My Daily Caffeination

It all started in high school, when I’d dart out with my classmates to a local Starbucks. We’d take the 35 minute lunch break to indulge in what are essentially just well-marketed milkshakes. Mocha, coffee, caramel, and java chip were the flavors of those days. Now there’s double chocolate chip and cinnamon dolce and caffè vanilla and toffee nut. But I can’t vouch for the addictiveness of those.

While studying for exams at university, I’d find a cushioned corner spot at one of the local cafés, somewhere between someone else’s pile of books and a photo of Los Angeles in the 1920s. Even nights were warm, so coffees would be iced. (They’d leave rings of condensation on my class notes.) But that was all well and fine. I drank coffee for the sake of drinking anything while studying, I drank it to pass the time, and I drank it mostly in hopes of fooling myself into thinking that I didn’t actually go out to absorb 11 weeks of game theory in 7 days—no, I went out for a nice iced beverage. The nights were sweeter that way. I’d even add sugar and let the ice melt. I’d weaken the bitterness of it.

But now, only months away from those nose-in-the-books days, I am officially a coffee snob. It’s odd, really. It’s not like I’m living in Italy or Austria, where they pride themselves on their coffee culture. I’m living in a country where “coffee shop” means “dark hole in the wall where you can get high.” Seriously, any insight into HOW this happened would be greatly appreciated. The guy at our coffee bar knows me by name. “See you tomorrow!” he says now, after I order my daily latte.

So, yes. Coffee has become a necessity. Good coffee, that is. Bad coffee gives me headaches. The stuff out of the machine will just not do. And I doubt I would be able to stoop to the level of my high school self… unless, of course, I happen to be driving around in flipflops one sweaty summer night in my hometown. I may just have to settle, then, for a coffee-flavored milkshake topped with whipped cream. I’d sit outside, pour it down my throat, and then lay with my hand on my tummy, snow-angel style, on the itchy itchy grass. And I’d have to invite my little brother. For sure.