A Lesson from a Barrista During a Sunday Morning in Cambridge

The following entry makes me realize that I'm one of those people who posts obscure things on their facebook status, like:
"Coffee, tea, love, peace, sun= Great day." Or "Friends, cuddling on the couch with my cat on the fire place with wine=awesome." I'm guilty. Sue me [Or sew me.... Sue me. That's how you spell it. I think]. I'm an aesthetically oriented person; heavily influenced by my surroundings and I'm kind of right brained.


There are very few things in life that I love more than Sunday sunny fall mornings in Cambridge. Young couples with their children, old couples bickering during their traditional Sunday morning coffee, the sun-
THE SUN!
And the breeze? Awesome.
Why isn't it awesome in Beverly? It's awesome there too, but in Cambridge it's like 5 times better. Maybe it's the red brick, maybe it's all the action. I don't why. It just fills me with an incredible feeling that I'm in some cool movie and that music from the Garden State is playing in the background, especially when the leaves are yellow and green and red and amazing. I wish there was something concrete I could tell you about the reasons why this feels so glorious to me and alltogether cathartic--catharsis, yes. That's the perfect word to describe it. There's nothing concrete about it; atleast not that I know of.
But there's something about the smiley, touchy barristas at 1369 and the otherwise, odd combination of people, reading everything from mystery novels to archeological studies to New York Times Best Sellers to Elmo coloring books. There's something about Inman Square and the fact that they have their own journal where locals write essays and poetry (The Inman Review); the fact that the tiny yoga studio-art gallery-jazz club-concert venue-book club locale  is right next to it. Folks are sitting, standing, waiting for buses and people, and living life together. It's vibrant, it's diverse, it's beautiful and it's what life is about for me. Community.
1369 is like a family's klitchen during breakfast, except with music in the background.  The barristas playing the hipster version of your mother offering you breakfast, "Some yogurt, honey?"
Except these hipster-versions-of-your-mom know that you don't drink milk because of the hormones that are pumped into the cows or something and you that you want granola with your yogurt. 
The cafe-goers next to you, your brothers and sisters, except you actually want to talk to them and find out why they're reading Three Cups of Tea and what intrigues them about the newspaper this morning.
It's a cooler family than yours and you can leave the table without asking for permission if you get indigestion.  Uncle Jim isn't there to embarass you. Instead, you find the guy with the flower-print short who is talking to himself rather endearing and an essential part of your quirky cafe family.
Even more so, since the Lily Pad is right next door-as we previously established-and you go to yoga there with three of the same people that attend 1369 every Sunday morning, you may see them at an art gallery or two and you feel that you are part of something.  You're part of this painting here with jazz, intellectualls, hipsters, mom's, dad's, the other dad, weird-but-beautiful-crazies, and you feel beautiful in it.
This morning the barista with the oversized glasses. Ok. one of the baristas with the oversized glasses said to the other one,
"We were just using how you work as a metaphor."
"Shottily?" says, the guy with the  "Old blood, New Skin" tattoo---
Or was it "Old Skin, New Blood" tattoo?
Anyways...they laugh and Glasses-guy adds, "Slow and ineffectively?"

I thought about the fact that this barrista's "slow and ineffective" work-style is a laughing matter and something that everyone is ok. with. Maybe I'm totally missing what was meant and taking this brief conversation out of context. But in so far as it makes me feel better about my life, I feel that this is a worthy move.
Because I would describe my work ethic as shotty, slow and inefficient and because  I usually cannot laugh about it. Instead cry about it. A lot. I get nervous and when confronted with work that is hard I often get this overwhelming sensation in my lower back, causing me to feel like going to the bathroom. But laughter....never thought about it.
Laughter says it's OK that you are this way. The Blood-skin-tattoo guy took his time to make my latte. He had 4 cups lined in a row before mine to fill. His latte-art was-kind of non-existent. Much like my own work-whether it's school work or work work. But instead of taking my time I start to believe that I'll somehow make it better by frantically rushing and then, dropping pens and tripping over my shoe laces. I should laugh like he did. And I should take my time. And if someone has to wait. Then so be it. 'Cause I'm doing my best.
:) So there. I'm done.

