I once met a witty and insightful Latina immigrant who told me, "South Florida is the closest place you can live to America without needing a passport."
This is not an exaggeration. While it may be a geological fluke that the southern tip of Florida happens to be connected to the continental United States, for all intents and purposes, SoFla is Caribbean. My hometown is a mirror image of the Greater Antilles, with which we Miamians have more in common than with our fellow citizens in the peninsula or Panhandle. We have 70-degree winter days and swaying palm trees, native orchids and wild parrots. We eat Christmas dinner by the pool. We hardly ever wear shoes. We have freakin' mangos - mangos, for God's sake! - growing in the backyard. And pretty much no one speaks English as their first language. Entire neighborhoods don't speak it as their second.
This sense of being a stranger in your country of birth can happen not only in major ports of immigration like Miami, New York and San Francisco. It is just as true when moving from one state to another. The U.S. is comprised of such a massive swath of continent that each state is, in all practicality, its own country. The laws are different. The infrastructure varies considerably (try this some time for fun: drive top speed from Pagosa Springs, CO, to Chama, NM, and see if you and your tires don't notice an immediate change in road conditions the moment you see the "¡Bienvenidos a Nuevo Mexico!" sign). Your insurance policies don't automatically transfer, even if you stay with the same company, so you suddenly have a half dozen pre-existing conditions that won't be covered now that you've relocated. And if you are a licensed professional in one state, do not assume for one second that you can legitimately practice in another state without paying an obscene amount in fees and taking yet another irrelevant board exam about absolutely nothing you have ever learned in school or have ever done at work in 15 years in the field.
But the most disorienting aspect of interstate relocation is the difference in cultural norms. What is thought rude in Nebraska might actually be considered a compliment in Massachusetts. A taboo in Maryland could be completely socially acceptable in Nevada (where, let's face it, pretty much anything goes). When my step-sister came to visit me at college in Boston with her Annie Lennox circa 1990 platinum spiked hair, an old-timer in the North End (Beantown's answer to Little Italy) walked up to her and demanded, "Hey! What's with the hair? I liked it the other way!" "What other way?" she shot back. "You've never seen me before in my life." "I don't know," he teased, "but any way is better than that!" We all died laughing. But you simply cannot pull that shit in Omaha.
Of course, nobody tells you this explicitly. You just have to find out the hard way when you step into a big pile of it in front of the whole damn landlocked town and the awkward silence nearly freezes your tiny fragile heart until it sticks its approval-seeking tongue to an icy metal fence post on purpose just to appease everyone because you're new and you need friends.
A Facebook friend recently shared a post from Alice 105.9 featuring a T-shirt that reads: "I don't mean to interrupt people. I just randomly remember things and get really excited." It didn't even occur to me that interrupting was a problem until I left the East Coast. In fact, many people there might assume, unless you cut in every few sentences to show that you're connecting to the speaker, that: a) you're not paying attention, b) that you actually don't give a crap about what they're talking about or c) worst of all, you're completely clueless and therefore have no earthly right to be in this conversation in the first place.
Speed is one of the highest of values along the urbanized Eastern seaboard. To stand in line for coffee at Dunkin Donuts (because no self-respecting Yankee would pay $4.75 for a cup of effin' coffee, thank you very much) at Penn Station in New York City during rush hour is to witness an ingeniously-orchestrated military operation of the highest import. You damn well better know what it is you want, down to the last detail, long before a cashier subpoenas you from one of three customer lines, upon which you order loudly and definitively while simultaneously paying and offering a curt nod of appreciation all at once before you enter another air raid formation for pickup. After which you get the hell out of the way, even if someone else (probably a tourist) accidentally took your drink and you're stuck with theirs. Because tough shit, we're in a hurry here. When I applied the same rules of engagement in the Midwest, people regarded me as a rude, pushy broad who hadn't the decency to ask how their day was going before I brazenly got right down to ordering my food like a marauding barbarian.
