From filter coffee in rural Canada to drip coffee in Los Angeles, we explored North America by bicycle via coffee.
We saw the place before we heard it – but only momentarily. A giant tree bursting through the San Francisco suburban sidewalk with gusto, breaking up the gentle downward slope; its family strewn around as abstract benches, a protective barrier surrounding the chief’s trunk. The monotony of precisely slanted houses is interrupted by a brick cafe, centred by a black window frame. The suburban coolness of old Hollywood’s favourite city audibly interrupted by thrashing punk beats.
We lean our laden bicycles against the great tree and step back. No need to search for the non-existent sign, we knew we had arrived at the right place.
After a couple of days sight-seeing and traipsing around the city of hills, we were ready for a sit-down: just each other for company, just a local spot for casual people-watching, just a good cup of coffee in hand.
We had been gifted the perfect place
The tiny space inside was filled with posters and scribbled signs, promises of music and art – and of pain if you dare use a mobile device inside. The two baristas have more piercings and tattoos than one could count during our snarled interaction; one more with long dreads appears from the back room carrying a slice of hot buttered toast thicker than a literal doorstop. Wafting the enticing scent under our noses as she squeezed into the narrow gap between counter and wall.
Edging forward in the queue, not daring to speak for fear of giving ourselves away as tourists too early. Occasionally, I revel in letting people know that I am a visitor who has found their local spot, with a hope that my worldliness is deserving of respect; however in equal measure, giving away that I don’t fit into the local scene, due to my lack of proximity to their physical community, is a risk of exposing a level of dorkiness I am uncomfortable owning.
We order our coffees — Charly’s double-shot black Americano momentarily makes me feel ashamed of my request for steamed mylk, but this is abated when the regular behind me orders a mocha. We take a seat on high stools at the large open window, balancing our cups on the uneven wooden bench at our chests. With the first sip, we lock eyes. Without a single word we share a whole conversation through inhalation and smacking lips. We each had a hint inside our caffeine-addicted hearts that accepting our host’s recommendation would prove rewarding but it was even better than we had hoped. Lesson solidified: when a New Zealander with his own meticulous home coffee set-up recommends a cafe — just go.
We sit comfortably next to each other, watching the minimal foot traffic on the sidewalk outside. The city is just waking up and the golden morning sunshine strobes into waking as shutters are being raised on the few shops in the area. The cool sea breeze drifts lazily through the open door, keeping feet a reasonable temperature as the hot coffee warms us from the inside out. The music is too loud for a consistent conversation, which sometimes would be an annoyance but given the vibe and our mood today, is perfect. The musical atmosphere is consistent, although the tracks jump around as the owner and one barista have a debate on the merits of two particular artists. The disagreement becomes more and more vocal with a variety of not-safe-for-grandma words interspersing the laughing debate. Each regular is greeted loudly, but the general grump of each barista does not dissipate as the morning progresses.
After months of cycling alone and the suddenness of being thrust into San Fran’s bustle, this internal peace combined with external thrashing is fine – this is what we are here for. If we wanted normal peacefulness then we would’ve gone elsewhere.
Reluctantly tearing ourselves away, we free-wheeled down towards the Pacific Ocean with big smiles on our faces and caffeine greasing our chains.
