A few weeks ago I felt quite sorry for myself (long before Katrina, when I didn’t yet feel ashamed to feel sorry for myself). It was Friday evening and I was still at work finishing a report. Usually I leave work earlier on Fridays and I enjoy some Anto quality time by myself. I love spending time in coffee shops. It reminds me of Italy. The combination of being by myself and being in a social environment–creating a sort of semipermeable boundary between me and the world–soothes my soul. I love watching people, reading a book or a magazine, and sipping a good decaf latte.
(After a long period of initial diffidence, I started enjoying Starbucks, especially when they added sandwiches to their menu. For some reason a cafe is not really a cafe for me if it doesn’t serve some salty food. But my favorite coffee place by far is the Gryphon Cafe in Wayne)
So, that Friday I was all stressed out because the report took much longer than I hoped, and I was tired after a long week, it was dark outside, and I wanted to go home. So I called Scott and I asked him: “Can you please make a coffee shop for me?” And he said, “Sure.”
When I arrived home, our dining room, which after months of slow and painful work was finally painted and organized, had been transformed in a coffee shop. Scott found two picnic tables in the basement and some white tablecloths I didn’t even know we had, organized chairs, plants, and candles to create a perfect european cafe atmosphere.
(Note: You will be surprised to learn that Scott really wanted me to write a post on this. About every couple of days he would ask me, “have you written about the cafe in your blog yet?” Yes, he can be really nice at times. Yes, I am grateful and feel fortunate, but I still reserve the right to be mad at him sometimes.)
Our dining room is still a coffee shop. This is where I blog and I spend most of my time when I am at home being myself (that is, not doing laundry, washing dishes, or paying bills). I think Virginia Woolf would be pleased.