Afternoon Coffee before Going Home

Many times, both alone and with friends, I have sat in the Calabria coffee bar on Commercial Drive. Through the passing years, certain things have remained the same: the rainy street through the large front windows, the fragrance of excellent coffee, the mottled marble tables, the white classical statues tastefully placed among pillars and plants.

The Calabria is a family-run business. At the counter where once the father presided over the expresso machine, one of the younger sons had taken his place, and I noticed that even he looked a tiny bit older. It has been a long time -- a couple of years, perhaps, since I set foot in this coffee shop, though I used to be a frequent visitor. Life's routines have a way of changing.

Looking back, I feel that the dark, rainy winter afternoons have been the most memorable. Often I have sat at a window table, half-watching the parade of passing life outside while I scribbled in my notebook, breathing in the heady fragrance of espresso coffee as it was ground against a backdrop of Italian opera.

Yesterday was definitely memorable. The long afternoon I spent talking with my friend had an edge of poignancy. For she is leaving Canada in a few days to return to Brazil; it is quite likely that we will not meet again. During the past few months we have talked and laughed together, worked together, witnessed the passing weather of one another's moods. In the Calabria, we spent a long afternoon deep in conversation about many and varied subjects. It seemed unbelievable that this would not likely happen again.

The Calabria always has wonderful music playing. In a strange twist of fate, our afternoon visit was bracketed by two songs that seemed to speak personally to each of us in turn. As we sat down, I was surprised to hear the clear voice of Lucille Starr, Quand le soleil dit bonjour aux montagnes...It carried me back forty years and more to my adolescence in a small town in Northern BC.

Nearly four hours later when we rose to leave, my friend paused as another song came on. It was is a Brazilian one, she told me, often played at Carnival, and she sang along for a few bars.

We parted in the doorway, both resolutely smiling. She opened her umbrella under the shelter of the awning, laughing as its disconnected spines spilled out every which way. She will not need to buy another. Brazilian summer is all sunshine and heat.

As for me, after years of living in Vancouver, I carry no umbrella. I pulled my hood up and set off along the wet familiar street towards the train station; the early winter evening had already fallen.

I too was going home.