Gach La, Olaim Caife no Tae

In New York, it’s essential to have some kind of a routine. There are just so many people and so many places that if you don’t go somewhere with some regularity, it’s absolutely possible that nobody would register you’re living there. You could fall into the East River one night and nobody would know you were even gone ---- the guy at the deli wouldn’t miss you coming in for a pickle and a diet Coke, the trainer at the gym wouldn’t miss you running your daily mile on the treadmill, the farmer at the market wouldn’t realize you hadn’t stopped by for your eggs and rhubarb. But start heading out to a restaurant or taking the same train every day, and you feel established in Manhattan life. Maybe nobody will know you by name, but you’ll have carved out a little pattern for yourself in a place that runs on chaos and distraction.

Dublin’s exponentially smaller than New York City (the whole of Dublin is about the size of the Greenwich Village neighborhood), but the same principle holds true. I had a few goals coming here ---- to write a great screenplay, to FINALLY finish reading Ulysses, to make friends with some true blue Dubliners, and to become a local at a café. Mission accomplished!

It’s been just about a month since I’ve started going to West Coast Coffee, a five-minute walk from my apartment on the north side of the Liffey. Initally, I needed a place to hide out when I got caught in the rain without an umbrella. After my first visit, I knew that I had found the coffeeshop I’d be frequenting this semester. It’s part of a small chain here in Ireland (the “West Coast” in its name refers to San Francisco --- I get such a kick out seeing the Golden Gate Bridge on my cups!). It’s an “American style espresso bar,” according to the literature on the wall, but I’m not sure what else besides the logo has anything to do with America. The one I go to on Ormonde Quay is managed by a sweet young guy from Prague who’s hilariously inconsistent about prices. He’s daily trying to promote a great new deal --- “bagel wit orange juice and Philadelphia cheese and some streaky bacon for four Euro. Maybe four-thirty. But if you come between 10 and 10:25, you get some coffee but no cream for five Euro. Only on Wednesdays, though.”

There are two girls who work there, probably just a little older than me. Both are startlingly pretty --- their tip jar overfloeth, I’m sure. One’s from Argentina, and there’s a guy who comes in every time I’m there, waiting for her to go on break so he can chat her up in halting Spanish. She’s very tolerant of his advances, and doesn’t mind topping up his espresso every half hour. The other girl hasn’t been there the last few times I’ve stopped by, but she’s just as lovely, and the first one to start making me feel like a regular. “Hello again!” she yelps in her accent. “Mocha for here?” I knew I had become a true patron when she started drawing with chocolate syrup on my foamy milk. Sometimes I’d get a star, sometimes I’d get a spiderweb or a leaf.

And I get so much done there --- if you’ve ever received a postcard or letter from me, more likely than not it was written at my own little table by the window at West Coast Coffee, waiting for my warm mug to be brought over with a “hope it’s okay today!” Most of my writing assignments are done there, too ---- although I do plenty of people-watching when I need a break. There’s a couple who comes in sometimes to plan their wedding! I love sneaking peaks at their guest lists, to see who’s gotten the axe and who’s welcome to bring a plus one. I’ve seen a guy get stood up for a coffee date, only to return with a lady who I have to assume was his mother. Just last week, the three business men who normally take their lunches while I’m getting writing done beat me to the café and took my regular table. Boy, and they knew it! Gave me sheepish looks as soon as I walked in clutching my notebook in shock. They vamoosed, obviously, ASAP, with the redheaded spectacled guy shuffling off under the force of my glowering. That’ll learn him.