Wrong Day, Right Place

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I’m at Starbucks at 1:30 pm in the summer of AD. This wasn’t planned.

This is my first time at this new Starbucks beside my house. There are three around. For so long, we had nothing around us; suddenly, there is too much. It’s taking me too long to try out the cafes and restaurants, like crackled earth after a drought, unable to absorb water quickly.

It’s also the first time I’ve ordered an iced vanilla latte. It’s so good. Years of drinking hot vanilla lattes, and I don’t know why I never tried iced before. This change might be inspired by my intuitive eating efforts. It’s hot. I’m attuned to my body’s need for something cold. Done.

“You are amazing,” my cup says.

Yes, I can be.

All my life, I refused to drink Starbucks. But once I got COVID, many of my rules and standards changed so much that I can confidently say I no longer have my previous programming. If you met me before 2021, please allow me to reintroduce myself.

I didn’t know where to go, so here I am. I was too embarrassed to go back home and admit that I mixed up my meeting dates and that I didn’t plan well, even though I was there to sell the planner I designed. Starbucks is a safe, familiar hub I go to when I’m lost, especially when traveling. I’m not traveling this summer. I’m getting work done.

In the past, cities like Paris and Vienna were the creative destinations that boasted hosting the greatest writers and artists. Today, it might be Starbucks. If not for quality, then certainly for quantity. I just joined the global community of Starbucks writers.

The table is wobbly. Do they do that on purpose?

In my excitement to meet the potential client for the Prioritizer, I showed up a day early, yet technically late for the meeting scheduled at 1:00 pm if it were today.

I used to be so punctual. So punctual that I made others nervous about punctuality. Now I enjoy the thrilling rush of being late. Somehow, the sense of urgency feels like a sense of importance. A sense of aliveness.

I wish they offered free refills here. The sweltering heat clung to me until I got back home an hour and a half later. The ACs couldn’t keep up with the heat outside, and summer is just getting started.

I’ve wanted to work at a cafe since 2016. Maybe I always wanted to chill or work at a cafe. I have a good book with me. The YouTuber who recommended it reads at cafes. How can people afford to go to cafes all the time?

It seems that I’m good at reading and writing from a cafe.

A guy beside me is loud and talking nonsense. This is where noise-canceling headphones come to the rescue.

Last night, I got text messages at 11 pm regarding cultural gifts. With growing interest in investing in the arts and the environment, I have a very small chance of selling my Ocean Bouquets to a government entity, which I’m excited about. I’ll share a proposal with them soon. Let’s see.

I learned not to share my dreams with others. Both night dreams and daydreams. But in this case, I’ll share a night dream I had about a week ago that is fueling my excitement. I dreamt that I killed a big black snake. This three-second dream is watering my wilted garden of optimism and bringing my neglected daydreams back to life. I’m taking it as a sign of victory and good things to come.

Someone came into the cafe in a cloud of toxic fumes. How is it that the cheapest perfumes smell the strongest? I wonder when they’ll be banned.

I just got an email notifying me that my package from the US will arrive not in six days, but in six months. Does the courier company have insider information? Is a war brewing? A war would ruin all my dreams. Or would it?

Perhaps it’s just a mix-up in the date entry. The US uses MM/DD/YY, while the rest of the world uses DD/MM/YY, as it should.

I’ll read my good book. It’s not that good, but it got raving reviews. I prefer English writers to American ones. I’m not one to abandon a book once started. Except Russian literature. I quickly quit as soon as I get too annoyed or confused.

So I’m now living one of my daydreams: reading at a cafe. Reading someone’s book is looking into their dreams. I want to mention that it’s okay to share a dream if it is realized.

I’m writing this content at a cafe. Maybe it’s the novelty of writing at a cafe, but it seems easier than writing anywhere else. I’ve been journaling since I was a teenager in diaries with a locket, starting my entries with Dear Diary.

I’ve never shared these random inner thoughts. Why start now? And what do I get out of it? What am I losing by sharing? I don’t know. But I do want to have another container for my creativity and a wider community that shares my interests.

Maybe what I’ll get is a response. Some sort of engagement.

Let’s see.