Cut to the chase. Lose the foreplay. Gimme the punchline. What's the bottom line. These are the rules of speech etiquette in densely-populated places where slowing down for a millisecond could cause a 16-car pileup. A typical phone call to a family member in a big city might go something like, "Hey. Quick question: What was the name of that restaurant you were telling me about? Got it! Thanks. Bye." Expediency shows the utmost respect because everyone's in a rush because there are too many damn people everywhere and you've gotta get there - the parking space, the restaurant, the show, the colonoscopy - before they do.
As writer Nick Paumgarten described it in the November 3, 2014, issue of The New Yorker, "smooth open road is so rare, at least in the denser parts of [New York City], that a lead foot can hardly resist the urge to hit the gas. In a city of lost time—there’s never enough, never enough—any chance to regain some is sweet." But a recently reduced speed limit to 25mph in the city may impede this expediency. "Now we demonize speed," Paumgarten writes. "This feels funny: a city that has long identified itself as sleepless and fast, aspiring to everything lickety-split, is being asked to slow down. Slow food, slow money, now slow cars—the New York minute will henceforth be sixty seconds long."
The manic competition of an overcrowded populace for limited resources can breed not only efficiency but also, in many cases, excellence. You are never the only game in town. You will never be a big fish in a small pond. And you certainly can't stick a "Gone fishing" sign on your window when business is slow. Because it's never slow. And if it is, then it's your own damn fault 'cause there's plenty of customers out there, you lazy bum.
But recently I've realized that operating at Autobahn in a place that moves at school zone can actually be a form of violence. Putting more energy into things than is merited for the situation makes me uptight, irritable and impatient. I am judgy, cranky and unkind. I fume about how much more efficiently everything could run if people would just snap. I become a petty tyrant inside, obsessively scheming about how to control everyone like a chess piece so they are on top of their game at all times. I frankly get mean, if only in my own mind.
So, if I want to be all Gandhi nonviolent about things, the kindest thing I can do is to not be in a rush. Which means first and foremost that I need to be on time and not wait until the last minute to get out the door, only to be incensed that shit isn't running like clockwork like it damn well should and everything is taking twice as long and now I'm freakin' late thanks to all you complacent Type B idiots out there. I may have it in my mind that it should take 7 minutes to get to work. And technically it does, between the hours of 2:17 and 4:38am, when no one is on the road. That doesn't change the reality that it takes more like 12 because people where I now live drive the speed limit - who does this? - and don't run yellow lights.
In an informal survey from a recent Facebook post, here are a few suggestions that friends have made for avoiding the homicidality of tardiness. Set your watch 6 minutes fast. Calculate the time it takes to get where you need to go and leave 15-20 minutes earlier than that. Set constant reminders on your phone. Get everything ready the night before. Set your clocks 10 minutes fast. Calculate how long it takes to get where you need to go and round up by 5 minutes. Lie to yourself that every appointment is actually 15 minutes earlier than it is. Ask to be included on the Caribbean invitee list, which guarantees you will receive an invitation that a given event starts 2 hours earlier than it actually does in hopes that you and your fellow islanders might be on time.
I've been giving some of these suggestions a try of late. They really do work. And you know what? I'm a nicer person for it. I take my time with things more and make mistakes less. I hold the door for people more often. I let other cars in more readily when they need to merge. I even let people cut in front of me in line if they seem rushed. I'm more Dalai Lama "kindness is my religion" about things. In fact, this has become a new morning prayer to start my day: "May I be especially kind to myself and others today." It's not every day that I live up to this vision, but at least I am amenable to cultivating the conditions that might make it more possible.
Best of all, the thing I feared hasn't happened. I haven't lost my urban edge. I am still an exceptionally high-energy person, but now that energy runs smoothly and sustainably rather than fast-furious-crash-rematch. I continue to stay on top of style trends. I love a noisy, boisterous crowd. I regularly shave and depilate, even in the winter. One-liners flow freely from my lips. As does profanity, which is another point of divergence in cultural norms.
