It was the Thanksgiving before last, and our family was gathered in Charlottesville, Virginia. In keeping with tradition, as we sat around the table each of us shared a personal thanks. This particular year, we added a caveat—we could only mention a small thing. Otherwise, every one of us would have given some version of thanks that our seven-year-old grandson, Jack, had survived cancer.

When it was my son Ryan’s turn, after some hemming and hawing and my-idea-is-stupid-ing, he said, “I’m thankful for my coffee shop.”

I loved this answer. Eighteen months later, I still think about it.

Whether I’m in Charlottesville or Paris, I have a morning spot that rarely varies. I know all the employees and half the clientele. Everyone smiles when I enter, says hello, and knows my order by heart. More often than not, the barista starts my espresso before I open my mouth.

No matter where I am in the world, I investigate coffee shops before arrival. Then, once I choose my place, I rarely deviate.

A good coffee shop, I’ve come to believe, is equal parts anthropological pay dirt and a grandmother’s hug. I cherish both.

In Bratislava, I sat on a square as pretty as any in the world and watched the Danube river tourists snap a few pictures before scurrying off. It was there that I learned to move slowly. To sip my coffee. Unlike in Rome where Italians tossed back medicinal shots of caffeine and then fled on their Vespas. In Paris, a barista who I refer to as treatie-pie always sneaks me a couquette. While in Budapest, I experienced a coffee culture every bit as rich as Vienna’s. After all, they once shared an empire.

When Jack was treated at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, Rival Brothers was my spot. Every morning, a neighborhood woman would come in. While I anonymously sipped my coffee, I learned of her life in snippets as she chatted with the barista—everything from changes in the neighborhood, to her husband’s career at Penn, to how attitudes about their interracial marriage had morphed over time.

I’ve come to realize that this is a big part of why I travel. Art or architecture is fine, but I prefer the minutiae of daily life—and how it varies, or remains the same, around the world.

At times, my coffee shop is a source of encouragement. A few days after the local news covered that Jack’s birthday wish was for the Philadelphia Flyer’s mascot, Gritty, to come to his party, the barista leaned over and whispered in my ear “Is it going to happen?” Occasionally, she had seen me with a bald, little boy that she realized was Jack.

I smiled and whispered back, “I believe so.” During some of the hardest days of my life, I have literally had a barista come around the counter to give me a hug.

As soon as we returned to Charlottesville from Philadelphia, Covid struck. Every morning, I met a couple outside my Charlottesville coffee shop. Buffered by fresh air, we would catch up for 15 minutes. Once the shop opened, we’d take our mandatory to-go orders and set off in our individual directions.

In a time of isolation and uncertainty, it was the most connected and predictable slice of my day. When I’m in Charlottesville, we still meet outside before the shop opens, and it is still my favorite part of the day.

As Pat and I contemplate heading out from Charlottesville this fall, there’s so many things that I’ll miss. Among them, I dread the thought of leaving my coffee shop.

But then I remember the month that I spent in Austin recently babysitting my daughter’s dog, Frankie. The first day, the barista looked down from his food-truck window and as he handed over a biscuit, he said, “Hi Frankie.” And then looking at me, he added, “You must be Taylor’s mom.”

In that moment, I knew that I had chosen my coffee shop well. And I realized that good and friendly people are everywhere. Thankfully, some material number of them own a neighborhood coffee shop. It puts my mind at ease knowing that as long as this is true, no matter where I am, I’ll always feel at home.

Categories: Life in Paris, Ruminations

Tags: coffee shop, Life in Paris, nomadic retirement, the world inbetween, Unusual retirement options