I might be drinking it by myself sitting in a café. A notebook with blank paper, (no lines) and my favorite pen on the table. I recline back in my chair, taking in the street and the people. I take a deep breath, for once I am content.
I have always liked to write in cafes. I frequently wonder if I'm carrying on a long-standing tradition of artists who got together to discuss their craft in public settings. I enjoy coffee as well. Not the bland, warm brown water liquid that is served here in a big mug (if you're lucky enough to receive one) with what seems to be a generous disregard for quantity.
Why not? After all water is inexpensive, even warm water.
Where I originate from in the Middle East, the heart of the tradition is coffee brewed with love and respect for this magical beverage. It is a thoughtfully constructed creation. It is a beautiful substance; it has a soul.
When consumed hot, it enters your bloodstream right away, combines with it, encircles you with its rich aroma, and elevates the stories that still need to be told.
Coffee is a tradition, and traditions are what bind us to the history of those who came before us. Those that like the steaming coffee we carry in our blood. Without them we will be floating in the air unattached to a stable anchor, and every gust of the wind will blow us away.
Do I seem overly dramatic? Perhaps. It's just coffee, that's all. served in a little white porcelain cup that is steaming, sweet, and full of froth.
Reclining back in my chair, taking in the street and the people, the warmth evokes memories of my ancestors, and I know that with them I am never really alone.
