Cafe Crawl #1

Everyone under the radiant southern cross has surely heard of the "Pub Crawl". But has anyone ever considered going on a "Cafe Crawl" instead?

Let's be honest -  We live in a society that is equally as bent on caffeine consmption as it is on alcohol consumption, so the Cafe Crawl seems like it should be a natural progression. Surely crawling from Cafe to Cafe, in some kind of caffeine-induced delerium, would be just as thrilling, if not more thrilling, than drunkenly rambling from pub to pub? Surely the gentle and quirky ambiance of each cafe would prove far superior to blaring pub rock from varying decades?

On Saturday morning, I decided it was time to embark on the first ever Cafe Crawl in recorded history. I embarked on the journey alone, armed with a fierce nay blue coat, some cash, a bit of wit and a notepad.

The following is a journal I kept of the experience:

9:52AM - Black Bear Cafe

I'm sitting at the most cramped table at the most bohemian cafe in Bellingen, a town which itself is both cramped and bohemian. I just began the fabled "Cafe Crawl" alone, but alone is really the way I like it. I've recently come to terms with being the biggest and most brooding introvert in history, and I don't see my intense solitude as a bad thing.

I've learnt that a lot of joy comes from spending time alone, with yourself, exploring the world around you through your eyes only. Solititude brings a lot more joy, fulfillment and clarity than being stuck with the wrong company. That's something I learnt the hard way.

Everyone in this cafe seems to be deeply connected, whether it's through friendship, familiarity of frequent intercourse, I don't know.The staff are bursting with life, and their warmth is rivalling that of my capuccino.

I suppose I should actually write about the coffee itself. It's perfect and I don't think I can fault - except the cup it was served in is possibly the smallest cup in existence. The richness of the coffee and the skill with which it was clearly crafted far outweighs my disappointment and it's petite stature. I've been drinking it at a medium pace, taking infrequent sips of water. Though I would love to down this beauty instantly, I have decided it is worth savoruing.

I watch as a gregarious woman booms her coffee order from across the Cafe, very politely yet also with a hint of aggression. I suppose the two combine to show how passionate she is about Coffee. I like this woman.

11:15AM - Tuckshop Bellingen

I never realised that two neighbouring cafes could feel drastically different. The smallest o features, like lighting, music, and design can somehow make mountains of difference in terms of ambiance.

I have a theory that going out for coffee isn't just about the coffee. It's about the ambiance, about how you feel going to that cafe. It's about the coffee experience.

Cafe workers, including myself, have two balance two key ingredients, in my opinion, to make it work. Making it all work takes 1 part good coffee and 1 part good atmosphere. Even the best cup of coffee just want taste as good if I don't feel comfortable sitting down drinking it. Having said that, no amount of flirting with patrons can change the way a bad cup of coffee tastes.

Looking around this cafe, I feel like in a showroom. There's nothing wrong with it, but it just feels a little intimidating. Every surface is sparkling and every wall is pristine white, but there are just no features that catch my eye. There's nothing to stimulate me, or to make me feel comfortable. I feel like this chair doesn't want to be sitting on it. It's arms are cold and unwelcoming, and everything feels dangerously chic.

Although I feel a little out of place here, I can't deny how much I am enjoying this vegetarian sourdough. It's difficult to find vegetarian food, when dining out, that is both edible and substantial. But this roll has hit the spot, quite a few times. Though my capuccino was a tad bitter and served without chocolate, and I find the ambiance a little intimidating, all can be forgiven thanks to the sourdough.

12:36PM - Bean Cafe Bellingen

I'm now up to Coffee number three. I had to yell over the top of a - very passionate - live jazz band to order my coffee, but I don't think that's a bad thing.

As the jazz intensifies, I can feel myself entering into a caffeine-induced delerium. Three coffees is probably a bit much, but I'm on a cafe crawl, and I will drink this third coffee if it's the last thing I do.

I don't exactly feel like all my troubles have fallen away, but instead, I feel the jazz music and I are moving so quickly that the troubles can't keep up. I feel a bit like Chicago's answer to Amelie, but maybe that's just the delerium setting in.

Though I'm at least fifty kilometres away from home, I've still managed to run into two people I went to school with, someone I work with, his mother, and a stallholder who apparently knows me. I visited the local produce markets between coffees today, and the man who sold me potatoes and bananas swore he'd seen me before. After we established that, no, I wasn't in a band, so, no, he hadn't seen me performing, we came to the assumption that we must have met while drunk. We chatted briefly on awkward points of life, before I wandered off, still having no recollection of ever before meeting this guy.

