Everybody needs a place to get away from it all. For me, that place is the coffee shop. Not just any coffee shop, either. This coffee shop is special. This coffee shop is mine.
There are four couches, six armchairs, six small tables and one large game table with a built in chessboard. A chalkboard wall encourages patrons is “Espresso Yourself.” Behind the counter, a giant gray head rests on a shelf above 20 flavors of Da Vinci’s flavored syrups. This week the head wears pink chalk blush and lipstick and a tin foil hat shaped like a French renaissance wig.
I love the people I’ve met at my coffee shop. I’ve debated social justice with philosophers and theologians. I’ve helped musicians adjust their sound for open mic night. One night I talked with a hitchhiker from California. I can meet anyone or no one here.
I love the familiarity of my coffee shop. The manager knows my name; the baristas know my drink. I know where all the outlets are. This is my coffee shop.
There’s more to my affection than the atmosphere, the people or the furniture in my coffee shop. When I’m there, I don’t have to be a mother. I don’t have to be a student. I don’t have to be a wife (though I do still have to be married). I can be Meagan the reader, Meagan the artist, Meagan the-most-amazing-Sudoku-player-you-ever-saw. I can be that quiet girl in the corner.
I have other sanctuaries. I love to relax in the Sinclair library, top floor, close to Building 5. I love to read in the grass at Shroyer Park. I love to write while lying over the covers on my bed. But nothing beats my coffee shop.
Maybe it’s because it’s away from home. Maybe it’s because of the eclectic people. Maybe it’s because I can be famous and anonymous at the same time. Whatever the reason, I love the coffee shop.
Correction: I love my coffee shop.