There’s something beautifully romantic about Starbucks. Even though it’s financially successful and commerical, there’s something about it that’s homey and woodsy and wonderful.
Starbucks is so artsy; when you walk in seeing a Writer Type hunched over a MacBookPro with his foot twitching or a girl with paint-splattered jeans turning lines into art in a sketchbook, you’re not surprised. It seems like a gathering place for outcasts, for everyone.
For example, the last time I visited Starbucks the girl at the cash register, while getting my drink, belted a showtune along with the radio and fielded my companion’s question about a picture stuck onto an artfully arranged, quasi-chaotic bulletin board and put our drinks on the counter. I sat in the enveloping plush green armchair, in which appearing dignified to any degree is difficult, and occasionally glanced over at a trio of women working on a jigsaw puzzle on the small round table and laughing about who knows what.
The time before that, the punky male cashier joked about the artificial flavorings of some drinks and engaged in conversation that most likely sent the people behind us into various states of annoyance. A group of parents sat at the couches watching the Hoedown Throwdown on YouTube and discussing it. At first I was appalled that these middle-aged folk were discussing what was a joke even to sixth graders until I realized it was merely a joke for some student body event. Their children receive(d) my sympathy.
There’s always the cutesy couple that involves one well-dressed willowy girl whose style I want with funky jewelry and the sort of muted pink skirt associated with fairies and a cute, dark-haired tall guy in a polo whose affection I want. They usually kiss passionately before parting and I get distracted from any conversation I was having.
I think bulging bookshelves would make it all the better, but otherwise I can’t think of a way to increase it’s pure awesome. I imagine myself in my college years coming to my Starbucks on breaks with my laptop, becoming that Writer Type.
I can just imagine writing great things that I love in a place that I love drinking hot chocolate. I can imagine coming in with a messenger back slung over my shoulder filled with books, and I’d take one out and start reading it, laughing and crying with the characters.
I’d be an outcast among outcasts, weird among weird, quaint among quaint, and so I’d fit in. I’d be the Writer Type among the painters and the musicians with guitars they’re trying hard not to strum, writer among singer and dancer and person. I would be part of something merely because I’m apart.
I like that.