Cafe-hopping and long-distance walking
The transient nature of all things beautiful, their decay in real time, my refusal to let them go.
Saturdays with the sun brilliantly illuminating every corner of the town are the perfect excuse for spending £4 (yay inflation) for a coffee. In my defense I like the taste of artisanal coffee, appreciate the latte art, and have the rule of always sitting in and staying for a good two hours and truly taking in the vibes of a cafe if I’m going alone. And I plan things out: now I only block out entire mornings for cafes if I wake up with that distinctly energetic feeling — my head feels incredibly clear, my thoughts are coherent and substantial, and I almost can’t wait to read this book, annotate that paper, work on this essay, write that chapter. Which is exactly what happened this morning so I packed my iPad in Mom’s purple leather bag (which I reserve for non-work occasions only given its size) and headed down Regent’s Street to Bould Brothers, squinting because of the sunlight.
They were as atmospheric as any chic (and thus pricey) cafe would be with their indie music playing rather prominently, its synth beats and lyrics more hummed than sung and filling up the space of which there isn’t too much, their seats were quite tightly packed though the ceiling was still high enough to not make one feel suffocated. The interior design was what stands out to me the most, though: quite bold with colors, abstract in contour and diverse in cultural influences, having a very expressionist outlook to it. I somehow always find myself sitting in the row of small round tables opposite of the counter and ordering a flat white, which did cost £4.1 but their latte art is always so immaculate and the leaf had so many perfect ripples and there was just something about them slowly disintegrating with each tiny sip I took that I could not resist admiring. The transient nature of all things beautiful, their decay in real time, my refusal to let them go.
In between my readings (as expected I completely failed to understand whatever the mathematical foundations of latent semantic analysis are) I eavesdropped on a pair of American girls studying at Stanford’s Nursing School discussing their college applications (“I applied to 40 colleges”) and later on a middle-aged Cambridge local befriending the owner’s dog. It was massive and sleek with its black fur kept so immaculate and shiny, and its large brown eyes almost seemed intelligent. Majestic in its pose, it barely moved when I tried to walk around it to get a glass of water.
Though it was a Saturday morning by 11:30 it was still empty enough to not make me feel pressured to leave, and finishing up the last sentence in a book section I exchanged a friendly thank-you to the barista who was the sweeter type, she did the whole “how are you” and “enjoy” and “thank you very much” from start to finish even after I practically spent the whole morning there, which some people no longer do toward the end presumably because they think I’ll never give up my seat. Outside the sun shone even more brightly and it suddenly occurred to me that I still had an entire afternoon to kill so I thought why not go to Stir, the one in Chesterton which is so far away from City Center I’ve only been there once maybe a year ago.
On my half-hour walk there I tried for the thousandth time to analyze why I am so drawn to spending time in cafes, a hobby which isn’t necessarily expensive but certainly never necessary. First and foremost is definitely my inherent interest and general curiosity in people, friends and strangers alike, the very act of observing others and building mental profiles of them never fails to entertain me. What they wear, order, talk about, how they act and react, what they’re thinking and feeling. If they ever pay attention to my existence (probably and to an extent hopefully not). The general chatter and liveliness of cafes as well: maybe it is to trick my brain into thinking I’m socializing, to have some contrast to my quiet little room. A performative element, perhaps, of concentrating on something useful to fit the aesthetic of a cafe and make my bill worth it, which never fails to bring me into that wonderful flow state. The thrill of an escapade, I’m packing only things I will need into a tiny bag (that also looks good enough to me) and maybe I will never come back again, I can run away into another city if I wanted to and have enough things to occupy my brain with for the next week at least. A rather fundamental reluctance to stay in my room when the sun is out.
I arrived at Stir a little past 12 and it was perfectly lively with just a few seats left. Coincidentally I sat right next to the table as I had last time and faced the counter; the cafe being so faraway was quite spacious with lots of outdoor seats as well. The interior was less artsy than Bould Brothers and more homely, the overarching color palette being warm and wooden. The practical side of my brain had already decided to get a Tesco’s meal deal for lunch on the way (RUN AWAY from their Thai red curry wrap) and pay for another flat white — which was decently priced, £3.5 sitting in — instead of paying at least £10 for brunch food which usually looks fancier than it tastes and which I save only for socializing purposes.
The waiter was very enthusiastic and considerate; the man sitting next to me was visibly irritated when he insisted to leave because he had been waiting for his brunch for an hour and the waiter apologized gracefully and profusely, offering him almond croissants which the man politely declined (“thank you that’s very kind”) and his annoyance softened as he left saying “see you next time.” Hiding behind my massive copy of The Age of Innocence I once again marveled at every such ebb and flow of human emotion and dynamics both in fiction and in real life. After two hours or so it was my time to get the bill and this time the waiter wished me a wonderful day and getting up and replying “thank you you too” I decided there was nothing better than to randomly walk further down Chesterton.
As the tentative title of this post extended from Cafe-hopping to Cafe-hopping and long-distance walking (I am already letting the urge to write about my days dominate my mind and by extension my life) I thought about the joys of spontaneity. I took turns based entirely on which path looked more interesting rather than what Google Maps told me to do and that was probably my closest approximation to true agency in life. I have no sense of direction anyway so I didn’t even think about which direction in general I should be headed until the next hour. And apart from the luxurious sunshine there wasn’t anything remarkable per se, the sidewalks were narrow and the neighborhoods more quiet than quaint, but the novelty of it all, the caffeine rush, my unanalyzable happy mood sent me all the way down Chesterton Road, then at some point Milton Road, and finally coming back from the other side of Jesus Green. I began very acutely to regret wearing my Docs and the last fifteen minutes were arguably the most painful in moments in my life.
But it was a good walk. One long enough for my mind to sink into monotonous repetitions of single musical phrases which I hummed out loud when there was no one around (lots of The Marriage of Figaro, which I’m seeing tomorrow at the Royal Opera House — my best impulse purchase so far, hopefully) or single sentences (the decision tree of life operates just like this crossroad: I am pushed by many different of influences which form some net direction forward that stays more or less the same even in another possible world) until the physical exhaustion and pain from my blisters made the single thought of when will I reach my room (I still call it “my room” and not “my home” or “home”) take up the entirety of my mind. And remarkably enough this time I didn’t crash afterwards; my mind is still active enough as I am now typing these lines.
I am painfully aware that this borders upon simply journaling — and even worse, journaling to the public — but today is one of those days in which my romantic cells decide to make beauty out of the mundane and I walk down streets with that nostalgic digital-camera filter on and every scene feels like a movie. I didn’t feel the compulsion to photograph a lot though, and to an extent to aestheticize is to disengage from the immediate experience and re-evaluate the whole scene from a removed standpoint and I didn’t want to do that. But I’m doing the same thing with words anyway and nothing ends anything better than a touch of meta-irony.
