I recently met an acquaintance at work, whom I haven’t seen for a while. We chatted for a few minutes, standing between the desks and blocking the path for all who needed to squeeze past us. Then I offered that we could go and have coffee, to which he replied “I don’t drink coffee.”
Duh!
I keep forgetting this is Canada. Coffee is only a beverage you purchase and burn your tongue with, if you’re not careful. I can’t seem to wrap my head around the complete lack of what I call
the coffee-culture here, in my new homeland. Canadians picked up so much from all parts of the world, they look at Europe as a cradle of culture. Yet, they missed this coffee thing by a mile.
I spent the previous two thirds of my life in Croatia. There, as in every other Mediterranean country, when you went to a café, it’s presumed that you’ll spend some time in it. You opened a newspaper and, sooner or later, a friend, or a few, will come by and join you. We had cafes where we met casually, and cafes where we held more serious talks—the latter being of an upper-scale kind. Café was a meeting place, even an extension of your own home; you knew the waiters and they knew you; people from your social circle knew where to find you and you always knew where to go when you had time on hand. In the country notorious for business meetings that never resolved anything, café was the place where all the parties went after the unsuccessful meeting and where, more often then not, they found the solution and agreement. Many a business proposal was drafted on a napkin with a logo of a café in one of the corners.
And the funny thing is—I didn’t even drink coffee then.
To me,
going for coffee is a social process. It means sitting down with a friend, leaving off your cell phone, your lap-top and all other distractions, and having a
conversation. Whether it happens over a cup of
coffee, or some other beverage, is beyond the point. What matters is that, for the duration of that drink, I give my full attention to a fellow human being. I know, that seems to be quite a foreign concept lately.
The problem, beside the complete lack of the coffee culture, is the lack of real cafes. Oh, don’t even get me started with Starbucks, Tim Horton’s or any other similar franchised disaster. By the nature of the franchise, they are built to look the same. They certainly feel the same, lacking any character whatsoever! They are pit-stops, where coffee-drinkers refill their coffee-tanks and rush away. The interaction with the staff is minimal, and you leave feeling like a number, just another customer with coffee, but without face and identity.
Fifteen years and counting, I’m still searching for a base away from home, a place where a waiter will know my name, where friends will know to find me, where gossip and news will be discussed with mates and strangers alike and where coffee is NOT served in buckets, but rather in a small cup on a small plate with a tea-spoon (why is it never called a coffee-spoon?) and a pack of sugar and cream, together with a glass of water.
Under Heaven by Guy Gavriel Kay