That is one heart-warming touch of home I agonizingly miss now that I'm living inland. To me, people from SoFla use the perfect ratio of profanity. It is part of our festive humor, our stress relief and our vida loca zest for life. Profanity amongst family, friends and close associates is a sign of bonding and respect, and an aptly-timed f-bomb demonstrates wit, pluck and mental acuity. Swearing is also a convenient shortcut to more descriptive, thoughtful language, which works swimmingly amid the time-strapped. And it's just darn good fun.
Before I relocated to the Southwest, I had never before lived in a place where so many people were so offended by swearing, and frankly, it still drives me...wait for it...bat shit crazy. I actually feel less trust toward people who never cuss, as though perhaps they are not being honest somehow. As though they pretend not to fart in public or have sex with the lights on ever. Because, really, who doesn't have evil world domination fantasies and other twisted crap going through their head sometimes?
Wait, kindness is my... Oh, fuck it. I don't have time for this shit.
Saturday, January 31, 2015
Saturday, January 17, 2015
Our Lady of the Blessed Bean
My husband recently called me out on my coffee habit. You could say it was a sort of intervention, only the focus was more financial than emotional. He asked me to come clean about my daily spending on this particular vice, and when I did, promptly informed me that we could purchase a round-trip flight to a major European capital in high season with the amount of money I blow at coffee shops annually.
But then he asked me what I get out of the coffee house experience. I agreed that I could make my own coffee but that it wouldn't be the same, and not just because of, lacking professional equipment in my kitchen, the inferior quality of the final product. There is something else I get out of going to get coffee. When I thought more about it, I realized that my daily trip to a coffee shop is actually an organizing principle in my day. It is a ritual, like going to daily Mass or zazen for solace, community, nourishment and the comfort of familiarity. The java itself is only one small part of this.
A good local coffee shop presents with all the beauty and attention to detail as a traditional spiritual sanctuary, with its characteristic coffee bean incense, its mood-altering music, its fellowship of regular worshippers, the imbibing of specially-prepared and blessed bread (biscotti) and wine (espresso) to uplift our spirits and commune with something greater than we are. In this case, that something could be the deep care that local bakers and roasters put into sourcing, preparing and serving their community. Or the warm welcome we get from our favorite cashier who knows our name and our drink. Or the friendly banter of customers making small talk in line. Or the sacred mandala of coffee art atop our foaming drink. We even tithe to the almighty tip jar as a token of our gratitude and hope for the longevity of our baristas' sacred work. More than once I've had revelatory lattes that I could swear were prepared by the seraphim in high heaven.
It turns out that coffee drinking as spiritual practice is not all that far-fetched. I was recently told about a traditional Ethiopian coffee ceremony, not unlike a Japanese tea rite. The participant described an elaborate process in which her hostess hand-roasted green coffee beans over a fire, crushed the roasted beans with a mortar and pestle, boiled the grounds in water several times, and served it to guests in tiny cups with great care. I later read about coffee ceremonies in which frankincense resin was burned on the coals and guests were invited to inhale the scent of the roasting beans as part of the ritual. Sometimes cinnamon and cardamom are added to enrich the experience. Like many indigenous practices around the world, the coffee ceremony transforms an everyday staple into a transcendent experience.
There is also the Abyssinian legend that coffee for human consumption was first discovered by an unassuming goatherd who noticed his animals acting especially frisky after ingesting the fruit of the coffee plant. This might be a tall tale, but what is not is that people eventually figured out how to cultivate, harvest, roast and brew the berries of the coffee plant into the spunky concoction that fuels an approximate 63 gazillion percent of the business world today. This, as the story goes, somehow led to Coptic monks using coffee to stay alert while studying scripture for long hours. And that's, like, totally spiritual, right?
