My brother is always telling me about Highland Coffee.
He left Gainesville this summer for grad school as well, and on paper, our lives could not be any more different. He DJ’s at the local indie bar, has a small cadre of hipster girls fawning and throwing themselves at him as only one on livejournal can, and spends the majority of his evenings working/studying/socializing at the neighborhood coffeeshop, Highland Coffee, where, in addition to being filled with Mac users (you know what that means), apparently all the cute College of Music girls hang out.
Like clockwork, he messages me nightly to let me know who he’s hanging out with, what cute girl has just started talking to him (he’s the attractive one, if you had any doubts) and what kind of social drama has just taken place. I’ve stopped asking him if he’s at a friend’s house or on campus—he’s always at Highland coffee. Free internet, seemingly endless streams of indie-styled freethinking women eager to make his acquaintance, hipsters and classmates and rivals and colleagues, all only mere minutes from both class and home. Sounded like utopia.
The four non-Melville-inspired coffeeshops closest to my house either close before 9pm, charge for their internet access, or both. Despite having dated a number of Starbucks-loving coffee addicts I cannot willingly support their franchise. Under the guise of protested reluctance, dragged kicking and screaming by insistent women, sure, but never by myself, especially since they expect me to pay T-mobile for the privilege of checking my email and submitting my homework.
I asked some of my frisbee-playing friends where all the decent coffeeshops were. “Dunkin’ Donuts,�? they said. Thanks a bunch, guys. I tried searching online for cafes with friendly hours and free wireless and found several promising candidates, all of which required either long treks through questionable neighborhoods, long rides on the el, or both—something I’m not averse to, really—but after the 3rd abortive outing (two were closed and I got lost trying to find the third) I really started to wonder if I was stuck with drinking burnt Java City hot cocoa with the computer science grad students in the student center lounge for the next two years.
When Nick flew up to visit last month, we went to see several concerts at his request: first, his favorite indie band, then a world premiere of an orchestral piece, an atonal serialist work by one of his favorite 20th century composers. “Man, I wish we had concerts like this in Baton Rouge,�? he said. I wish we had Highland Coffee here; why don’t we trade? I asked. My civic arts scene for your local coffeeshop.
Last week, Matt & Kim and I went to a local tea shop to sample their selection, which Kim had seen online and wanted to try. The cafe was brightly lit, well maintained and even had a balcony. They also had the craziest flavors of tea imaginable. I asked the barista behind the counter, a cute freckly redhead with thick Elvis Costello frames, what time they closed.
“Eleven,�? she answered, cheerily.
And you guys have internet?
“Yes.�?
Do you have to pay for it?
“Nope. You just turn your computer on, and it works.�?
The exuberance that followed was perhaps a bit lost on her.
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w/r/t Argo, I have but one word: Mojitea.
Brilliance in a cup.
I’m guessing that’s a caffeinated, rum-free Mojito?
No, no, just a creative play on words that sounds similar to an alcoholic beverage. Green tea + limeade = mojitea. Yum.
I like the new housing of your website. There, I said something nice to you. Next time I’m going to make fun of your hair.
I’ll have to try one out next week, then.
There was this study I read a long time ago about the social pressures of intoxication; that is, some sociologists served non-alcoholic drinks to people expecting alcoholic drinks and then measured their reactions vs. a control group drinking water and another imbibing real cocktails. The N/A test group behaved more like like the drunk group than the water group, (if I remember correctly) to the point of stumbling and failing sobriety tests.
After having non-alcoholic drinks.
The point being, I’ll probably get arrested for drunk and disorderly, stumbling down State Ave., after having one of those teas.
“Eleven,� she answered, cheerily.
Nigel Tufnel: Eleven. Exactly. One louder.
Marty DiBergi: Why don’t you just make ten louder and make ten be the top number and make that a little louder?
Nigel Tufnel: [pause] These go to eleven.
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[...] But the following week, he made a post contrasting me with him, romanticizing my coffeehouse haunt and overblowing the availability of Livejournal in Baton Rouge. We were adjusting to new cities, finding and fitting into new Ultimate communities, and generally dealing with living by ourselves and knowing no one. But in no way did I feel more adjusted than my brother. The only thing I have above him is that I own a bed. [...]
[...] So far the weather has been pretty moderate. Not cold or hot. Windy, but not chilly. We’re in Argo Tea Cafe, the Highland Coffees for my brother. It’s a 3 level tea shop with everything kicked up a notch but without the classical music of Highland, but still with enough Mac users and trendy haircuts. [...]
[...] sitting in Argo Tea in Chicago, my brother’s romantic equivalent of Highland Coffee- a tea shop with fancy to-do’s and hip youngsters busy typing on their [...]