A Sense of Place

Although there seemed to be a Wayne’s Coffee on every corner, Lauren found herself attracted to the location downtown, diagonal from the Burger King. It had become a part of routine for her to walk down the cobblestone streets every morning, swaying side to side as bikers fled past, ringing their bells incessantly. Cars weren’t common in the streets downtown, but on occasion a station wagon or two would creep through the crowds of scattered pedestrians, turning down a side street and speeding off towards more populated highways, leaving a pungent trail of gasoline behind them.

Lauren had been gradually getting used to the lack of humidity in the area, or rather, enjoying it, but she still had not gotten used to the temperature change upon walking into Wayne’s Coffee. Uppsala was an old town, and air conditioning was not common in any buildings, causing the coffee shop and most businesses to feel humid and sticky upon entering. Lauren found that this was easy to get used to with time, but upsetting that she could not wear a jacket inside. Besides the humidity, the air carried a scent of coffee grounds—but not the processed stuff you find in Dunkin’ Donuts or Starbucks—this was real, organic coffee. If it wasn’t coffee, the air was dominated by cardamom. This came from the freshly baked cinnamon buns (kanelbullar, they’re called in Swedish, she learned quite early on) that would be proudly hoisted up on top of a wooden stand near the register. 

She enjoyed the atmosphere of the shop. Back home, sitting down in a Starbucks would allow you to observe hundreds of people coming and going, barely acknowledging each other’s existence… simply grabbing their coffee and running out the door. At Wayne’s, you received a glass mug with the assumption you would be sitting and relaxing before being on your way. There was a large couch stretched across the farthest wall that ended in an L-shape just before the register, separating the sitting area from the workers, although allowing for chatter. On occasion, Lauren would find herself pouring the exhaustive details of her past life to Hakim, the owner, who would listen intently as he prepared coffee and cleaned, pausing for customers. Above the couch was canvas paintings of coffee and fruit, plain but standing out at the same time. These looked over the rest of the lobby, which was a slight mismatched mess of chairs and recliners circling random tables. It was rare to see the coffee shop full during the week, but a large group of chattering college students took up three rectangular tables they had dragged together in order to hold a group discussion. “If the answer to seventeen is European, then how do you explain number nineteen?” a student probed, hinting frustration at the topic.

Hakim was not there that morning, and Isabella, a younger barista, brought Lauren her coffee. Lauren mumbled a quiet thanks over the buzzing of the espresso machine and leaned back into the couch, adjusting the felt pillows in the small of her back. Since she was younger, her back issues had only gotten worse, but she felt no need to see a doctor. She was pulled from her thoughts as a large crash! exploded from behind the counter, followed by the sound of shattering glass. Lauren turned to look, the college students, also, as they discovered Isabella had dropped a large stack of plates. They fell across the floor in an odd mural-like fashion, catching the reflection of the bare lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling. Although the quiet sanctuary had grown loud with the concerned chatter of bystanders and customers impatiently waiting for their coffee, Lauren could hear nothing except for the sound of Isabella beginning to sob.