Family

I remember it like yesterday. I was invited to Chuckee Cheese for her little sister's birthday. My mom bought her a Thumbelina VHS from Avon, the line my mom used to sell. The video was probably just as expensive as any of the other presents because Avon overprices things, but that's besides the point. She looks at my mom's gift and says, "That's it?" with a look of horror. Her mother quickly sushes her. Literally: "Ssshh." I just stared with all the colorful balls and paper tickets blurring in the background, while she took center stage.
The other day I had the experience of inviting them over as my guests. For the first time in my life, these people were in my house. I wasn't the one tip toeing into conversations, twiddling my thumbs or getting forgotten next to the heater for forty five minutes while having to pee when playing hide and seek at 8. They were in my hippie house, of course. So she says, "What's up with the pool table in the backyard?" I chuckle and tell her that it was my housemates' idea. "Oh....I guess it fits with the overall (pause) feel of the house."
 My cousin hasn't changed much, I guess. Whether she was 9 or 24, it's the same disdain for things beneath her. But one thing has changed: I've stopped envying her and that side of my "family."  They came to a place that has come to be an emotional refuge for me, where people have healed a lot of my wounds through their genuine love, candor, simplicity and support. So that while the paint on the porch is chipped and our walls stained, our backyard a collage of tarp, chipped pool table and wood, our inner world is radiant. With all of them standing beside me, I heard her disdainfully raise her nose and completely check-out at my bbq, but this time she was the one blurring in the background. My friends who have become like my family took the spotlight and so did my mother, who used to stand at the margins of their conversations during Christmas.

Dad

I met you today,
during a story.
And let my guts pour out all over the floor
over and over...
My life just lying there on the ground, for everyone to see
as I chewed and processed publicly

My heart melted when I heard a piece of me was a freedom fighter
sometime
long before I was born
And that his spirit, I still carry

If you're cool and you're reading this, this is not for you

I wanted nothing more than to dance salsa tonight. And it seemed like the conditions were perfect: It wasn't  one hundred and three degrees outside; I returned from the mall with an end-of-the-work-week reward for myself; i.e. a beautiful mahogany bag and gorgeous earrings. I wasn't feeling like a cow and felt confident enough to go out. So I call and text a couple of folks, all of whom are willing to go somewhere but not "all the way to Boston" and surely not to dance salsa.
Ok.
I set my Pandora station to Marc Anthony radio and get ready to go out by myself. Yes, I was going to do it. I was going to venture into this uncharted territory: Going dancing by oneself; treating your relationship with Boston as though you were a married couple trying to revive the flame by acting as though you were on a first date with the place. I was going to be a tourist in Boston with all the daring energy in the world. My cocktail dress was played down by a sloppy bun so as to not look too enticing--I didn't want to get hit on by creepy men.
And then...
I was anxious.
I was ready to go, but thought:
Where will I leave my purse when I am on the dance floor?
And how will I come off: A young woman by herself at a club, ripe for any man to come onto her?
Of course I wasn't afraid of the handsome professionals going to dance salsa after a long work week, who would impress me with great conversation and wit. I was worried about Panchito and his friend Hector, who resemble the men who are most likely to approach me and then ask me awkward questions with sexual innuendos. They'll be 2 feet shorter than me with huge mustaches. Oh, and one of my headlights needs a new bulb and I might get pulled over by the cops.

