Beginnings are exhilarating. Then the exhilaration wears off, and I remember that I donβt know what Iβm doing. Thereβs always this brief period where I think, maybe Iβve got it together this time. And then I donβt. Lately, Iβve been trying to stay off social media. I told myself that documenting every legal substance I put into my body was an interesting project. A self-study, maybe. But projects require consistency. And consistency is just another word for productivity. And productivityβonlineβmeans schedules, engagement, routine.
I was never an influencer. Never wanted to be. The only thing Iβve ever wanted to be influenced by is whatever will get me high in the most legal way possible. California sober. Caffeine, mostly. And even then, barely. Some days, I think about adding nicotine to the mix, just to shake things up. I wonβt, though. The romance of it is stronger than the reality.
The other night, my husband and I tried to spend time together and ended up in two different parts of the same city. It happens. We went to Salaβa Cafe in Oakland, took Benny, our dog, because he was due for a walk. He trotted ahead, little legs moving fast, ears twitching at every sound. It was still cold, the kind of cold that settles in your bones but doesnβt quite register as winter. A season in between seasons. The sky was darkening, but the streetlights werenβt fully awake yet, leaving everything in that strange, grainy twilight.
Most cafes were closed. The ones still open had their own kind of glowβwarm, yellow, filled with people trying to finish something. Or pretending to. A guy in the corner muttering to himself, a girl with three textbooks stacked in front of her, earbuds in. The quiet hum of a coffee shop at night. The comfort of it. The illusion of productivity. Salaβa makes a good oat milk latte.
The next morning, we were in Berkeley, at Fellini Coffeebar, next to a place called Bageltopia. A coffee stand. No pretense, no tableside service. You wait in line. They hand you a drink. The kind of place where regulars show up half-awake, hands shoved in jacket pockets, nodding at the barista like itβs a secret club. The coffee is strong, good, but not trying too hard. There are chairs scattered across the pavement, an invitation to sit, or not. Free books, if you want them. I flipped through one, some old, beat-up novel with a strangerβs notes scribbled in the margins. I didnβt take it, but I thought about it.
Say what you want, but Iβve been around, and Iβm convinced: the East Bay has the best coffee shops.
