The Concept of a Coffee Shop

I like the concept of coffee shops. Places where people go to socialize, take a break, or write the next great American novel. On the rare occurrence that I go into a coffee shop, I always see one or all of the following things: friends or families laughing over drinks, individuals with headphones and glazed eyes staring off into the distance or lost in their cell phones, and/or someone with a laptop, tablet, or even a pen and paper, writing, drawing, drafting, e-mailing, creating. I love the idea of a place devoted to these things, devoted to community, creativity. It's all very Bohemian.

I have a friend who writes something called micro-poetry, six word poems, and publishes them in various media formats. I didn't even know this was a thing until she told me about poems she had self-published that were featured at a local Starbucks. To be told to go check out some six word poems at a coffee shop was slightly strange, yet not unexpected. But could you imagine a friend saying, "Hey, you should go check out my latest sonnets published at the Autozone." Better yet, "Be sure to check out my sketches on display at the Gas n' Sip on 8th." There is no other business more suited for showcasing peculiar art forms than a Starbucks, a coffee shop, and indie hipster haven where people appreciate the unappreciated, and even if they don't, they pretend that they do. Getting a coffee isn't running an errand. Sure, some might zip through the drive-thru on their way into work for a quick pick me up. But on days like today, where the forecast is gloomy and the streets are soaked with rain, people skip the drive-thru and bask in the ambience of caffeinated culture. I like the concept of a coffee shop, a place untouched by consumerism, commercialism, where people can escape the rat race and get lost in a tall latte.

But the concept is flawed. What once was the mom-and-pop coffee shop has morphed into the Wal-Mart of beverages. It has been corrupted by the very commercialism it sought to escape. What started as a small shop in Seattle has taken over the world, charging far more for coffee than it is actually worth and picking the pocket of hard-working Americans day in and day out. I sit here now, drinking my grande hot chocolate thinking how it isn't that different from Swiss Miss. The $4 that bought me this cup could have bought me an entire tin of cocoa to make at home. Perhaps the worst part is that I forgot my debit card and had to buy this cup on credit. If I'm not careful, I'll be paying interest on this already overpriced beverage. I see one table socializing, the heart of this establishment. Enthralled with one another. But I see another family on their phones, laptops, iPods, barely engaging with one another. Why bother? Couldn't you have ignored each other at home?

I'll admit I'm an elitist when it comes to places like this. I want this Starbucks to be what, in my head, it has promised me. I want it to provide a climax of culture, a cathartic avenue of creativity. But why am I so concerned with the concept of a coffee shop? Why am I not content with it as it stands? An older couple just came in. They're wearing jogging gear. They're probably healthier than I am. They're probably in love with this place, remembering what it was like before there was a Starbucks on every corner. They're probably just happy to have such a large selection to choose from, happy to escape the cold, oblivious to the frozen heart of the establishment, unconcerned with sticking it to the man.

Why am I like this? Probably because I don't drink coffee and I don't like Apple products. I'm that girl that wants to fit in the coffee "scene" but doesn't. I doubt that people who drink coffee are even aware that there is a coffee "scene", but there is. It is not unlike the bar scene or the bookstore scene or the country-western-line-dancing-scene. It's a clique. A club to which people belong, and I... I don't belong. I'm a weirdo, an outsider, the girl that always orders hot cocoa or a vanilla bean frappuccino hold the cino. The full grown adult that would rather order a cake pop than an iced mocha. But why, at a place designed to promote community and comfort, do I feel like an outsider? Why can't I be part of the scene? Well I'm Mormon, so there's that. And Mormons don't drink coffee. So as much as I love the concept of a coffee shop, the inherent artistic nature of an open mic night, I still don't feel like I belong.