When I left for Edinburgh, Scotland to study abroad in January 2016, I arrived in a cold, gray, dismal country with unfamiliar customs and a wind chill that shook me to my core. After a winter break spent with all the people I loved most, I had never felt so alone.
My flat was in a modern building in New Town, several miles north of the college and, subsequently, most of the pubs, restaurants, and clubs where students hung out. My room was a stark, nearly blinding white. It was always cold.
It didn’t take me long to realize I wasn’t spending any more time in those cramped, sterile quarters than I had to. Outside the weather was inhospitable, yes, but there was only one way to survive the suffocating silence and isolation of my flat. (It involved ungodly amounts of liquor – several bottles a week. I did rely on this most nights, but it wasn’t sustainable to keep up during the days, too.)
So I wandered. And when I got tired, I hopped on a bus, letting it take me to new and distant parts of the city. And when I needed a break from motion, shelter from the rain, or space to read or work on an essay for class, I slipped into a safe haven – a place I knew I’d be welcome, a place where I understood the customs and etiquette, a place I could be around people but remain quiet and anonymous, a place that was familiar even if I’d never actually been there.
Coffee shops became my home.
Over the five months I spent in Edinburgh, I must have hit more than 100. That doesn’t even figure in my weeks of travel across the U.K. and Europe, in which I surely visited dozens more. It was excessive. Several years down the line, I still try not to think about how much money I spent on coffee and croissants.
But when I say coffee shops became my home, I mean I practically lived in them. There were many days when, besides sleeping and classes, I spent every waking hour holed up in the corner of a café.
The air was warm, the atmosphere was cozy, the baristas were friendly, and I could eavesdrop on the general chatter of students and tourists (much better than the deafening silence of my flat).
Compiling a list of new coffee shops I wanted to visit gave me purpose. I found sights, museums, or activities near the shop and planned my day around it, lending structure to an otherwise very unstructured existence. Being around others and trying new places made me feel social and confident – even if I mostly had my nose in a book.
Plus, the food and coffee were outstanding. I still maintain that the best mocha and almond croissant I’ve ever had were at Black Medicine Coffee Co. in Edinburgh.
My dad visited me one weekend in January when the chill in the air was at its most dismal. Years later, he told me he worried about leaving me there all alone – that after just two days, he felt the gray was encroaching on him, strangling him. It would have easily done the same to me if I hadn’t found a network of homes.
***
Edinburgh wasn’t the first place I discovered the magic of coffee shops, nor did I leave this comfort overseas. The winter and spring of 2016 were simply when I allowed myself to establish roots: not in a place, or a person, but in an experience I could find almost anywhere I moved or traveled.
After returning to the States, I did not need to spend the entire day pacing the streets, searching for home. I had my family, my friends, my boyfriend. I felt safe and comfortable and warm in my apartment. In many ways it was a massive relief to brew a simple cup of coffee at home, heat instant oatmeal, eat quickly while dressing for work as the sun rose. It takes a lot of energy to stay out and away, to live on the move. I was so tired.
Still, I carved out mornings here and there to visit my homes. Not every week, and certainly not every day (my wallet especially could not keep taking those hits), but once or twice a month I would go out for coffee.
In Edinburgh I needed to be out so I found things to fill the time: reading, journaling, schoolwork. But what I soon realized, when I tried to do those things at home, was that I worked better in a coffee shop. The quiet buzz and warm, caramelly aromas served as a conduit for my creativity and concentration. I couldn’t get distracted as easily by TV, sleep, or embarrassing deep dives down strange internet holes.
My coffee shop mornings were my time to journal, write letters, draft essays, and work on other mentally or emotionally taxing projects. I figured, if I need to do tough work, I should do it in a place where I feel happy and inspired. Somewhere my soul feels at home. Maybe it’s just a mental trick (and who cares if it is?), but it makes the work seem less formidable.
The work is important, anyway. Writing, whether it’s for school, work, or personal reasons (I struggle to say “pleasure”), is clarifying, restorative, and realigning. I can talk something through with myself in the mirror a hundred times over, but it doesn’t have the same relieving effect. Taking the time to write, to feel connected with a place, is laborious and difficult and tiring, but it also opens a release valve that steadily lets the pressure out.
In coffee shops, where I am comfortable, safe, and by myself but not alone, it is easiest to practice this vulnerability and write what must be said.
***
It is August 2020 in the United States, so I imagine you know where this is heading. Perhaps this post should be titled “In Remembrance of Coffee Shops.” But I need to hold on to the hope that one day, I will be able to squeeze into an empty seat at a community table with my laptop and latte and not worry about whether that decision will kill me.
It’s been more than six months since I’ve sat down in a coffee shop (thankfully, many have precautions in place for to-go orders). As the world crumbles around us, mourning these precious moments feels immensely trivial. Every part of that experience has always been a luxury, a privilege. How can I complain about this when people are unemployed, sick, and dying?
I don’t have a good answer, except that this is a hurt I feel, and it’s small relative to other hurts, but it’s one I feel nonetheless.
Since the pandemic arrived in March, bad news on a horrific and outrageous scale keeps funneling in. I read, I listened, I learned. I kept inhaling, silently taking it all in, with no thoughts of exhalation. Sure, I lost my job for a spell, I was severely depressed, and out here in the mountains, I’ve never felt so alone – but with everything going on in the world, what do I really have to complain about? What right do I have to vocalize my silly little thoughts and sadnesses?
I will drown if I don’t exhale. The obsessive doomscrolling results from this obligation I feel to be an informed and useful member of society. But it’s not helpful to simply absorb so many terrible events that you crumble under the weight of them all.
I need my heart and soul intact to survive and go on to be helpful. Maybe they won’t be at 100%, but they can be strong enough to sustain me. So, where do I turn when I need to channel strength and reconnect with my roots?
The answer is clear – except, for the first time, it’s out of reach.
Many days I feel like I’m looking for something, only I can’t remember what that something was, and I realize after a few confused, panicky minutes that the item I’m searching for is no longer in my possession. Subconsciously, I’m always scratching at the question: Where is home?
My network of homes seemed so stable, so reliable. Real, tangible places waiting to welcome me wherever I roamed. I didn’t think anything less than the apocalypse could have upended this vast root system, yet here we are.
I don’t know when it will be safe again to spend a long morning sipping on a cold brew, nibbling on a bear claw, and scribbling in my journal while gazing out the window and listening in on interesting conversations around me. To see another man or woman my age typing away on their laptop at the table next to me and wonder if they’re a graduate student working on an essay for class, an aspiring screenwriter hammering away at their script, or maybe a Casual Fan™ maintaining an impressively straight face as they complete the next chapter of their erotic fanfic.
There goes the feeling: the realization that I don’t have what I’m looking for. Like a sudden drop off a cliff.
Maybe it will be months, or years, before I can reestablish this habit. Maybe it will never look the same. For now, I will brew coffee each morning and sip it quietly in my apartment. I will read, or write, and try to create a new routine – a good routine – that inspires me and gets me out of bed in the morning.
Ultimately, the home I find in coffee shops is a feeling. And if it’s a feeling, that means I can find – or create – it anywhere. Even within myself.
