Starbucks, Virginia Beach
It’s come to this. I’m sitting in a Starbucks in my hometown of Virginia Beach, Virginia. It’s a little after 8:00 am on an overcast, chilly and frighteningly windy December morning.
A blizzard of leaves swirls around late model SUVs aggressively jockeying for position at the drive thru as if the place is passing out ancient treasures. The coffee cue spills onto the main road where it’s met with blaring horns and choice words.
But it’s coffee.
And it’s cold.
And it’s windy.
But I’m here.
I've come to write something, anything. Household chores and a house cat with an incessant meow that is identical to a four-year-old's first violin lesson are quite distracting. I tend to write better away from home because that’s where I usually find my muse. When I look back on my sporadic essays over the years, sometimes I’m impressed. Over time, I’ve learned that writing is a painful, easily avoidable and occasionally rewarding process. A blank page is intimidating as an angry Starbucks customer that got cream instead of almond milk.
So far, all is quiet here at Starbucks. I order a Grande coffee “with room” as they say in coffee-ease which means less coffee so I might add a dribble of cream. It’s interesting that Starbucks adopted Italian names for a few of their sizes: “Grande” - large in Italian; Venti - which translates to twenty although the Starbucks size is 24 ounces; Trenta,” (at thirty ounces) and for some odd reason non-Italian outliers like “short” and “tall.” (“Breve” and “alta” if you’re curious)
In her book, Grande Expectations, author Karen Blumenthal wrote that Howard Schultz, founder of Starbucks, “wanted to convey a different image, something far more exotic than a simple cup of joe.” Since stores were inspired by the coffee scene in Italy, Schultz wanted to honor that heritage with “distinctive names” for the beverages, hence the Italian beverage names like macchiato, cappuccino, and latte, and Italian sizes terms like grande and venti. Makes me want to pack my bags and move in next door to the Clooney’s in Lake Como.
This morning, like all others all over, baristas grind out concoctions and shout names to waiting customers. I once visited a coffee shop in St. Augustine that had a wonderfully creative way of fulfilling orders. Instead of asking for your name, you gave them a song lyric. It was wildly entertaining to hear baristas belt out “excuse me while I kiss the sky” or “you know my hips don’t lie” than “Tammy! Tall foamy, swirly mocha decaf --- and by the way, you left your screaming kids in the car because the drive thru line was too long.”
I locate a table in the corner and find a chair which feels as though it was obtained from a police interrogation room yard sale. It was stiff cold and barked with the slightest movement. But they have free wireless, clean bathrooms and a cozy ambiance which is as far away from Italy as Virginia Beach is to Venice. I chose to wear headphones this morning to avoid further distractions -- those bulky almost noise canceling kind that make me look like a roller rink DJ from the 80’s or a submariner listening for U-boats off the coast of France.
It looks as if many customers are here to meet coworkers or friends. Others pop in and out pit row style. A handful bow to computer screens like me, while others sit, sip and stare likely wondering why they spent six dollars on a cup of coffee in a strip mall in Virginia Beach. One woman looks a lot like Robert Plant and rambles on* to her husband about Christmas plans and that by far, made my morning
My muse finally appears as I grab another cup to go and resist temptation to provide them with a lengthy song lyric rather than my name:
Leaves are falling all around
It's time I was on my way
Thanks to you I'm much obliged
For such a pleasant stay
But now it's time for me to go**
*Ramble On. Led Zepplin II, 1970. Cut seven.
** Ibid