The gentleman across from me was eyeing me off consistently, but I only noticed as he was leaving. He drank a milkshake of unknown flavour, while the woman he sat with had some form of tea. I suppose it would be rather odd to ask the waiting staff what the table had ordered, but I'm just so curious. Perhaps it's all the caffeine making me this way. Perhaps it's finally having some time off. Perhaps it's the live jazz.

I guess the mystery will prove more exciting than knowing anyway.

As I discard my take-away cup and wander, reluctantly, away from the live jazz band, I ponder on what I've done. I have just finished the first Cafe Crawl in recorded history, and dread to think how many shots of coffee I've injested in the process.

As the music fades, I wonder whether I've really made history or if I'm just an idiot. As my heart beats faster and louder than ever before, I decide that both are probably true.

One must always leave a trail

Sitting in front of me is a packet of loose leaf Organic Lemon Myrtle Tea. It's expiry date is on my 21st birthday. Next to that is some random notes I took at a work meeting, brown eyeshadow, a gloriously large cup of coffee and a CD player.

Last night an old friend of mine returned home from his mysterious and somewhat prolonged adventure to Gulgong. As is almost necessary for people aged under 21, we had a party. On a Tuesday night.

I had work on Tuesday, and I have work today soon actually. I was planning to just meet them for dinner beforehand, extend my regards and then fuck off home again. Of course I turned up so late to dinner that I actually missed the dinner part, and arrived precisely when everyone was leaving.

Despite having said I would not, under any circumstances, attend a party on a Tuesday night, I did precisely that. I deliberately remained sober so that I could drive home at any point. But then I found myself amongst a group of close friends, in the dark, in the distance, getting in touch with Mary Jane.

I thought it would be best to wait a while before driving home, being then rendered completely off of my tits. So then I found myself lying on a trampoline, gazing at the cloudy night sky, slightly disillusioned by the lack of any visible stars. I remained stationary for a very fucking long time. Groups of people came and went; I remember lively discussions happenning around me that I was apparently physical unable to contribute to. Lola and I made nonsense at each other, understanding each other as intrinsically as babies.

I eventually made my way indoors. At the start of the night, my hair had been perfectly (or rather imperfectly) styled. I had pinned most of it back in an elegant style - something bohemian and a little bit flapper - and arranged tarragon flowers somewhat haphazardly in my hair.

The flowers from my hair, along with most of the bobby pins, laid on the trampoline and across the property, as I laid on a red lounge covered in cushions and everybody's things. There wasn't really any space to lie down but I think I made it work. Of course I then fell swiftly asleep in amongst all the things, blissfully unaware of how ridicudously high and absolutely freezing I was.

At 5:40 this morning I awoke startled and completely disoriented. The sun had begun to rise, which for some reason beckoned me to the bathroom. I grabbed most of my things (one must always leave a trail behind when they leave), and ran to the car, which for some reason I parked really far up the street. And then I headed home in a hurry, despite the fact I didn't (and don't) have to be at work until nine o'clock. I hope.

Bobs.

A few days back I was in one of those teenage depression spirals, where there seems to be no meaning to life and no purpose to it. That all vanished when I set foot in the town of Bellingen for the local Readers & Writers Festival. Writing is normally a lonely, depressing craft, but now I was in a town full of writers, many of them published authors.

Never had there been so many eyebags reaching such southerly extents in the one place. Masses of middle-aged women packed the local coffee shops, struggling to determine which of the four women with thin, black-rimmed glasses and a sophisticated bob was their companion. There was squinting, and sipping, and shouting, and bitching, and laughing, and learning, and countless late comers to every session.

So much coffee was consumed over the two days of the festival that on two separate occassions, people actually attempted to barge into my toilet cubicle before I even had the chance to display the engaged sign.

But it wasn't all coffee and perversion. There were, as one would hope, actually panels of people from the realm of writing, discussing everything from Telling Refugee's stories to the internet. I really pity the panel that had to encompass all there is to know about the great sea of information that is the internet in just an hour. But they managed, barely, and I discovered that there is hope for queer writers on the internet, something I've been worried about ever since I started this blog.

I also met up with Alex Neill, one of my inspirations, who worked with me at last years festival to polish a piece of short fiction. And then I added another person to my list of inspirational writers; Alice Pung. I haven't yet read her work, something I'm not proud of and probably shouldn't put on the internet, but I intend to.