My Delicate Ecosystem

Something remarkable happened to me today: I found myself at the Starbucks on Emory’s campus. I tend to avoid it; it may be perfectly situated between my usual lunch spots and the law school, but I find it perpetually dim and faintly dusty, and the cheap lavender scent pumped into its bathrooms makes me feel like I’m in an airport. The music is loud and uncurated, the undergraduates chatter and laugh in serrated bursts, and the baristas treat my drink order as if it were a startling imposition. Needless to say, it is a last resort. I was only there because I truly had to expect the unexpected today. 

Last night, I set myself towards going to Ash Coffee for my morning study block. This seemed most wise. I thought, I do my best work in the morning, and Ash has the best breakfast options of all my haunts, and even better, by the time I drive to Virginia Highlands, I’ll be halfway to Claudia's office for my 11am therapy appointment. Yes, that works great. And then, I’ll be hungry, and I need to make sure to eat a good lunch before Crossfit — it’s a cardio day — so Sweetgreen? Yeah, I can’t show my face again at Cava this week. Ugh, the slop-bowl thing is real. But what else can I do? I don’t want fast food, and don’t you dare ask me about cooking. And besides, I really do like the seasonal bowl. Okay, that is settled. CrossFit needs to be in the afternoon, because I would like to spend the evening in the library. 3:30 it must be, then. But where should I be for my afternoon study block? Afternoon brain is more likely to wander — this spot needs to give me a boost. Summit Coffee — across from Sweetgreen — obviously. Made-in-house vanilla syrup! This is some of my best work. I’ll be showered and re-energized after working out, and I can wear true loungewear to the library. The sun will be down, and come on, it’s finals season. Besides, I’m a grad student, so I’m kind of operating on a different level. I’ll be home around 9pm and have time to read — oh, and I have what I need to make my favorite sandwich — thank goodness. I will not starve this night. I am loving this plan! 

On the drive to Virginia Highlands, I make sure to keep my car perfectly centered in the lane when driving through the small, tight roundabouts that dot my Atlanta neighborhood. I often see people drive straight over the center island instead of following the circle — like they have absolutely no care, no respect, and no patience at all. Normalizing this sort of fecklessness cannot be good for society. What other basic civilities will become acceptable to shirk in pursuit of efficiency? Rules like this may not seem important, but we all rely on them. It’s a slippery slope, indeed. All I can do is lead by example. 

I wanted to get to Ash early to make the most of my morning sharpness, but also make time for my news ritual. Typically, I begin with the political headlines, which I read in full, then I treat myself to a book review, or a piece of cultural criticism, of which I read half before getting the idea. Finally, I withdraw to The New Yorker, and read an entire story about a dead falconer or something — roughly half a latte’s worth of time. Accordingly, I pulled up shortly after they opened, to find the usual street parking fully taken up with orange signs indicating I could not park there. How could it possibly be that I, the one with the immediate necessity of the space, am trumped by a paper sign stuck into a traffic cone, holding the spot of some imaginary person? Where are they now? Who approved this? 

Ash is certainly not pleased with this, either, I thought. I parked on another street. As I approached, my stride was interrupted by another traffic cone with another orange sign. A big black arrow with the word “EXTRAS” pointed right to the painted letters on Ash’s door. They must be filming something on this street today. I knew then that Ash must be closed. I believe I already knew, deep down, as soon as the parking didn’t seem right. A sign on the door hastily written in sharpie confirmed. I was confounded by how no system existed to prevent this type of thing from occurring. There must be some way for a coffee shop to notify the general public that they will be closed so unexpectedly. I can adapt quickly in the face of dashed plans, but I felt glum thinking about everyone who would be disappointed at the door of Ash today. But, how could they have let us know, really? These things happen. Sometimes we are necessary sacrifices to unpredictability. 

I walked back to my car, spotting a guy with a laptop bag also in retreat. Fallen soldiers! I wondered what his back-up plan was. Mine was of greater concern. I paused my music to re-evaluate. Substantial breakfast options were non-negotiable and a frail croissant would not do. I settled on Alon’s Bakery, not remembering whether the dining area was suited to camping out with my laptop until lunchtime. I knew it was a shot in the dark, but I was already adrift — swept into uncharted waters.   

Several compounding factors kept me from Alon’s this morning. Still fifteen minutes away, I spotted a coffee shop called Press N’ Grind while I was sitting at the light on main street. Preliminary intelligence gathering led me to believe this may be a better option: the building was large which suggested ample indoor seating, which suggested both meaningful food options and the appropriate character of claiming a table for several hours. An unclaimed parking spot right at the front convinced me; that kind of opportunity demands action. As I waited in line, I watched the lone woman behind the counter gracefully but urgently fry eggs, make coffees, and take orders all at once. I chatted with Larry behind me. “This is a neighborhood institution,” he said, “the kind of place where after you come here once, they know your name and your order.” Seemed like a big commitment. I decided against the build-your-own breakfast sandwich — it seemed heedless to ask for something with great customization under these circumstances, so I settled on the smoked salmon bagel and my usual latte. Hopefully she appreciated my low-maintenance order. 

The morning had been a success. I worked without distraction until it was time to go see Claudia. After my appointment, I took a moment to recharge in my car — as I often do. I had used a lot of brain power in that session, and though I felt tranquil, I hoped warily that my mind could still focus for a few hours of deep work. Finishing my entire Sweetgreen bowl was no issue, and I was excited for an afternoon pick-me-up at Summit. Situated between an Indian street food spot and a pottery studio in Emory Village, Summit is just far enough from main campus to be outside of the radius of many students, so that its primary clientele are doctors, professors, scientists, and other professionals who make up the Emory apparatus. I often overhear casual interviews, networking rendezvous, or colleagues commiserating about vague administrative headaches. It feels proper to be among a fellowship of people who take their informal professional rituals seriously, and who prefer to perform them in lovely places over coffee. 

If Summit has a downside, it’s that the space is small and tends to be busy. Today all the tables were filled, and my cursory assessment told me no one looked ready to get up soon. I have run into this before. Usually, I perch with a coffee at the counter, watching and waiting until someone begins making moves towards abandoning their table. I can almost always guess who it will be before they even know themselves. Once you are attuned to your own patterns of focus and distraction, comfort and restlessness, it is easy to recognize them in others. My pattern is such that I’m usually only good for about three hours in the afternoon. I imagine myself as a flashlight — flickering, clearly running out of battery, shaking myself hard and shining again for less and less time, until I burn out for the day. It's certain when my target spools their charging cord around their hand, closes their computer, stands up to stretch, buses their dishes. I keep my distance before alighting on their empty table like a quiet, patient hawk. 

Today, however, I didn’t feel like waiting. My lunch had taken quite a bit longer than expected —  my thoughts felt slow and I wanted my audiobook to do the thinking for me. If I wanted to have time to work before 3:30, it was now or never. The library? A hike. And by this time of day the large monitors would be claimed, leaving an aesthetic that simply does not justify the journey on its own. I needed to make a decision. I decided to check inside the Barnes & Noble just across the village — usually there were open tables by the windows among the nonfiction section, though today they were taken up. With a sense of dreadful inevitability, I looked across the store to the attached Starbucks. The unthinkable, the impossible had become reality before my eyes. And so I settled into the corner, among companions whose own ecosystems — whatever had led them here — were as mysterious to me as the fate that had upended mine today.