Before I knew it, my anxieties had defeated me and there was no salsa, no beautiful heels on wooden floors. No memories of Antiguo San Juan and a rekindling of that old Latin flame that still burns inside of me--somewhere--in a dark corner with cobwebs, probably in the basement of my soul.
Instead, I had traded my night of salsa for a party in Beverly--still in the clothes I would have gone dancing in, mind you. You might think that wearing the same clothes I would wear salsa dancing to a party is not that strange. Oh, but it is. Because Beverly parties are not like other parties. People dress in flannel here.
Also, people walk away from you when they don't like what you're saying, which is about 90% of the time for me.  And if they don't know you, they might turn their backs to you. Literally. You might not be able to tell whether you should continue a conversation because they may become uncomfortable with how long the conversation is going or with the dynamic of it all. They may prefer to talk about the word "sex" or "fuck" or cigarettes. If you mention something serious, they may just walk away because it's not in their repertoire of approved topics.
But it's ok. because I'm still seeking to understand people who are different than me. It's the only way to be. And of course, there were lovely people there. People who know me and who I appreciate dearly. It's just those folks I don't know, who I judge intently when they do things that are foreign to me and weird. And then I realize, there are some people who don't act this way, even in Beverly. And coincidentally, they are older and their jobs look a little different and their thoughts are consumed with other topics. So maybe tonight was ok. afterall.
And maybe one day I'll be surrounded with people who will want to dance salsa with me and wear heels and makeup, and maybe they'll want to live in the manifestation of their roots; of their culture; of what makes their heart beat. For now, the hearts of those who surround me beat for something different than me. And it's a tension I must learn more about.
 

If you find yourself in bed, crying now
No room to breathe
Know that pictures of your seemingly mundane life will soon make sense in the context of pictures of your future travels
You will look back at it all
Just when you think you're being complacent
Just when you think you are stuck
Songs of melancholy will turn into songs of depth
Perspective will rise from routine

You will see these photographs that are now melancholy, mundane, just evidence that you are stuck
You will see them in black and white and sepia
These, that seem so common place to you now
As they age, these will increase in value
And you will treasure their cracks and folded over corners

Food

I ate 7 Starbursts today--or maybe 10. One typically looses track of how many Starburst he/she eats after you pop that first one.
Oh, and I ate bread. And it wasn't even whole grain!
And best of all, I ate a buffalo chicken wrap. Out of all of the bad things I ate today, I look back at this item of food with the least regret because, to be honest, I didn't enjoy it. Especially not the blue cheese. But the Starbursts. Those were good. And so was the bread.

Question: Why exactly are you happy about the fact that you didn't enjoy the buffalo chicken wrap in all of it's cheesy glory? Answer: Because this is indicative of the fact that my body is learning to love itself and my taste buds are totally riding that wave-length and learning to love vitamin-filled vegetables .

People are telling me I look thin. And when I look at myself, I am happy. Best of all, I feel comfortable in my own skin.  But the fear of going back to a place where my hips protrude and my thighs rub together hangs over me with every Starburst and piece of white bread that enters my mouth. As soon as I taste the sugar and the starch I feel my thighs expand slightly and think about how much yoga I must do to get the fat to turn into muscle.
And as you hear me, you may think this is anorexia. But no, my friends, sadly, this is what women think about. All the time. Especially when you're not naturally a size 5.

Good morning

It's morning and the air filling my room is crisp and cool-like fall. And fall soothes me in a way no other season can. I wish there was a newspaper to pick up on the front porch so I could read it with tea in the kitchen or living room. Except we don't use those common areas in this house. We still haven't kicked the college dorm room habit, so we drink tea and read the imaginary newspaper in our rooms. My room is mustard yellow and beaming with the highlights of the sun that come through the curtains. 


It is morning and everything is fresher than it was towards the end of yesterday. Wait, why was I mad last night again? Now, I'm slightly embarrassed that I ever felt negative feelings at all. 


It's Saturday and the thought of have tos came into my mind briefly in my sleep. 
-"Have to get up and go to yoga...." 
-No, you don't have to. Have to's are for Mondays, and Tuesdays and Wednesdays. 


Saturdays are for sleeping and feeling the coolness of your sheets on your skin; for letting the sun greet you in place of a loud annoying alarm.
-Why, hello Mr. Sun. Come in.