On a secular level, there is also luxury inherent in a complex coffee drink that ends in a vowel. The way it feels to splurge a little every day and take a few humane moments out of the modern workaday rut, which in the U.S. typically does not include a lunch hour or even a cigarette break (unless you're in international waters). The way it feels to spend on something for yourself that doesn't have any practical or lasting purpose. The way it feels to indulge a bit every day amid a lifestyle where down time happens only when someone's sick, a flight is delayed or you've finished all five seasons of Breaking Bad on Netflix.
There's even the status symbol of it all. Like a Louis-Vuitton logo bag, a to-go cup from a coffee shop signals disposable income. It shows that while I don't need this, I can afford it. I am successful because I can buy a product that I could easily make at home, albeit not as well. As anti-eco as it sounds, I have actually found myself feeling less luxurious when I bring my own travel mug for my daily grind, as though it were somehow less opulent to refill a permanent mug than to use and throw away a new disposable one. A family member who grew up in the poorest of Caribbean countries once told me that this may be a reason why it can sometimes be difficult to encourage recycling amongst people who once struggled to survive. Throwing stuff away denotes wealth. It signals that you have so much that you don't need to hang onto things. Reusing a Mason jar for iced tea can feel like poverty to those who grew up having to do that out of necessity, however boho farm-to-table charming it may seem to those who have not.
Yuppie coffee is kind of a funny concept considering I come from a city where fancy coffee drinks are actually very affordable. Café cubano may be priced like a poor man's espresso, but poor in quality it is not. Cuban coffee is a specially-roasted espresso carefully prepared for ultimate crema (the delicate, carmel-colored foam that forms atop a shot of well-made espresso) and, if you wish, perfectly-frothed milk. It is strong, sweet, satisfying and cheap. I like somewhat bitter flavors, so I order mine sin azúcar, and it is homemade mother's milk in a cup. Latino or not, in any given neighborhood in Miami, todo el mundo buys at least one coffee drink a day, most costing $1.50 or less. Many treat their entire office to a mini-shot of cortadito in the late afternoons, when human biorhythms naturally wane, for less than a bottle of Daisani. Do not for a second think that the low price heralds a diluted brew. As an Internet meme puts it, "Cuban coffee: The reason crystal meth never took off in Miami."
A friend recently asked me to name my favorite coffee shop in our Southwestern city. It depends on your drink, I told her. I have favorites for iced coffee and other favorites for breve latte. I love one place's nitrous iced coffee but can't stand their espresso. Another place has epic espresso but their latte drinks are too milky for my taste. Some places don't carry dark chocolate powder, which is an essential for sprinkling on foamy drinks, but their chai drinks are spicy not sweet the way I like them. Some places the chai and espresso are both average, but mixed together, you've got yourself a dirty chai cocktail to warm your bones all day. Then there are the chain places that are your only choices while on the road or in the suburbs. Road trips are the only time I require a shot of artificially flavored syrup to mitigate a typically less than robust brew.
Writing this, it occurs to me that the above description parallels a food travel show, where a well-heeled chef waxes poetic about how the mojitos are sublime at such-and-such club, but if you want an old-fashioned done right, you best get yourself to the little-known corner dive down the street. In fact, I've often wondered whether all the ritual and reverence around complex coffee drinks isn't for me a sort of substitution for bar culture. When I ceased my alcohol intake 20 years ago, I remember missing both the conviviality and the baroque details of drink. The red wine glasses versus the white wine glasses. The cognac snifters and champagne flutes. The dark wood camaraderie of a microbrewery next to the airy glamor of a chill lounge. I missed telling men what my drink was, and I missed the pleasure of hanging out with a bunch of strangers enjoying the simple things in life. So if I had to choose between going back to a way of life that proved disastrous for me or dropping some cash on hipster coffee drinks, I would chose the latter. Besides, a latte is still cheaper than a mojito in most places.
