A Return to Grooveland

Back in New Haven, I once joked to a friend that the café was my monastery. Every afternoon, like a studious monk abiding by a strict schedule, I approached Chapel Street as two coffee shops enter my field of vision. Starbucks, with its instantly recognized green mermaid, is on the left. She directs her beady little eyes and faux grin at pedestrians, seducing them with the promise of convenience, regularity, and trendiness. Her damned doctrine poisons the minds of poor consumers, who find their meaning in life soon to be dictated by devilish pink drinks and pumpkin-spiced lattes. I, a sophisticated flaneur, urban sage, and faithful believer in posh spaces, turn decisively right and saunter towards Atticus Café—where the warmly lit atmosphere inside seems sacred and inviting. Upon entering, everything becomes a ritual. I place my order, leave a generous $1 tip, and wait to pick up my holy water of choice—a foamy cappuccino. Why the cappuccino? That’s a silly question, but I’ll enlighten you. As you indulge in that first sip, your upper lip performs an ablution in the warm, smooth milk froth; your palette awakens to nutty, bitter flavors, and your spirit returns from the abyss of deadlines and lack of sleep.

The café is an imperative part of my day. Some don’t understand what seems like a peculiar habit. Others, like my roommate, think that grab-and-go coffee at the Elm (a fancy campus convenience store) is cheaper, more convenient, and “does the job.” It really isn’t the fault of my detractors that they live without standards. But I hope that you, dear reader, you and me—we share the knowledge that coffee shops nourish our souls. It is in these spaces where we find solace from the tedium of school or work life, where we can strip the masks of “student” or “son” to enjoy time privately or to express honest thoughts to companions.

Of course, plenty of social spaces serve such a function: bars, parks, and occasionally the boys’ restroom during my senior year history classes. I fell in love with the café because of 遇吉岛咖啡 Grooveland Coffee: a neighborhood coffee shop I frequented in my high school days.

My most cherished memory at Grooveland came a June afternoon my junior year summer. I was regularly frustrated at my slow progress on a research paper. In the mornings, I went to a volleyball camp which I had signed up for on a whim. (There was lots of fumbling and being outplayed by middle school girls.) Nights saw me sluggish or on YouTube marathons. The afternoons were the hours of opportunity, the hinge of my paper’s success or failure. That day, I had spent an hour in my room, but the results were disappointing. It was one of those hopeless moments of self-reflection when you realize that another day is about to go to waste. In an act of desperation, I thought I would try something new: go study at a coffeeshop.

This was to be a new experience. I wasn’t a big coffee person, maybe drinking half a Starbucks latte (I didn’t know better then) every once in a blue moon. I had studied at Grooveland twice before and was productive, but I had learned never to underestimate my ability to avoid work. More importantly, I usually sit down at coffee shops under the auspices of my mom. Who knew what I was capable of off the leash?

Moreover, being in a public space alone is unbearable for the introverted, sheltered adolescent boy. For me, it was a leap towards my perception then of adulthood—bitter black coffee and looking lonely but serious. I didn’t want that, so I pleaded my friend Alex to join me. It was a grave mistake: when we arrived, he ordered orange juice. “橙汁,” he muttered to our waitress. I felt the eyes around us turn. I gave him a glare, but it was too late. We had exposed ourselves as little barbarians ignorant of what the fifteen different pour-over coffees on the menu were. Yet it was also somewhat liberating. I felt less of a need to put on an act for the serious-looking adults around me. Alex and I stayed for a few hours. Like a first kiss, the exact details are lost on me, but the sentiment from that visit was clear: this was a place I had to return to.

Gradually, Grooveland became a space where I would enjoy myself in solitude. Every early afternoon, I climbed up the stairs leading up to the café in blistering heat as the revving engines and chirping cicadas gave way to conversation, music, and the imagined dripping of coffee. The scent of cigarettes and roasted beans would have begun to intensify. Like a Pavlovian dog, I quickened my steps and leapt into the café. Inside, a calming aesthetics, which I think derives from ubiquity of wood—the bar counter, round tables, and painted planks below transported me away. However, the pointed ceiling of stained concrete is of industrial gray, a color the Beijinger knows well from gray-bricked alleyways, unpainted concrete structures, and thick smog.

Usually, Grooveland is packed with regulars and visitors. Young coffee-enthusiasts huddle excitedly around the owner, a pour-over master, at the counter. A table of three to four adults gather awkwardly, trying their best to look relaxed. Two dolled-up girls in dresses take artsy photos of each other. A peculiar-looking artist is jotting something down on paper. If you’re lucky, you encounter a first date. A girl, immaculately dressed and perfumed, sits on the edge of her seat. On the opposite side sits a slightly sweaty boy in a boring white tee and dirty black sneakers. It’s the sort of couple that I’ve grown desensitized to. Speaking of dates, a cute barista worked at Grooveland. My heart would rejoice whenever she took my order. Those interactions were short but sweet, and I would steal glances (pretending to be in thought) as she hurried around the busy space.

Still, I was usually productive in Grooveland—not in spite of my dynamic surroundings, but because of them. Cafés are often known as public-private spaces as one enjoys anonymity in a public environment. Compared to the workplace, the anonymity is liberating. Compared to home, it’s less emotionally intense.

Thus, hours would drip away during my study sessions in Grooveland. The pale light coming from the window blinds would condense into a warm glow. The shadows widened and darkened. The waves of indiscriminate chatter from before dissolved into ripples of a few faint voices. My stomach grumbled; my buttocks melted; my eyes sored. Yet, like a monk that willingly chanted his vespers into early dawn, I typically stayed in Grooveland until my mom mandated my return for dinner. My time in the backyard was over: back on the leash.

I returned to Grooveland a week ago. It has since relocated, and the space has expanded. An enlarged counterspace, a new meeting room, and the chicken sandwich on the menu made the place feel a little foreign. My circumstances have also changed. I was on crutches. It took twenty-five minutes to drive here from the new apartment. I ordered a pour-over made from deep-roasted beans of a Brazilian variety. Slightly bored, I began to halfheartedly scroll through a book on my laptop. Just then, through an inadvertent glance, a familiar face emerged from behind the bar counter. It was that cute barista!