Now that coffee is supposedly good for you, I’ve suddenly lost my taste for it. Now, contradicting my recent purposeful declaration to several friends that I, in fact, didn’t like tea and all and was tired of trying to, I now love tea and wake up craving it. This, after several years of unsuccessfully trying to get off the coffee.
It was a conversion of factors. Chronologically it went down like this: The guy who’d cleaned my house a few times just stopped showing up, and stopped returning my phone calls. At first he pled strep throat, true. But it’s three weeks later and he’s as gone as the May moonlight. Coffee connection? I worked at the coffee house in my neighborhood – that’s how I found him. And I liked him a lot! He was ok. I trusted him in my house. And he blew me off! Even after I recommended him to the whole listserv. Maybe he didn't like our arrangement of one room a week, but I was flexible on that. And I don't think there were that many skeletons laying around that he'd be that frightened of my house. Anyway, he doesn’t work at the coffee house any more, but the association remains, and I can't help but wonder if whatever I did to make him disappear has bled over to the coffee house? I don't know, because I have no idea why he disappeared! Some people are just irresponsible, I guess. Darn it.
Which on it’s own would be scant force to break the coffee addiction, so then comes factor number two. The burns. While I was on house arrest (the doctor’s orders week for healing) I had no way of getting my coffee. At first I was scared to death – how was I going to make it? Would I get gruesome caffeine withdrawal headaches? But on the second day I decided to do a bit of a cleansing diet and put it out of my mind.
Emerging, the first thing I did was stop by the coffee house and get my ritual Americano. But it was bitter, I didn't like it, and I didn’t finish it(!). The next day I woke up wanting a cup of tea. So I stopped by the Park Avenue on the way to work to get one. I know, way more expensive than making my own tea, but I really used to enjoy going to the coffee shop first thing in the morning, for there I was always greeting with a smile, someone saying my name, maybe even telling me that I looked nice or pretty or something, asking me how things were, telling me about their life or their day. Living alone, this friendly way to begin my morning trek to work really gave me a morale boost. But the staff has turned over and the guys working there now are, though completely competent and decent seeming, just not exuding the warmth that I used to feel from Chad and Cole and Dale and Marilyn. I don't even think they remember my name. It's kind of depressing. Not once has one of them ask me how things are, or complinented my outfit, or whatever. That may sound babyish to say, but the thing is it was a big part of why the coffee ritual there was important to my life. The charm of my morning coffee stop is gone, it doesn’t feel so personal any more, and no one made a Thai iced like Chad did, and he’s long gone, and now they are weaker and waterier and don’t have the love in them that made them so fine, and no one ever even asked if they are ok. So now I feel just as happy making my tea at work.
Which is all sad, but also good, in that my health will probably improve and my budget certainly will. And I'm enjoying the birth of this new tea ritual, which itself is full of rich potential. There is so much in tea. So much history. So many tangents. I could pick a culture -- Turkey, India, Japan, Persia -- and explore the life of tea in it. One culture at a time. Slow little journeys through the east, coming home again, the land and the dishes and the mannerisms and the importance of community, which is the other thing that makes me sad about the House Help and the coffee shop. Those were parts of the fabric of this community I've grown fond of. The motions and sounds of connection, little waves, touches and brushes on my quiet little shore line.
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