Early Morning Coffee
FOR MORE THAN 15 YEARS, Tony and I have started our morning with an espresso macchiato and venti bold at Starbucks—first in Rhode Island, then Brooklyn, and now Ashland. It’s not that we love Starbucks, but it is the only coffee shop that’s open at six a.m., which is when we like to head out for coffee since we are early risers. We spend an hour or so chatting and touching base before we start our day, which we usually pursue separately. It’s a ritual we cherish. In Brooklyn, we’d keep our daily coffee date even if it meant hoofing it in a cold rain, streetlights still on. We were—are—like the Pony Express.
Regardless of location, Tony and I have learned that the early morning crowd at Starbucks differs from what follows later. In Rhode Island, it was unpredictable, a mixture of professionals heading early to work, maybe a pair meeting to discuss the Bible, maybe painting crews chugging coffee before wielding brushes. In Brooklyn, the Starbucks nearest us was at a major intersection in Park Slope, a place where folks took their coffee to go on the subway and where the other customers included first responders (NYPD’s finest) and people walking their dogs before, presumably, heading to work.
In Ashland, the early morning crowd at Starbucks veers male, the same every day, and includes a collection of older, solo men staring at their laptops, one sitting crossed legged, and young unkempt and “unhoused” (Ashland’s term for homeless) men who have slept in the forests above town and leave their gear and dogs in the adjacent walkway while they gather their wits inside. One day, a spaced-out fella at the table next to Tony and me—the tables are a foot apart—interrupted our conversation and asked, “Do you mind if I stare at you?”
On one unusually warm morning—the days start chilly here, even in summer—Tony and I took our coffee to a table in the outdoor patio. Next to us sat a friendly-looking older man, kinda our type, and adopting the good neighborliness I’ve come to treasure here, I struck up a conversation. I learned that he and his wife lived in the Bay Area but had been visiting Ashland for several years, thinking it would be a good place to lead a quieter life. They’d been looking at houses for sale the past day, as they had on various visits to the area, but remained unsure about whether they really wanted to retreat from their active lives in San Mateo—he works in IT and she’s a renowned choir conductor from South Africa. For an hour, enjoying the rising sun, we shared our story, including how we’d come to live in Ashland, and our new friend shared his.
“I know this is a crazy question,” he asked as we exchanged cell phone numbers before parting, “but might I bring my wife up to meet you and see your house when she gets up?”
“Sure,” I said.
An hour later, Stan and his wife were on our doorstep, with a luxurious bouquet of white lilies and red roses in hand. They left three hours later.
“I can’t imagine this happening anywhere else,” Stan said. I agreed.
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