THE SUN IS SHINING and the melting snow is finding its way into my garage. But there is nothing to be done about it right now. We are on our way to Ginkgo to drink coffee, write stuff on our laptops and talk about things. The coffee shop’s back door is propped open (40 degrees is not winter in Minnesota). A young woman is guarding it leaning on the remains of a rear garden structure smoking a cigarette. In the post apcalypse, Ginkgo has become smoke free. Inside we choose one of the less wobbly tables near one of the three electrical outlets.
An extended family enjoying a sunny Saturday morning at their local coffee shop.
At the moment the room is modestly crowded with subdued coffee drinkers. I am facing the door and the table there right by the window is occupied all the time we are there. Now an extended family has somehow squeezed around the tiny table. A silent man sitting at a table mounted on the makeshift tiny stage has his elbow in my way as I take their photograph. They are replaced by a couple communicating in sign language. The fellow goes to the counter and orders coffee drinks while the gal sits at the table and sends a text message on her Blackberry. There is an ebb and flow of customers and now, just after noon, one of the staff wearing a post apocalypse hand-knit dress thingie is at the table facing me, eating one of the giant sandwiches they keep in the glass cooler.
ERUDITE SCRAWLINGS. I head for the restroom. I remember when it was pretty new with clean white floor. Now the dirt is so thoroughly ground into the little linoleum sqauares that one might think that is as the designer intended. Except that those squares over in the out of the way spots are still white. The grafitti on the inside of the wooden door is mostly erudite and tilting largely against right wing madness that, the writers believe, has taken hold of our country, our state and, here in St. Paul, our city (at least at the Mayoral level).
Two guys come in loaded down with gear similar to ours and ask whether Ginkgo has internet access. No, they are told and they are directed to a nearby shop that does. “Sorry,” one guy says and the two head back the way they came in, past the cigarette sentry in the back.
I’m trying to figure out how to end this post right now. But then I realize … this is a blog. I don’t have to “end” it.