name is Elena but she insists we call her Mami.

Mami is from Romania but lives in New York City. Her face is jolly and she wears tiny glasses with round frames that rest near the tip of her Cabbage Patch-doll nose. I imagine that with a bit of rouge on her round cheeks she would look like a cartoon. She is short, sturdy, and plump. She is grandmotherly in a wise and endearing way and has a teenage son, Roberto. Mami doesn’t ski she just reads, talks on her cell phone, and drinks her favorite white chocolate mocha, decaf and skinny with lots of syrup, while Roberto skis.

She told me once that I should visit Romania with her. It is a beautiful country, she said, where people drink bottles of wine on the ski slopes and the men are very handsome. She said she will translate for me when I find a good Romanian boy. I should not, however, get married too young; 24, she said, once I told her my age, is too young. She told me she married very well, and by well she means her husband is wealthy (her frequent use of his American Express card proves it), but much too young. She said she is sure I will find a nice boy one day because I’m skinny like she once was.

Mami has lived in Manhattan for about 15 years in an apartment near the World Trade Center site. When she talks about her neighborhood I think of her there on September 11, 2001. I imagine her close to the site of so much tragedy, praying in Romanian, crying, and hugging her son.

Mami never showed up around Christmas this year and I assumed it was due to the economy then she turned up one day in February. When I told her I had been wondering when I would see her this year or if she was coming at all, she started crying. She said she hadn't come over Christmas because her mother passed away and she had to go back to Romania. Then she pulled some photos out of her pocket; one was of her mother as a young woman, another of her mother about a year ago, and the last one was a picture of her mother's body in a casket. The casket was in a house, in what looked like a dining room, and Mami’s father stood next to it, his eyes puffy and red, she said he had wept for days. I was both moved and disturbed and I admired her for being so open with her grief. I didn’t know what to say so as she continued to cry and describe her pain I made her a white chocolate mocha, decaf, skinny, with lots of syrup.