The brisk cool of the summer dawn lingers over the Kreuzberg kunst; colorful spirits oozing out of the cracks in the cement walls, the concrete sidewalks and the cobblestone streets. Silence transcends the ruckus of the previous evening, those who slumbered at a reasonable hour take refuge in their familiar tranquil routines. Scents of dew and the songs of birds mix naturally with the grinding of cocoa beans and soft pastries: a chemical balance, notes in harmony.
Voices are low and souls are humble; manners dance methodically with culture through the threshold, into the abandoned dreams of hungover baristas.
Here – no matter where Google Maps pinpoints my exact location – I am home. New York to Seattle, Berlin to Prague, Oslo to Montreal to Reykjavik, cafes are the eyes to the urban soul. Its secrets, its culture, the mechanics that keep the clock-tower in rhythm. The beat of its heart.
Seattle, Washington, USA
Good morning!
Guten morgen!
Buenos dias!
Dobré ráno!
Góðan daginn!
Genuine greetings echo throughout the barren walls littered with worn-in couches and exchanged adventures. Newspapers occupy the stand neighboring the front door, crisp as the local apples being delivered throughout the dawn. Clattering of pots and pans, clinking of urns and used pockets of espresso crash into the trashcan like raining bombs.
The register opens only to close once more. Gradually, the line begins to extend around the bend, out the door, as others arise and arrive to temporarily impede on my turf. Yet one must be forgiving, for who can maneuver through a Monday properly without a proper dose of C₈H₁₀N₄O₂.
Rothenburg ob der Tauber, Bavaria, Germany
Nowhere to be, no one to see, I write. I contemplate how I got here, what possible combination of atoms brought me to this seat, in this city, in this moment I time. I write rhymes about those I love, those I despise. I write using the ink of a pen and the (glass) of a mirror, willingly exposing wounds I have sewn up so many times the numbing has become permanent. I write about what I have learned, and who from. I make a list of all the corners of the globe I have yet to see. I pull out my phone and look up a quote I came across earlier and yearn to recall without relying on technology. I write and I write and I write.
Montague, Massachusetts, USA
Sometimes I read. Left hand on my cup of joe, the right eagerly flipping the pages. The picturesque universe around me fades as I disappear into the tales of the past, predictions of the future. Lives quite unlike mine, and yet provide a desperate source of connection and understanding I fail to experience with my comrades surrounding me. Classics both old and modern, poems of a new age and those that defined generations, I study the words so that I, one day, can write quite like that. Growing is a never-ending process and just as in the professors and educators of my youth, I seek advice and guidance from the authors who so meticulously poured their souls into their words, carefully crafted with the letters of their tongue. Because of them I can escape, because of them I can entertain a life which is not set in stone nor predetermined or doomed by the chemical imbalances of my brain. Writing is art, a craft surviving the tests of time, and I am an artist.
Kreuzburg, Berlin, Germany
Sometimes I merely sit back and muse. Focusing on the slightest details- the warmth of my fresh black coffee, the antique signs and decorations cluttering the aging walls, the subtle movements of my fellow artists of coffee and tea and cake, their priorities with numerous customers and the twiddling of their thumbs when there are none. Are they watching me watching them? Have they forgotten that I am here? For extended periods of time I am not, fading away into my deepest musings:
Who am I?
Who am I to become?
Is the agony I endure worth waking up to only grope for hope through the fog 365 days a year?
Do I have the right to complain?
What will I do today? Tomorrow? Ten years from now?
Can I afford an extra espresso?
525,600 cups of coffee, gentle greetings, scribbled musings, wanderings through my imagination, feeling at peace within my current longitudinal coordinates.
525,600 minutes at home.
Mitte, Berlin, Germany
Invisible Explorer 