The Coffeehouse

There’s a coffeehouse on Pleasant Street, next to the Newburyport Candle Company and catty-corner from the old Unitarian Church, where I like to go sometimes and write, or work … or just be in my thoughts. It smells like French roast and vanilla, and the drinks are a little overpriced. The tables wobble a little, too, but they have the biggest cream puffs you’ve ever seen and tiny fruit tarts that tempt you wickedly from behind the glass.

Sometimes you’ll find me there sitting across from the biscotti-dotted counter writing thank-you notes and sipping a hot hazelnut coffee. Other times, I’ll set up camp at the dark corner-table near the plush couches and below the wall of antique instruments, my face lit by the blank white page on my laptop as I watch the ice slowly melt into my iced coffee.

Sometimes there are a lot of people at the coffeehouse—mothers and children sharing Nantucket Nectars and cookies, teenagers flirting with lattes and adulthood, writers with their coffees gone cold, or, my favorite, silver-haired couples holding hands and kissing from time to time over a giant piece of double chocolate mousse cake. Other times, it’s just the woman behind the counter and me.

Sometimes I meet friends at the coffeehouse. For instance, it’s where I was interviewed by my now-good friend, Ulrika, who, at the time, was the editor of the local paper where I soon became a freelancer. It’s where I remembering gathering with Afroz and the rest of the book club on snowy Wednesdays nights. It’s where the playgroup moms and I indulged in dessert after a mom’s night out dinner at Jewel in the Crown. And it’s where a group of writers became friends. Other times, I just stop in for a to-go coffee and head to the playground.

Sometimes it’s cold at the coffeehouse. Other times, it’s cozy.

Sometimes the rain hits the front window and looks like a waterfall coming down behind the gold stars and twinkle lights that dot the inside of the glass. Other times, the sun comes in and dwarfs them.

Sometimes classical music plays. Other times, love songs.

Sometimes the right wall of the coffeehouse features paintings by a local artist. Other times, it’s photographs.

Sometimes I listen to other people’s conversations. Other times, they’re listening to mine.

Sometimes I come to the coffeehouse when I am feeling down. Other times, I come when I’m feeling hopeful.

Despite all the variables, I always love coming to my coffeehouse. Caffé di Siena. With two Fs in Caffé and one N in Siena. And today was no different.