I love cafés. I’ve spent many years of my existence as a student and professional in cities in which regular time spent in cafés is as much as part of life as, oh, say, breathing. I’m grateful for that, too.
When I was a wee bitty undergraduate, cafés were for group project meetings or an escape from a noisy neighbour or student residence. For my postgrad self, they meant a few hours of less solitary thesis writing, an escape from the increasingly oppressive silence of a tiny student studio apartment.
When I worked in cities that were actually cities, cafés meant brainstorming sessions outside of Dilbertian cubicled office space, or leisurely teatime meetings with colleagues, teammates, bosses, consultants and/or designers.
In my off time, they meant long weekend laughs and connecting with friends. They also meant the weekend papers, magazines, or the latest riveting read, breakfast, a huge mug of something spiced and soy and decaf, and me at a corner table or couch, curled up with one leg under me, feeling much like a contented tabby cat.
It is such a sweet little mercy to find an oasis of good food and rich, hearty beverages and sometimes even fancier iced drinks, especially in a bustling, dusty, busy city.