Why I Drink Coffee

If I had to guess, most people can’t remember the first cup of coffee they ever had. Maybe they are like some of my Denver friends, who let their 8-year-old children partake of the dark drink occasionally. Maybe they learned to appreciate the magic bean brew after one too many all-nighters. Maybe they started drinking it in high school with their parents the way many people today have their first beer. I don’t know. My first cup made an impression.

I survived three and one-half years of “college” without coffee. It was not served at our dining facility and I never felt the urge to keep a pot in my room. Then came my semester abroad. Having practiced our etiquette and carefully noted that refusing an item on the menu would be shockingly impolite, I never thought coffee would be the object I’d have to force into my mouth. I was certain it would be steak tartare or some other adventure in haute cuisine, but no. At my first dinner with the general, coffee followed the meal. And not American coffee; rich, black, European espresso. That was my welcome to the world of the dark brew.

I can almost remember it now. I lifted the miniature cup to my lips, parted them and was about to take a sip when my nose caught a whiff. Was it possible that coffee had never before been so close to my olfactory receptors? Certainly my face revealed my thoughts: I have to drink this? And then I exercised what I’d learned when reading How to Eat Fried Worms as a child; hold your breath and swallow without chewing.

After sharing this story with my best French friend Boubou (whose real name is Francois), who was always more than willing to help me solve any cross-cultural problem, he arrived at the solution. Each night after dinner, he said, we would descend from the dining hall to enjoy coffee in the downstairs make-shift café. He, of course, said it in French, using grand words that I looked up in my dictionary later that.

“Surely, if you can learn to drink this coffee,” Boubou explained his reasoning as he let the vending machine dispense of my shot of espresso in the equivalent of a plastic bathroom cup, “you can drink the good stuff they serve at the general’s table.” Besides, he said, it would force me to talk to other people, which would undoubtedly improve my French speaking skills and help me forge the long-term diplomatic relationships I’d been sent to establish.

And so most nights after dinner, Boubou and I and whoever else wanted to come partook of a terrible, vending machine espresso. Two shots of espresso, three cubes of sugar. I love those memories, because Boubou was right. It was during conversations over those terrible coffees that I debated the strengths and weaknesses of the French and American school systems with a future French fighter pilot who had once studied in Wisconsin (of all places to send an exchange student!). It was in that café that I explained how lots of American women played competitive sports. It was in that café that I assured my French friends that I would never turn my back on our friendships simply because our countries frequently disagreed about how to interact in the international political arena. And it was in that café that I forged friendships with many African military officers who had “never met an American before.”

That make-shift café, not at all because of the coffee it served, was a gathering place where relationships were forged, community established, issues of public concern debated, and polity recognized. That café, more than the coffee, is why I always stop for a cappuccino at a foreign café when I’m in Europe and why I love going to American coffee shops to this day.

Coffee shops aren’t about the coffee; they’re about the people who’re doing the drinking.

At least that’s my opinion. For many others, coffee shops are indeed about the coffee. They don’t linger to discuss matters of public concern. They run in to grab their super-sugared triple shot of espresso so they have enough energy to make it through the rest of their workday. They don’t have time to be concerned about the community; they are too concerned with how they are going to stay awake on only four hours of sleep. That scares me.

I’m a political being by nature. It’s how I’m designed. I can’t imagine a world where consumerism rules. I don’t want to let that happen. Consumerism can be a lot like enslavement in my opinion. If we’re always working to earn a paycheck to buy a nicer car, where is the time to become involved in what concerns all of us, to become informed about community issues, to be a member of a community, to improve the world around us? How many of us don’t even talk to our neighbors? Do we drive our cars home each night with the windows up, the radio silenced while we talk on our cell phone to our spouse who’s already at the house? Do we then push the garage door opener button, drive into our haven, enter through the mudroom and never say mum to our neighbor? Can you be a part of a community, no matter how big or small, if you don’t know your neighbor?

But at the same time a world like that scares me, I all too often find myself falling prey to the very consumerism and materialism and fast-paced life with which I’ve grown up. I moved to Batavia Township, Ohio, in October 2006. I didn’t talk to either of my neighbors until I needed to borrow a snow shovel in February (the lock on my shed was frozen) and my hot water heater stopped working in March.

That’s why I need coffee shops.

I like their atmosphere, their vibe, the fact that you can always meet an interesting person or have a great conversation with a perfect stranger. A good coffee shop doesn’t feel like a fast-food restaurant. It feels like a place where it’s okay to “set up camp” for the entire afternoon. A good coffee shop is a place where friends, neighbors, policymakers and businessmen gather. A good coffee shop isn’t about the coffee (although that too should well-roasted); it’s about the community.