8/3/10 11:30-12:30
Notes:
As I walk in and scan the place, I am actually blown forward by the wind. The faint smell of the ocean surrounds me. I am suddenly famished. I wait in the counter line and notice that they have an actual bar made out of old scruffy wood. I already like this place.
The café is small and crowded. There are only 4 tables in front that resemble a wind tunnel (the door is open), 4 tables behind the bar, and about 5 seats at the bar. 4 seems to be the lucky number here. There are also 2 couches and a few outside tables but with this fog and wind, that isn’t an option. Every seat is taken anyway except at the bar. I order quickly (a veggie bagel and a cup of Jasmine Green Tea) and snag a seat at the bar.
I stare at the beers on tap in front of me and make a mental note to come back for happy hour sometime. They have 5 beers and I actually like 3 of them.
There are 4 baristas working behind the scenes to keep everyone happy. 2 women that look like sisters with matching ponytails and features. They are both wearing their Java Beach logo t-shirts. Another woman in a Guinness t-shirt is making espresso. It smells unbelievable. The guy behind the counter is sprucing up the place. He’s the one in charge. He is fully tatted and wearing a Rip Curl t-shirt. Everyone working there has Irish accents. The whole bar/coffee shop theme is starting to make more sense.
The 4 tables behind me are reserved for hard-core laptopers. All Macs. Each of them sits solo typing intensely, plugged happily into the wall.
The woman directly behind me gives her computer a rest and sighs loudly. She picks up her iphone and sends an angry text. She is drinking iced coffee and wearing gloves.
The middle-aged guy next to her types vigorously. Looks like he is answering an email. He is wearing a 49ers jersey and black loafers. His Blackberry shakes the table as it buzzes. He ignores it.
A regular walks in. He chats up the Rip Curl guy. He is wearing dark sunglasses and has a giant guitar on his back. I think it’s a Strat. He looks like Pete Townshend circa 1978. He is even wearing the jumpsuit. Classic. He pours his own coffee and heads outside to sit. Suddenly, “Substitute” by the Who is playing in my head.
Abruptly a family of tourists interrupts my creative vibe. 6 of them push their way towards the bar. There are only 4 empty seats. A couple, and two sets of grandparents. They grab a high chair and block the path to the bathroom. I have to move way down the bar to accommodate them. Really? I am almost sitting on top of where people come to get their drinks and napkins. It’s difficult to take notes. The baby starts to wail. Daddy picks up the baby and thankfully calms him down. Baby daddy is practically pushing me off the bar. I am starting to dislike his thermal shirt wearing, tight jean ass. They talk about Fisherman’s Wharf and how it might be too cold to walk across the GGB. My leg is being pushed up against the bar, while his baby is eating Gerber’s Lasagna and Meat Sauce. That will probably bruise later. I smile as I think of it as my first Hoodmapping battle wound.
An 80’s guy enters, his frizzy hair blowing in the wind. I think he has a tail or some kind of mullet. I anxiously wait for him to turn around. He is wearing a green suede jacket with fringe sleeves. He orders a non-fat latte and catches me looking at him. He smiles. I quickly turn back to my notes and try to look busy.
I see a table open up between 2 of the laptopers. I race towards the table just in time, spilling some of my tea on my jeans. I am happy to have my own space again. I am also relieved that my tea is no longer steaming.
2 pony-tailed firefighters enter, a male and a female. This seems to be the chosen hairstyle of the day. I scan the place and notice 4 other people besides the two baristas with ponytails. He orders a double shot cappuccino and a hot chocolate for his partner. He loudly shouts, “ A Swiss Miss for the Swiss Matron.” She blushes.
A couple sits by the window quietly, computers touching and work spread on their laps. They look peaceful despite the heavy workload.
Rip Curl turns the music up. Sounds like a Mariachi band. I am still thinking about Pete Townshend. I can see him sitting outside at one of the tables smoking. He is now wearing a black trench coat over his jumpsuit.
More and more people enter. The crowd never seems to thin out. They look like Eskimos, marching in with hoodies, scarves, and hats. Maybe they have just come from walking on the beach.
I see a couple coveting my table. Since I am finished with my tea I stand up to leave. Before I am even finished putting on my jacket they are hovering over me.
As I am walking to my car, I see Pete Townshend. He winks at me and gets into his car. I notice that he has an old Caprice police car. Written on the back of his car in huge white letters are the words, UFO Response Team. I crack up as I reach my car. The sun is trying desperately to peak out from behind the dense fog.
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