I don’t sit in cafés as often as I used to. In fact, I find myself reading through the menu at my former haunt just in case coffee has changed in the last two years. It hasn’t. There’s a comfort in that. I drink my coffee at home now. Hot espresso with cold vanilla milk straight from carton slides down my throat with just one tip of a tiny cup. It’s nothing special, but it does the job. The shot keeps me awake through the mundane, the horrifying, the isolation, and the countless hours spent staring through freshly cleaned windows wondering what can be left to do with life except wait for the dust and the grime to build up all over again.
Not today, dread, my relentless friend. Today, I am back at my favourite coffee shop, Shotgun Sister. I’m meeting a friend I haven’t seen since before the pandemic. Wait, no, that’s not right. I saw her that first summer when everyone thought the worst might be over. It was the most people I had ever seen on the street since moving to Munich. You couldn’t pay people stay inside. We had Matcha Lattes on the sunny terrace at Madame Anna Ecke and talked about feminism. It was nice, but my point is that it’s been a while since I’ve seen her and I’m nervous.
She is early. It doesn’t surprise me and despite knowing that I am not late, it makes me feel flustered. So I step in to the coffeeshop like a hen, flapping my feathers all over the pen. I don’t tell her this, but she is sitting across my favourite seat at my favourite table. This make me smile under my mask. There’s comfort in moments like that. It’s like the universe has taken pity and decided to mould itself around your preferences. I shouldn’t be surprised by this. Isn’t stepping into your favourite café always a bit like stepping into your own home?
Settled with our hot tea and coffee, and well past the pleasantries, my companion and I start to talk about the things that really matter: books. “I’ve given up reading things I don’t take pleasure in,” she says. I can’t help but think of the teetering stack of books growing upon my nightstand. “Oh, I never give up on a book,” is my response. I suppose I consume books the same way I consume food: savouring the dishes I love and battling through those I don’t. Food is food. Books are books. She has a point though, my friend who Marie Kondos her way through a reading list. I have been trying to not force myself to consume the food I don’t like. Why not try the same with paperbacks?
I’ve always been the type to read multiple books at once. I like to keep a selection to fit whichever mood I happen to be in on a particular day. Recently, I somehow got it in my head that the books I read need to have a point to them. It’s a similar thought to one that’s pushed me through every Must-Read and Classics reading list I can get my hands on. It’s different because it isn’t fiction. Up until recently, the only nonfiction I ever read either expounded on the books and movies I was already consuming or slipped in because it read like novel. So, perhaps you can understand why I haven’t been much in the mood for any of the histories and theories piling up in my bedroom of late. Still, I choke down a few pages between this binding or that. Reading this way has become less of a pleasure and more of a chore. I never stop to question it, though.
Back in the coffeeshop, I contemplate my coffee as a twist of my wrists causes it to swirl in the glass. It’s a pleasant feeling, slowly sipping a coffee while catching up with a friend. I gives me just as much energy as the quick shot of espresso I kick back at home most days, but it also makes smile. This slowing down, this allotment of enjoyment, I could use more of it in life. I could give myself more permission to enjoy rather than achieve. I think maybe everyone can.
So a few days later, back in my favourite second-hand bookshop, I let myself buy a book simply so that I can enjoy reading it. I pick Girl with a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier. It’s a book I’d once pursued, but reluctantly set aside for something that hadn’t been made into a movie yet, as if that itself diminished its quality. (It doesn’t.) Today, I go for it because I’m treating myself—a habit I recommend to everyone—and it truly is scrumptious.
The novel, if you don’t know it, is inspired by Johannes Vermeer’s painting of the same name. Chevalier presents fictionalised events leading to the paintings creation. The narrator is a 16 year old maid in the artists home as well as the model for his painting. Much like the woman on the canvas, Griet is a mystery. She is quiet and observant. Her thoughts, her feelings, her passion, are all hidden under the cool marble of her pale face. (She hides this face behind a cap, that I imagine looks a lot the one Offred wears in Margaret Atwood‘s, The Handmaid’s Tale.) This quality of restraint is her very allure, and it is only the reader that gets the privilege of knowing her thoughts. The feeling evoked by this is sumptuous— a delicious feast all to yourself.
When I finish the book, I’m reminded of something I don’t know why I ever forgot: I like to read. If I can, I do it on the floor, right where the sun spills through those freshly washed windows I was telling you about earlier. I also really like a tall cup of coffee with frothy, warm, oat milk. I like to drink slowly, in that sweet morning silence that almost makes you forget you have a voice; I like to drink it in the afternoon between the twittering of a conversation with someone whose company I genuinely enjoy.
So, while I will certainly continue to chip away at the books I feel I need to read, (I’m not a quitter, folks) I’m committed to also take the time to read for nothing but the pleasure of it; and while I will, of course, keep chugging down all the espresso it takes to get through a day, while actively forgetting to check in on my family and friends, I will also try to savor more coffees slowly, whether it’s alone or in the company of a friend.
With that in mind, throw me your favorite book recommendations in the comments. Toss in some café tips for good measure, and maybe we can meet up there and talk books one day.
