The Thin [Caffeinated] Line Between Love and Addiction.

I love coffee.

For me, the best cup of coffee is that first cup on a Saturday morning.  I love the ritual of its preparation--filtering the water, measuring the beans, delivering it all to Mr. Coffee for transformation; the same way each time, the Tao of the First Cup.  I love the growling and "whoosh!" sounds Mr. Coffee makes as he gets down to business; non-verbal reassurances to me of how diligently he's working to extract very ounce of potential from those magic beans.  I love the aroma that fills my apartment as Mr. Coffee progresses farther and farther into his mission of utmost urgency and importance.  I love hearing the "beep!  beep!" that signals the transformation is complete.  I love seeing the steam rise up from my favorite mug as I make the first pour; the indiscriminate pot of coffee turning into the First Cup.  I love adding a dash of cream and watching it swirl around; each time different, but each time the same--Yin confronting Yang and the two agreeing to meet in the middle.  I love taking that first sip and how it tastes like possibility distilled into its purest form; a herald of the coming day and the freedom that is the weekend.

Now, although I love coffee, I will admit that I am also a frequent patron of Starbucks.  And based on that admission I've had many tell me that it's unholy for a coffee-lover to patronize Starbucks.  It's an abomination.  Unclean.  "How can you enjoy Starbucks?  That evil, faceless corporation that's turned coffee-drinking into a profit-driven enterprise filled with cake pops and disgusting-smelling breakfast sandwiches?"  It's simple really--Starbucks isn't coffee.  At least not to me.  Sure, Starbucks sells "coffee," as you'd find that term defined in the dictionary--"A hot drink made from roasted and ground bean-like seeds of a tropical shrub."  But for me, what makes something a cup of coffee is everything else that surrounds it: the ease and freedom that accompanies the First Cup, the leisure of the cup enjoyed after a delicious dinner, the camaraderie of all those cups enjoyed with friends at your favorite cafe.  That's coffee.  Obviously Starbucks doesn't sell anything remotely similar to that.  But what it does sell is a caffeinated beverage that tastes the same every time you order it.  No matter the time or place, my Venti Iced Americano is going to taste just like it did the last time and just like it will the next time--bitter and devoid of personality.  It's the efficiency, effectiveness, and consistency of Starbucks that keeps me coming.  In other words, it gets the job done.  If I'm going into a Starbucks, it means I'm en route somewhere, be it across the street to my office for some frenzied brief-writing,  across town to meet friends, or across the ocean for some international intrigue.  Either way I've got something to do, and I need my fix of caffeine.  I guess that makes me a drug addict and Starbucks my dealer.

Realizing that I'm a drug addict was somewhat depressing.  But that depression melted away the other morning when I stepped into a Starbucks on the way to see my parents and realized I am not alone.  It was the first time I'd been into a Starbucks during the rush that accompanies the morning commute, as I generally brew my own weekday morning coffee.  It was kind of a shock seeing a line of people snaking out the door, each person with a scowl, grimace, or other look of displeasure on his or her face.  Feet were tapping and watches constantly checked.  It was tense.  Truth be told, I almost walked out of the place, fearing that I'd get sucked into a black hole of caffeine withdrawal.  But of course, the addiction within lodged its objection and demanded that I join the line.  So I obeyed.

Oddly enough, the line moved much more quickly than I'd anticipated.  Like any good dealer, Starbucks has their drug delivery process down to a science.  It was akin to the crews showcased in HBO's The Wire.  You know, with the whole drug purchasing process being broken down into its component parts and spread out so the authorities can't get the whole thing on camera--the guy who takes your order is not the guy who takes your money is not the guy who serves you your drink.  The barristas even yelled out the names of the drugs, except shouts of "W.M.D!" and "Yellow Tops!" were replaced with "Tall double-shot soy latte" and "Grande skinny no foam cappuccino!"  Brilliant.

After I'd made my way through the line and transitioned from "waiting to order/pay" to "waiting for my drink to be made," I took a moment to scope out the other addicts huddled around the "ready bar" or whatever they call it (you know, the place where the drinks appear).  Strangely, everyone seemed much more relaxed now that they'd gotten through with the business end of the transaction.  I guess that makes sense.  Waiting in line to order and pay brings with it a certain level of anxiety--"Is the line ever going to end?!  What if the guy in front of me orders the last of the coffee!?!?  What if there's none left!?!?!  I'LL KILL THEM ALL!!!"  Plus, ordering and paying highlights the reality of the drug deal--cash for product.  But as you're waiting for your drink to be made, that anxiety is replaced with the anticipation of the fix.  For some that anticipation also breeds anxiety, but for most I noticed that it brings with it a meditative state.  As you're standing there waiting for your order to be called, you're neither coming or going.  You're still, and you have a moment to gather yourself for whatever lies in store for you next.  In the hustle and bustle that is the modern day rat race, this brief respite is something of a relief.  Something to be savored and relished.  A moment to catch your breath in between Life's insatiable demands for your time.  As I was having my own meditative moment, the peace and calm came to an abrupt halt as my order was called out--"Iced Venti Americano!  Iced Venti Americano for Kant!"

I love Starbucks.

--KM

"I'm in the house party trippin' off my generation sippin' cough syrup like it's water."