corner stores, coffee shops, and communities

i yearn for small talk and routine

A few weeks ago, I went to the corner store in desperate need of some toilet paper, or as the Brits say: loo roll. (I’ve been living in England for nearly three years but for some reason cannot get myself to call it ‘loo roll.’ I do use the words ‘quite’ and ‘lovely’ and ‘proper’ though, so at least I have linguistically assimilated in other ways.) For the non-big-city-dwellers reading this, a corner store is sort of like a 7-11, except it has a little bit of everything, sans a giant slushy machine or $1 hot dogs glistening as they rotate under a heat lamp. I guess you can think of a corner store as if a CVS was condensed into a 300 square foot building. You never really know what direction the queue goes in because the store is packed with aisles and stashes and containers of every possible item one might need throughout the course of the day — from paracetamol to toothpaste to laundry detergent to a wide array of imported Italian cookies (yes, even the kind with the stars) — and they are so deeply integral to every little pocket of life that London has to offer.

You always seem to find yourself in a corner store out of convenience and proximity, whether it is for an ice cream bar on a hot day, a £1.99 gin and tonic seltzer on a night out, or — like myself — a 4 pack of toilet paper because you and the person you live with average at the rate of one roll per week and also because the size of a U.K. toilet paper roll is laughable in comparison to a Charmin Ultra Strong.

Anyways, a few weeks ago, I went to the corner store to buy some toilet paper. Corner stores — especially my local corner store — do not hesitate to make use of every inch of space as humanly possible, and because of this, the toilet paper was stacked on top of the fridge, a carefully curated pyramid above drinks and yogurts and other cold items I can’t quite remember right now. Being 5’4 (which, by the way, is the average height for a woman in America), I am no stranger to climbing surfaces and thinking creatively when it comes to securing an item that is mere inches beyond my reach. No step stool? No problem. The resources available to me were: a six pack of big Evian water bottles and the edge of the fridge, each big enough for a Tatum-sized foot. But, I was in a corner store, so I did not want to risk putting my weight (or footprint) onto a bunch of water bottles or the side of a refrigerator that could very well topple over and cause a myriad of issues.

My third and most viable resource: the man at the register. The register at this particular corner store rests on a platform slightly above the floor. I looked up, asked the man if he could help me reach something, and he smiled and said, “Yes, but…” before stepping down to the floor and revealing that, in fact, we are both 5’4. He used his hand to measure the distance from his head to my head. They were the same. We laughed. I pointed to the toilet paper I needed, and he already knew what to do: one foot on the water bottles, one foot on the side of the fridge, both hands on my £2.99 pack of toilet paper with a cute golden retriever on the packaging. I said, “I know exactly what it’s like!” and we continued to laugh as I scanned my Apple Pay.

This morning, I needed some more toilet paper. I walked into the corner store, my 5’4 friend was working, and I said, “I might need some help again…” He smiled, used the same water bottle-foot-on-fridge method, and secured the toilet paper. We laughed again, I told him to have a good day, and I walked home thinking that I wanted the introduction to my next Substack piece to be about this particular interaction. And here we are. Toilet paper in my tote bag, with a vague idea of where I want to take this article.

I moved to my neighborhood around ten months ago, and to be honest, it took nearly all of 10 months for me to appreciate the streets I am surrounded by. I was very apprehensive to move here for several reasons, the main one being how far it was from the places and people I had learned to appreciate most. (It also did not help that my commute quadrupled in time, so I think there was a hefty portion of built up regret and resentment, with no one to blame other than myself.) For the last two years, I had lived in East London. I found my go-to spots, I made friends with my neighbors, I even became such a regular at the coffee shop that the baristas would have my drink ready for me before I stepped foot inside. I felt like I had finally built a sense of community, which can be hard to do as someone living abroad, and suddenly, I was leaving it behind for a neighborhood a long journey across the river. When you look at a map it sounds dramatic because I am quite literally 6.7 miles away from my old flat (and because I am also dramatic), and I pass it every day on my way to work, but each area of London might as well be their own cities entirely.