In spite of my best rationalizations, I have conceded that I really don't need to purchase a rich coffee drink every single day. I thought about all my favorite coffee drinks and which ones I could most authentically replicate at home. I decided on the iced toddy, a deeply flavorful concoction steeped for 24 hours cold or at room temperature. Two of my favorite coffee shops use this method, and it was easy enough to find detailed instructions via online foodie sites. My husband is helping make my own New Orleans-style Cafe du Monde cold brew with chicory, and it's pretty darn tasty. I also recently purchased both an AeroPress, which makes ecstatically authentic espresso, and an electric milk-frothing appliance, for homegrown lattes and cappuccinos, and they are actually rather awesome.
They won't completely take the place of holy communion followed by pastry in the fellowship hall. But they might reduce the frequency of my daily $4 (with tip) coffee habit enough that our family can afford to enjoy vowel-ending coffee drinks in some of the countries where they actually originated.
But then he asked me what I get out of the coffee house experience. I agreed that I could make my own coffee but that it wouldn't be the same, and not just because of, lacking professional equipment in my kitchen, the inferior quality of the final product. There is something else I get out of going to get coffee. When I thought more about it, I realized that my daily trip to a coffee shop is actually an organizing principle in my day. It is a ritual, like going to daily Mass or zazen for solace, community, nourishment and the comfort of familiarity. The java itself is only one small part of this.
A good local coffee shop presents with all the beauty and attention to detail as a traditional spiritual sanctuary, with its characteristic coffee bean incense, its mood-altering music, its fellowship of regular worshippers, the imbibing of specially-prepared and blessed bread (biscotti) and wine (espresso) to uplift our spirits and commune with something greater than we are. In this case, that something could be the deep care that local bakers and roasters put into sourcing, preparing and serving their community. Or the warm welcome we get from our favorite cashier who knows our name and our drink. Or the friendly banter of customers making small talk in line. Or the sacred mandala of coffee art atop our foaming drink. We even tithe to the almighty tip jar as a token of our gratitude and hope for the longevity of our baristas' sacred work. More than once I've had revelatory lattes that I could swear were prepared by the seraphim in high heaven.
It turns out that coffee drinking as spiritual practice is not all that far-fetched. I was recently told about a traditional Ethiopian coffee ceremony, not unlike a Japanese tea rite. The participant described an elaborate process in which her hostess hand-roasted green coffee beans over a fire, crushed the roasted beans with a mortar and pestle, boiled the grounds in water several times, and served it to guests in tiny cups with great care. I later read about coffee ceremonies in which frankincense resin was burned on the coals and guests were invited to inhale the scent of the roasting beans as part of the ritual. Sometimes cinnamon and cardamom are added to enrich the experience. Like many indigenous practices around the world, the coffee ceremony transforms an everyday staple into a transcendent experience.
There is also the Abyssinian legend that coffee for human consumption was first discovered by an unassuming goatherd who noticed his animals acting especially frisky after ingesting the fruit of the coffee plant. This might be a tall tale, but what is not is that people eventually figured out how to cultivate, harvest, roast and brew the berries of the coffee plant into the spunky concoction that fuels an approximate 63 gazillion percent of the business world today. This, as the story goes, somehow led to Coptic monks using coffee to stay alert while studying scripture for long hours. And that's, like, totally spiritual, right?
On a secular level, there is also luxury inherent in a complex coffee drink that ends in a vowel. The way it feels to splurge a little every day and take a few humane moments out of the modern workaday rut, which in the U.S. typically does not include a lunch hour or even a cigarette break (unless you're in international waters). The way it feels to spend on something for yourself that doesn't have any practical or lasting purpose. The way it feels to indulge a bit every day amid a lifestyle where down time happens only when someone's sick, a flight is delayed or you've finished all five seasons of Breaking Bad on Netflix.
