As an emerging writer, I frequented various cafés in my hometown of New York City. Especially throughout my twenties, it was irresistible to me to go journal in hand to a favorite haunt, sit ensconced by a particular window overlooking a certain view, nurse several cups of some rich brew, and write. Although writing is an internal process, it was inviting and energizing to connect with the inner voice through a pen amidst the gentle buzz of people, quiet music, conversations, and perfect anonymity in a public setting.
This was, of course, long ago, before the advent of Internet cafés and Wi-Fi and laptops and ubiquitous huge flat screen TVs disrupting the flow of a perfect exposed brick wall beneath a sculpted tin ceiling. This was a time of magical leather-bound journals, the secret treasures they stored, and meaningful places where the soul could find expression.
Of particular fondness was the Gran Caffé degli Artisti, a second-floor café overlooking Greenwich Avenue in the West Village. It was one of the quirky memories of my youth – as when I told cab drivers I lived at the intersection of W. 11th and W. 4th Street, which they told me was impossible. But anything is possible in the Village.
Twenty years later, the Gran Caffé no longer exists in the same manner that I knew so well. It has changed hands and taken on another identity, and I feel that loss as mournfully as the loss of a friend or the closing of a beloved childhood school or playground. I do.
It was a café built in several rooms, each with a different and distinct mood, and leading to each other.
First was the light and airy front room, filled with sunshine and gallery art on the walls.
Sometimes I was in the mood for sunshine – and sometimes I wasn’t.
So this first room led to a darker ‘gothic’ room, dimly lit, with tall throne-like wooden chairs and tables with secret drawers. People who knew of them would leave notes for each other in these drawers…
There was a large fireplace in this room. An enormous candle in the shape of a castle had melted down onto the mantelpiece, had become part of it, and was left there...
On the opposite wall hung a mesmerizing moonstone mirror that invited the onlooker into a fairy tale…
The gothic room then led to a tiny room in the back, like a stone cell with a few shelves of books and room for only four people.
Because sometimes I was in the mood for a lot of people – and sometimes I wasn’t.
Through the 1980s and 1990s, I frequented this café often, alone or with friends – and then, after a long absence, returned with my husband and family. It was a sublime meeting-of-worlds to see my small children in this holy place.
I cherished the Gran Caffé like a secret nest, my own private chapel. Also, its rooms-leading-to-rooms would become a working image for me as a writer, an image I would employ in my writings on St. Teresa of Avila and her Interior Castle.
What’s your favorite place to write?
Copyright 2010 © Carole Hallundbaek
Journal image: etsy.com
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Comments
"sometimes the low buzz distractions are not distractions at all, but serve to focus the mind."
Yes, that buzz can act like a sifter, a communal consciousness that raises up ideas and thoughts -- like panning for gold.
I used to be able to write, when in MY twenties, anywhere and soak up the energy. Some spiritual guru said that there is so much wasted space in public places that he only writes there.
Now for the last many many years I only write on my computers, large Toshiba, for the most part with about 20 minutes of battery life. So I'm only and always at my desk. Right this minute that feels kind of sad to me because when I go to a Starbucks or any place where I see so many hanging out on MACs and or PC's with plugs to the sockets, I think I'd prefer that buzz around me. Great open call, fine photographs, great story. r