It was four am and my brain was saying, “You’ve had enough sleep. Let’s have coffee.” Even on the mountain in the pod/tent I was waking up unusually early. At music camp I had to roll around and read for a bit. I could wander over to the cafe area around 6:30. There two Nespresso machines courtesy of the bass-playing founder, who was also a coffee snob.
I tried rolling over a few times. Listening and reciting the serenity prayer a few times to the wheezing pulse of the window AC unit. “Okay, fuck it, I’m sure those 24-hour diners nearby are still open.”
I pass a bleary-eyed couple on the couch in the lobby of the hotel, awaiting their ride to the early flight. I passed through the front door without a word to anyone. A familiar song from King Crimson (the host of the mountain retreat) was providing the soundtrack. “in your own, in your own… analysis.”
A couple of rats bounded out of the pile of trash. One went uptown one went downtown. I knew the City Diner was just a few blocks down on Broadway. Looking forward to a cup of “meh” diner coffee and some poached eggs with crispy bacon. It was closed. No longer 24-hours. I pulled up my MAPS app and searched for diner open near me. The City Diner was the only location that came up within a few miles of me. “Open,” it said. Closed.
Dunkin Donuts was the only place with lights on at this stupid hour. The young man inside had to unlock the door to let me in.
“Crazies out this time of night?”
“Yeah, just being safe. I’m the overnight shift, almost done.”
I browsed over the amazing array of last night’s donuts. The apple fritters looked reasonable. “I’ll have an everything bagel with cream cheese.” This seemed to be my meal in NY. “And a large drip with cream.”
The tired young man went to work without saying a word. It seemed the bagel toasting contraption required supervision. Or he was just avoiding close contact. He stayed in the back of the store rattling pans and opening packages of something, oh, cream cheese. He must’ve been close to closing up his shift.
I got my bag of bread and cheese and my coffee that I know he did not add enough cream to, cost savings probably. Or maybe I like mine coffee’s edge softened a bit more than most. The coffee was nearly undrinkable. I sat on one of the street benches in the median on Broadway and watched the city pulse with activity at 4:30 in the morning. A rat vacated my little area and scurried around the barrier into the landscape. The bagel was great. Even too much cream cheese. The whoosh and roar of the city’s nighttime systems was light a symphony. The subway wasn’t running yet, so it was buildings and delivery trucks, an occasional taxi, and surprisingly, a ton of young men at random intervals on electric bikes. Deliveries? Late date? On their way to an early shift?
I paused in the moment. I was here. New York. Where so many wonderful things and histories always flood my soul. I was tired this time. The pre-dawn hustle was not helping the bad coffee’s stimulant effect. The music, Fountains of Wayne, was making me giggle about some bad manager with a “soup-stained tie.” I was in a bliss state. A night of sleep in an actual bed. The unwinding of the experience. Rest and recovery were my goals for these two more nights. On Monday I would fly home to the shitshow. For now, I was out of touch. Drinking crap coffee at dawn in NY. Lovely. Breathe and release. Hear the city. Feel the energy of the waking up. I needed something to pull me out of my flatline.
“Just tired,” I said to myself. “And this coffee sucks.” I tossed the remaining coffee over my shoulder hoping to harass the nearby vermin population. I went back to my loudly wheezing AC and fell back asleep for three more hours.
Now, I was rested. I didn’t really want to get out of bed. I was drowsy from too much sleep. I tried reading some of my new Richard Powers book, but I didn’t have the meta-consciousness yet for his artificial intelligence masterpiece, Galatea 2.2. I got up and dressed again. “Time for a real meal.”
The sun was up, the city was bursting with joggers, people coming from workouts (mostly young women, hmm?), and traffic. I knew just where I wanted to go. A place where my son discovered a great way to eat his eggs, by taking a small bit of bacon and assembling a bite. He watched me eat. Tried it. No that’s how he eats his bacon and eggs. The French Roast, was the small corner cafe. I grabbed a table outside on the sidewalk, Paris style.
The coffee was better but still bitter. I asked for more cream. As I sat there playing with the cream pour into my heavy ceramic coffee cup I was delighted by the crowds of people walking by. The city is about people. So many people. In the two areas where I stayed, so many young people coming from yoga or spin. It was a fit city. Maybe this was a time of day thing. By 10 am the athletes would be back inside doing other stuff. The heat was going to be a problem today. The rain in the mountains had transformed into high humidity in the city.
My meal, my three small cups of coffee, was perfect. I fantasized about my life in NYC. All the couples and singles passing. A French family with two kids scrambled into the table next to mine. The youngest boy bumped my table and the coffee lept out over the thick white rim of the coffee cup. “No problem,” I said, waving at the horrified mom and unhappy father. He said something in French to the boy who sat down and put his hands in his lap.
Time for an adventure. The coffee was having an effect. Time to go back to the room for a bit and then venture out. A quest across the city. For nothing. For peace and space and time. Everything. Nothing. NYC.
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