There's even the status symbol of it all. Like a Louis-Vuitton logo bag, a to-go cup from a coffee shop signals disposable income. It shows that while I don't need this, I can afford it. I am successful because I can buy a product that I could easily make at home, albeit not as well. As anti-eco as it sounds, I have actually found myself feeling less luxurious when I bring my own travel mug for my daily grind, as though it were somehow less opulent to refill a permanent mug than to use and throw away a new disposable one. A family member who grew up in the poorest of Caribbean countries once told me that this may be a reason why it can sometimes be difficult to encourage recycling amongst people who once struggled to survive. Throwing stuff away denotes wealth. It signals that you have so much that you don't need to hang onto things. Reusing a Mason jar for iced tea can feel like poverty to those who grew up having to do that out of necessity, however boho farm-to-table charming it may seem to those who have not.
Yuppie coffee is kind of a funny concept considering I come from a city where fancy coffee drinks are actually very affordable. Café cubano may be priced like a poor man's espresso, but poor in quality it is not. Cuban coffee is a specially-roasted espresso carefully prepared for ultimate crema (the delicate, carmel-colored foam that forms atop a shot of well-made espresso) and, if you wish, perfectly-frothed milk. It is strong, sweet, satisfying and cheap. I like somewhat bitter flavors, so I order mine sin azúcar, and it is homemade mother's milk in a cup. Latino or not, in any given neighborhood in Miami, todo el mundo buys at least one coffee drink a day, most costing $1.50 or less. Many treat their entire office to a mini-shot of cortadito in the late afternoons, when human biorhythms naturally wane, for less than a bottle of Daisani. Do not for a second think that the low price heralds a diluted brew. As an Internet meme puts it, "Cuban coffee: The reason crystal meth never took off in Miami."
A friend recently asked me to name my favorite coffee shop in our Southwestern city. It depends on your drink, I told her. I have favorites for iced coffee and other favorites for breve latte. I love one place's nitrous iced coffee but can't stand their espresso. Another place has epic espresso but their latte drinks are too milky for my taste. Some places don't carry dark chocolate powder, which is an essential for sprinkling on foamy drinks, but their chai drinks are spicy not sweet the way I like them. Some places the chai and espresso are both average, but mixed together, you've got yourself a dirty chai cocktail to warm your bones all day. Then there are the chain places that are your only choices while on the road or in the suburbs. Road trips are the only time I require a shot of artificially flavored syrup to mitigate a typically less than robust brew.
Writing this, it occurs to me that the above description parallels a food travel show, where a well-heeled chef waxes poetic about how the mojitos are sublime at such-and-such club, but if you want an old-fashioned done right, you best get yourself to the little-known corner dive down the street. In fact, I've often wondered whether all the ritual and reverence around complex coffee drinks isn't for me a sort of substitution for bar culture. When I ceased my alcohol intake 20 years ago, I remember missing both the conviviality and the baroque details of drink. The red wine glasses versus the white wine glasses. The cognac snifters and champagne flutes. The dark wood camaraderie of a microbrewery next to the airy glamor of a chill lounge. I missed telling men what my drink was, and I missed the pleasure of hanging out with a bunch of strangers enjoying the simple things in life. So if I had to choose between going back to a way of life that proved disastrous for me or dropping some cash on hipster coffee drinks, I would chose the latter. Besides, a latte is still cheaper than a mojito in most places.
In spite of my best rationalizations, I have conceded that I really don't need to purchase a rich coffee drink every single day. I thought about all my favorite coffee drinks and which ones I could most authentically replicate at home. I decided on the iced toddy, a deeply flavorful concoction steeped for 24 hours cold or at room temperature. Two of my favorite coffee shops use this method, and it was easy enough to find detailed instructions via online foodie sites. My husband is helping make my own New Orleans-style Cafe du Monde cold brew with chicory, and it's pretty darn tasty. I also recently purchased both an AeroPress, which makes ecstatically authentic espresso, and an electric milk-frothing appliance, for homegrown lattes and cappuccinos, and they are actually rather awesome.
They won't completely take the place of holy communion followed by pastry in the fellowship hall. But they might reduce the frequency of my daily $4 (with tip) coffee habit enough that our family can afford to enjoy vowel-ending coffee drinks in some of the countries where they actually originated.
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