These days, I’m a commuter. I’m up at what I believe to be an ungodly hour to bike to the station, to catch the train into the city, to get onto the metro, and finally trek the final few blocks to school. (And then after work, I do the same but in reverse).
In my sleepy state in the morning, my mind goes to coffee. I find it interesting that people are so particular about their coffee. So many people turn up their noses at any type of coffee they don’t drink – be it the way it’s made, the flavor, the amount and so on. I only drink it black . . . I only drink my double skinny vanilla latte . . . I only drink espresso . . . I only drink organic . . . The list goes on. It seems that however people drink it, many believe their way of consuming coffee is superior to all other ways.
However, I’ve come to realize that it isn’t about how it is served or what is added to it. For me, coffee is about what that type of cup means in that moment.
A pot of drip coffee is a quiet Sunday at my parent’s home – slowly getting chores done around the house and recovering from the weekend festivities. A fancy-pants peppermint mocha from Starbucks is a weekend in Portland with my two best friends. An Americano is a lazy Saturday morning, my large Ikea mug towering over Luigi’s espresso cup. A cappucino is a break during class, when my classmates and I try to get to know one another using a mesh of English and Italian. A cup of nespresso is a weekend working in the mountains, doing my homework while I wait for the girl’s to finish skiing. And finally, un caffè is an afternoon stroll and chat with Maria who keeps my sanity in tact during my busy days.
None of these ways are better than the other, but instead, all of the different cups, places, coffee makers and people I enjoy it with are what coffee means to me.