The coffee shop reflections

Bing Crosby’s White Christmas was heard over the speakers as I walked into the local Starbucks. The addictive twenty-four hour coffee joint was mildly busy and had a Holiday feel to it. I remember the smell of steamed milk and fresh ground coffee beans overwhelming my senses as I entered the favorite coffee shop.

Outside it was freezing. The weatherman had predicted snow. For the middle of December, Portland was at its coldest for the last ten years. Some were talking fifteen year records being broken.

There I stood in the middle of a short line daydreaming; playing around with an idea I had had of a Starbucks sounds compact disc. Something like the trickling of rain in the forest or whales singing. Only the entire album would be done with coffee sounds. Fourteen joyous tracks of easy listening, containing the steaming of milk, grinding of coffee beans, the cha-ching of the cash register, and ending with a satisfied customers sigh after the first sip of his beloved drink.

I was listening half-heartedly to the coffee sounds in my head when the man in front of me placed his order. Normally I do not listen to the orders in front of me. I get the same thing everytime I enter into the addiction kingdom. A White Chocolate Mocha with extra whip cream. This time however the mans drink of choice reminded me of a place I had not thought of for a while. By the time he had finished his request, I was back in a old worn jeep of a car. Literally driving up the side of a hill in Nothern India.

The mans order for Darjeeling Tea brought sights and emotions roaring back into my cluttered mind. Had I so quickly forgotten the wrinkled faces? The wicker baskets balanced so effortlessly upon worn backs. The tea gardens, vast and wide, green and ready to be harvested. I was in the junker of a car drifting up that hill. Up towards the mountains. Up, up, up...into the blue sky. embracing ridges and the curves of the mountain sides. The views stealing your breath more than once. Like nothing you have ever seen on a postcard before. The drop off to your left further down and closer than you would like to admit.

"Tea or Coffee sir?"

And then I am rudely awakened from this memory. From those precious few moments. From the gasps and white knuckles griping the seat for fear of your life ending soon.

"Sir?"

"Uh? Tea. Darjeeling tea...none of the fake stuff. Give me the real thing."

"That will be two dollars and thirty-five cents please."

"Oh, right. I have this gift card."

The kind lady at the counter takes my special edition Mariners Gift card and the Cha-ching of the register is heard. In a few moments my tea will be ready. And the sad thing is, I know it will never be close to as good as the wonderful tea I drank in India everyday at ten and three.

I wonder if it will ever be good again?

I wonder when I will taste that tea again.

I wonder as I sip my tea and walk back out into the chilly Portland air, that steals my breath, but not becuase it's beautiful, because it is greedy for someones attention. Greedy to be known and heard. Greedy to take my mind off of the important things I just remembered.