I grabbed my backpack, slammed my car door, and crossed the street in a hurry. I was late. 1307, my destination was supposed to be on the corner, but the closer I got to the corner, the more obvious it became that I had parked nowhere near my destination. I finished scanning the street numbers on the apartment buildings and realized that I would need to cross the busy street just in front of me.
Just as this realization hit, the apartment buildings suddenly turned into a coffee shop, and facing me was a man sitting behind his coffee shop table, book in hand, sipping his coffee.
I lived in Paris. I know why people really go to coffee shops. It has nothing to do with sipping coffee or reading books. It has everything to do with watching people. You make up their stories and try to figure out what you can about a person in the few seconds that they pass in front of you.
I suddenly became aware that my feelings of frustration were written all over my face. I could tell by his expression that he saw my predicament and was amused by it.
But I was late. I hurried on.
Later that evening as I strolled back to my car, I passed the coffee shop again. I began to wonder, what kind of story does a man sipping his coffee in a coffee shop make of me?
Lets look at his view. My hair is pulled back in a ponytail. I am wearing jeans, black shoes, a dark grey shirt, and a light grey zip-up hoodie. The hoodie is zipped up too high to be cool. Under my right arm I clutch a worn teal backpack that has more than a few items in it. The bag is not zipped shut. I am walking fast, and clearly perplexed that the street number I am looking for was not there.
I think my real story is as good as any story he could have made up about me.
I am in a hurry in part because I am chronically late and I always get lost my first, second, and third time anywhere.
I am on my way to a friend's house to babysit. (I met my friend mostly through a running group because I love running and I'd been praying for a running group near my residence.) I was supposed to be at her place at 7:30, it is now 7:40ish and I just discovered that I am a block away meaning I'll be 15ish minutes late.
If he was a really good coffee shop observer perhaps he would have realized that the tattered backpack is of the LL Bean sort. Generally a brand that easterners use. Significant because it is part of my story. I am a New Hampshire native.
The worn state of the backpack also speaks volumes. It survived four years of high school, four years of college, and three years of law school before the zipper gave out. I have it tucked under my arm because this veteran of my schooling doesn't stay shut on its own anymore.
The backpack is telling of more than just my origin. It tells of my compulsive need to be constructive, like any good type-A person. The children will be sleeping. The things I fill my hours of free time with are the contents of my backpack. Would the observer have guessed that it contains an Ayn Rand book, my journal, my scriptures, a print out of the teacher's manual of this weeks Sunday school lesson, and a Spanish text book? Ayn Rand because I believe in altruism and every time I defend it, someone brings up Ayn Rand. She didn't believe in altruism. I am still finishing her book.
The clothes I am wearing are a quick change out of work clothes. My jeans are a gift from my sister last time I visited her in Provo. She no longer lives in Provo. The origins of my shirt are unknown, but the hoodie I bought with Wendy in Salt Lake when we used to go shopping together on lunch breaks. The shoes are ones I bought for my mission in France and still love to wear.
'Why is this easterner in the mid-west?' he might curiously wonder. Because I came here for school and because of my love for warm weather, old architecture, economic diversity, places with character, and non-grid system cities.
Somehow I doubt that was his conclusion. But that is my story, and I'm sticking to it.
