I’ve started and stopped writing so many times. What was important to me? Why was I writing? And what is the purpose behind the words that I lay down on the page?
The right middle finger strokes the ‘i’ key. Two hands are frozen on the black squares of the laptop. Fingers are slightly bent, like a pianist preparing for a masterpiece. There’s a small freckle on one of my knuckles. Moments outdoors in the sun had left these little memories stamped all over my body. The walls around me are filled with similar stamps of time. A dramatic perspective of the Louvre in Paris, the motorbike I guided through the streets of an island parked in front of a pink wall. It’s all of it a distinctive collage of moments. Of memories. Each captures a smile, a heartbeat. Color, scents, and a warm wind of summertime.
My mind rocks in and out of thought. In and out of focus. The camera lens of concentration can’t quite seem to lock on to a target. The black screen to my right lights up. My sister. She’s calling. The voice of a college professor shines through as she asks how classes are going, if I have any concerns or suggestions about online classes, and if I have my work all squared away for the week. I don’t. My mind doesn’t seem to work. Not like the clockwork it had when I was immersed in a world of piercing glares and stressed deadlines. Of late nights and early mornings and shaking hands. In the blink of an eye, that structure was gone. I was surrounded now only by the tapping of a keyboard, the flickering of candles, and freckles of memories scattered on walls. Alone on a campus that had previously been buzzing with activity.
What is there to write about? What meaning can I draw from what I see? A little yellow tin cylinder catches my eye. It sticks out against the white wall, tucked away near a window. Almost out of sight but still there. __afé Costello ___ espresso molido is printed on the side facing me. Within are espresso grounds. The kind that you feel behind your eyes, deep in your naval cavity. The rich, fine beans that shoot their earthy spice into your mind, clears your palate and sets your blood on fire. Coffee. Always there, but tucked away until called upon.
The first memory is a recurring one. 7:00 am on Tuesday’s senior year of high school. The first period was Calculus. Also known as double punch day at Bitterroot Beanery.
It isn’t well known or easily accessible during morning rush hour in the 900-person populated metropolis of Corvallis Montana. The highway acts as one of the two main streets, intersecting at a four-way stop. On it sits the elementary school, stretching down to the corner. Kitty-corner is an odd little building. One story. A blue-gray, lopsided L shape to fit into the lot. The front reads Cowgirl Corner, an eclectic boutique-turned-salon that appeals to the pink leather embroidered belt lovers who wear worn heeled boots for riding horses. I can’t recall a time where I glimpsed anyone entering it. If you were to pull through the back, you’d notice a sign. Bitterroot Beanery. Open Daily 6:00 am – 9:00 pm. Real Local Espresso. Trucks have to pull in wide to make it into the narrow drive through line. The menu is displayed in tiny print too far behind the window to read. The window is opened by a substitute teacher with long, bleached dreadlocks pulled up into a bun. Her nose ring glints with the morning sun that reflects off the metal tip tin. Her stickered jeep is parked just out back with the license plate, beangirl.
I never learned or remembered her name. It could be Trudy. She looked like she could be a Trudy. Her face lights up.
“The usual?”
“Always”
“Extra beans?”
“Definitely.”
Every Tuesday. Always at 7:00 am. She passes me a 16oz vanilla latte with two chocolate-covered espresso beans. Sometimes three. To this day, Bitterroot Beanery still holds the top spot for the creamiest and hottest lattes I’ve had the chance to taste. The top holds just the right amount of foam. Beneath is a swirling ocean of sweet blended vanilla, milk, and espresso. Not in the slightest bit bitter and not too sweet that you feel a cavity burrowing itself in. There’s a distinct Bitterroot Beanery scent of candy roasted chocolate espresso and cardboard.
I tuck the cup into the holder beside the wheel and rotate the sipping slit toward the hood of the car. One doesn’t gulp down this drink. It is meant to be savored.
The second memory is my first true espresso. The plane lands in the city of love, Paris. My sister and I stretch our legs and share a glance on the cobblestoned streets. Lampposts are stationed every few yards. The air smells heavily of cigarette smoke and musk. It’s summertime and the city sways with the midday heat. A little café greets our stomachs for dinner. Fresh bread, cracking under our fingertips and the swipe of soft white butter. The first sip of champagne bubbling on my tongue like poprocks and a frothy base I swirl my fork through that leads to a pistachio topped piece of seared salmon. A flat bowl of sugared strawberries slides in front of me, a slice of tiramisu cake in front of my sister. Our arms reach across the table in ritual and unspoken harmony to test taste to other’s desserts.
The sun dips behind the buildings and the lampposts ignite. The streets become progressively more populated. A small white cup is placed in front of both of us toward the conclusion of our meal. A strong, sharp scent drifts up. My sister laughs at my scrunched nose.
“You don’t drink it raw,” she says as she cracks open the sugar packets at the cup’s base. The scholarly voice begins its knowledgeable commentary. “Espresso is the traditional end to a meal in Europe. It helps cleanse the palate and makes you become immersed in the culture.”
I delicately stir in the coarse sugar until it seems dissolved to my liking. The liquid is almost sludgy and doesn’t allow any light to pass through. There is only about a pinky tip amount of depth in the cup anyway. Couldn’t hurt to try.
The cup is pinched between my thumb and first two fingers. The espresso rolls down my throat like a wave of the ocean passing over a rock. I lower the cup to its saucer. I look up to meet the eyes of my sister. Her hands are clasped on the table and her eyebrows are raised in apprehension. I nod, scrunching my face in a smile.
“You don’t get coffee like that in Montana, do you?”
I remembwer each of these first two experiences like they were a moment ago. Like they are photos on a wall or freckles on my finger. In a way they are. The photo of the Louvre is tacked to my wall occurred on the day of my first espresso shot. My hometown is stamped with a painted star on a little map of Montana that I stuck to the adjacent wall with Fun Tac. The hometown with the barista who knows my order to this day. I’ve gone back to the same drive-through espresso shop on Tuesday morning for years. Always the same, consistent order. I’ve returned to Europe time after time, always finishing my meals with a shot of espresso, just the way my sister showed me. The same sister who called me today to check in on me.
Even now, in a time where isolation saves lives and physical interaction is miles apart, it is in the brief focus of a camera lens that captures joys, smiles, memories, and experiences. It is in the focusing of a mind into a concept, even as ordinary as coffee, that can connect us to past experiences and images and smells. Without these freckles of time that are left on our minds, we would fall apart from one another, forget where we came from and how far we have come.
Each experience influences who we are and who we will become. Perhaps it is the professor of Russian Literature as my sister has gone to achieve. Her stubbornness and love for introducing others to new cultures manifested itself in education. The barista from the little local beanery has opened her market up to the entire western half of Montana, with outlets posted up Highway 93. Coffee brought her entrepreneurship and business. For myself, coffee is still influencing how I see the world. It is a cultural stamp, be that sweet or bitter, served morning or night. It brings friends together on the weekends and keeps long drives energized and exciting. It is for the love of coffee that my mind finally focused and for the love of coffee that I will keep on writing.