For the past few months as I've worked on the dissertation, I've hated working in my flat. Several piles of books from the library littered my desk and floor. Though the piles make me look studious, the clutter makes concentration difficult. Moreover, I'm supposed to relax in my flat and have some peace there. If I worked on my dissertation there, I would constantly work. I need a place where I can concentrate on my work and a separate place where I can sleep and relax. Most everyone else works in the library, but that place is too miserable and quiet. I need a place where I can sit for long hours, plug my computer into an outlet, and have some action around me so that the energy keeps me going. Ergo, I've spent a lot of time in a coffee shop, Beanscene, which is a quick walk from my flat. It's kind of like my friends' Central Perk since almost everyone in my circle makes regular trips here. If I'm lonely and want to see some friends, I just have to sit here long enough because someone is bound to show up. I've spent so much time here that the baristas recognize me. I probably spend more time here than some of them. They're nice to me. After I had a rough morning, a barista gave me a cup of coffee on the house. One of the girls gives me extra stamps in my loyalty card. Another barista talks to me about the music selection. Since I've worked in coffee shops before, I feel comfortable in them. A lot of other people have trouble doing work in a coffee shop, but for me it's almost like a relaxing home. I hardly notice that people are talking and buzzing around me like hungry bees. Occasionally when I'm so focused on my work, a friend will startle me when he or she walks up and taps me on the shoulder. If I was in the library, the silence would distract me too much. Instead of reading about the Parisian banlieues, I'd listen to the buzzing florescent light bulbs, the monotonous turning pages, and the lonely postgrad coughing behind her book. I loathe the library.
Since I spend more time in this coffee shop than in my flat, this place has become a second home. Better yet, it has become my office/living room. I'm not afraid to strike up a conversation with someone sitting at the table next to me, especially if she happens to be cute.
The other day I reached for the sugar holder as soon as the barista placed the large americano with nonfat milk on my table next to my pile of books. There was no more sugar left in the holder except for the fake crap. I refuse to use this stuff. I don't think I'm going to gain any weight because I put a couple spoonfuls of sugar into my coffee instead of the zero-calorie sweetener that makes my coffee taste like I poured a resin straight from Gothic City's Axis Chemicals into the cup. I'll do a couple sit ups every morning to compensate for the extra calories, but I'd rather have real sugar. Since I'm so stubborn, I looked for another table that actually had the good stuff. At the table next to me was a cute girl who was working on her own dissertation. I leaned over and asked, "Do you mind if I take some sugar?" She smiled, "Sure. Take as much as you want." I act embarrassed, "I meant for my coffee."
That would be a great line and an ok story if it really happened. Truth is I didn't think about saying "I meant for my coffee" until a couple minutes after I took some sugar packets from her table. I'll have to remember that line for later.
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