(New York) state of mind

Going back in time to realize what I've gained.

In the late summer of 2003, I was at a bit of a loose end. An exhausting two-plus years as New York correspondent for the Australian Financial Review had ended, I wasn’t sure whether to return to Sydney or try to make it in Manhattan, and all I knew for certain was I was bleeding money, had no prospects, and I was alone. The obvious solution was to find a decent coffee shop.

It’s hard to explain to someone today just how dire New York City’s coffee situation was two decades ago. Drip coffee with an anti-freeze after taste was the norm; espresso-based drinks were pretty much confined to Little Italy tourist traps*; and the vaunted third-wave coffee revolution was still massing troops somewhere (maybe in Brooklyn, which cab drivers back then refused to take you to).

But from my new and significantly cheaper tiny studio in the West Village, I ventured forth daily, a knight in quest of his prize. Grey Dog Coffee? Terrible. Some new place called “Jack’s”? Still drip based. Starbuck’s? C’mon, man. And then I read a New York Post gossip column about Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick being spotted at some new coffee shop on Waverly Place, and that was that.

When I walked into the (admittedly high-falutin’ sounding) Joe - The Art of Coffee, a lanky thirty-something greeted me warmly, the crowd was unpretentious and friendly, and the coffee … pretty darn good. Today, the lanky dude is my good friend Jonathan Rubinstein and the single coffee shop has become Joe Coffee, a New York institution with two dozen stores, a roastery, and a reputation as a pioneer in the city’s espresso-based revolution.

For me, it was a lifeline. I went to Joe on Waverly every day for more than two years for a latte, a bagel with cream cheese, and sense of place. Regulars David, Nola, Anthony, Sarah, and others became true friends (we even got a write-up in Oprah!), and my penniless existence as a freelance writer waiting for his green card not only became bearable, but genuinely joyful. At a time when I had less materially than at any other point in my life, my sense of community became intense.

I was back at that original store this weekend and promptly texted Jon who replied: “Is it a little surreal?” Yes, it was. But it was surreal like coming home after a long absence: the branding was different, the staff new, the customers now strangers. But the feeling of comfort was just the same; an oasis in a city that can often feel aggressive and overwhelming.

It’s the same sensation I get when I return to Australia, and I’ve been thinking a lot about community since visiting my mum in Melbourne two weeks ago. That trip—and a detour through Brisbane to see my oldest friends—was lovely, but I had a bit of an overwhelming sense of having traveled and moved for so long that nowhere quite feels like “home” any more.

This weekend, though, it hit me. I loved being back in Manhattan, sussing out what happened to the hole-in-the-wall Pepe Rosso on Sullivan (it’s moved to a bigger location a block north, still proudly declaring “no Diet Coke, no skim milk, no decaf coffee”), cozy wine bar ‘ino (now a different wine bar, called Cotenna), and catching up with friends. But when a planned Monday meeting was canceled, there wasn’t a question: I needed to be back near my boys, stat.

So I flew home a day early. Home. I’m well aware I need a deeper, broader community in Chicago, and I’m working on it. But I’m pursuing that knowing I have a global network of friends far and semi-near, like the guys I met for brunch who are part of a group that has helped me so much in the past year. For all of the intensity of friendships at Joe all those years ago, I’ve realized there are lots of ways to feel loved and cared about.

It takes effort, for sure, and I’ve frequently fallen short in the past. And it definitely requires more than texting; those superficial interactions that may be useful in a “I haven’t forgotten about you!” kind of way, but are hopeless at building and maintaining true friendships (don’t even get me started on how texting has warped romantic relationships—more on that some other time).

So, I’m home, where my boys are. It’s right where I need to be.

* The sadly defunct Dean & Deluca in SoHo had espresso-based drinks and was right down the street from my office when I landed in New York City in 2001. I strode in on my first day as correspondent and confidently asked for a long black. The barista, who was Black, turned to her burly (Black) male colleague and said, “This guy wants a long black!” The reply came back instantly: “I can help him with that.” They laughed uproariously. Turns out the US equivalent of a long black coffee is an americano. Lesson learned.

A note about whatever this is …

After writing a few thousand articles for newspapers and magazines, I spent a long time trying a bunch of other stuff. I guess I figured what came (relatively) easily must by definition be less valuable, so I wandered in the corporate wilderness, becoming increasingly frustrated and doing work that felt increasingly lousy.

Sometimes with age comes wisdom, and I’ve realized finding something (relatively) easy ain’t a bad thing. So, this is a space where I’m resurrecting writing for myself, on topics weird and wild and wonderful.

Posts will appear when the mood takes me, but I do try to be consistently inconsistent—sometimes it’ll be a couple of days between drinks; sometimes a week. But if you subscribe, you’ll get a email letting you know I’m ranting. Again.