Starbucks Casablanca

This feels familiar:

I am sitting in a Starbucks working on a paper for a class that is due now. I like what I’m wearing and  I really appreciate the intellectual engagement with the paper. I miss my “H”.  I miss her so bad. What I wouldn’t give to see her gliding through the doors with a bag, way bigger than her, hanging off of her shoulder. Slenderly sitting herself across from me and arranging her hair on one side of her head. She would probably then exhale, ask me how I am, listen, look at what I ordered, look at the counter, kind of half limp over to it very casual and careful all at the same time.  Geese…I miss you lady. Everytime…everytime I come to Starbucks I miss you so bad.

And “K”…one would think it would remind me of you too but it doesn’t as much. It was so far beneath your full capability. But it was always the only place I could have you captive, behind a counter and unable to slip off into your world without me. Although…truth be told you are so f’ing thorough and artistic with anything that you do that you more often that not always slipped off into that world too...leaving me standing there and waiting on you to come back until I got the point that you were busy and I knew you wanted to talk but always knew it was never the time or place.

There is a dead dog outside on the side walk and a tapas bar behind me. I have been apartment hunting in this neighborhood and want back here regardless of the dead dog on the sidewalk. I want back so that I can come here more, walk my kids here (MY KIDS – that girl that I was when I was here all the time now has KIDS) so that they can know and love it too.

I know some people would accuse me of killing the indigenous culture but honest to god a simple silver or aluminum teapot of black tea and mint leaves will never be dead in the Maghreb, NEVER. It runs way thicker than what Starbucks can do. 

The people that work here are Moroccans but they work at Starbucks and they seem genuinely interested in understanding, communicating with and pleasing the hoards of American pilgrims and Moroccan converts. I love them. They are a sweet team always smiling and genuinely trying to do it right. 

This is a safe place for me now in a time when I don’t have many. This is a safe space for me. 

From here I can write again. From here I can feel again. I want to finish my masters sitting at this table and then always remember what my life was and who was in it when I was here doing this. Yeah…that’s a good plan.