When I move to a new place, the first thing I look for (after natural light and hardwood floors) is a coffee shop within walking distance, and anyone that has ever had the wonderful, incredible, awesome experience of dating me or existing in my general vicinity has typically exited the relationship or lease with an accidental caffeine addiction due to my own. I have this thing… where I have to get a coffee every day. It does not matter where I am; I will find a coffee. (Last summer, on a tiny island, I managed to learn the Greek translation for “non dairy iced latte” and for seven days in a row I woke up, bought a Freddo Espresso with Almond Milk and a spanakopita, hiked down a bunch of rocks, sipped my coffee, and swam in the sea.) I — alongside my bank account — are well aware of the expenses that come with this addiction habit. I have been told many times that a Pret subscription exists, and I also know that by now I could probably own an espresso machine with the amount of £3.80 lattes I have purchased over the years, and while I appreciate the proposed solutions to this perceived problem, the fact of the matter is that I like to get a coffee from a coffee shop. Simple as that. It is not really about the coffee itself, but more-so the ritual of going on a walk, grabbing a coffee, and befriending the baristas who work there. It is partially an excuse to leave the house and to talk to someone; a gateway to community.

The other part of my coffee habit is conditioning. My dad loves a homemade coffee, my mom loves a barista-made coffee, so throughout my childhood I would accompany my mom on her daily coffee run where she would order a triple-shot non-fat cappuccino (extra foam, bone dry), a bag of dark blend beans fit for a cone filter, and two hot chocolates with whipped cream for myself and my little brother, Tanner. As I got older, hot chocolate turned into frappuccinos, which eventually turned into mochas and dirty chais, and now, lattes and cold brews, and as I type this, I am thinking about how the daily coffee shop ritual seems to be the thing that make myself, and my parents, feel a part of our communities, and it also seems to be the thing that makes me feel closer to my parents, despite being 5,000 miles and an 8 hour time difference away. When I get a coffee, I think of them. When we are with each other, we start every day with a Peet’s run. Cappuccino for my mom, freshly ground beans for my dad, and a puppaccino for Achilles.

mi mum and i on a peet’s run

On my first weekend of living in my current flat, I scanned the high street for cute coffee shops, and set my sights on what would become my new place to get my daily dose of caffeine and community. I walked in, quickly transferred £5 from my savings to my checking, and the barista looked at me. I looked at her. We both smiled and said “What are you doing here?!”

The barista working at this coffee shop, an hour and a half away from where I used to live, was the same barista who worked at the coffee shop I used to go to every day. Her name is Rose and she is lovely. She always remembered my name and my order. One time, I was buying a tote bag and she gave it to me on the house. Another time, I complimented her haircut and she snuck me a free latte. A month prior, Rose had quit working at the East London coffee shop to try out the 9-5 lifestyle, but after realising it wasn’t for her, she was covering some shifts at the coffee shop down the street from my new place. What were the chances of that?

It has been 10 months since that day, and I still go to there at least three times a week. I was there this morning, and yesterday morning, and the one before. Rose no longer works there, but I have successfully befriended almost all of the baristas….

…And suddenly, as I am packing up my belongings to move back East in two weeks, I am feeling the same exact struggle I felt before moving here: I am leaving behind a community I have built over the last ten months. The man at the corner store, the baristas, the M&S security guard who is always smiling, the post office ladies, my downstairs neighbors who gave us fresh grown raspberries from their yard, the kids next door, the postman…

Maybe it was not an East London versus Southeast London thing. Maybe I just crave community.

THE FOR ME PAGE

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I am now typing this on a semi-sunny Saturday afternoon (by London standards, it is as sunny as it can be. If I can comfortably wear a flowy skirt outside, despite the grey clouds and occasional gusts of wind, then I will happily take what this attempt of a summer has to offer today). I went to the Saturday market down the road and bought two tiramisus from the Tiramisu Man. I do not know his name, and I do not know if he knows mine, but every Saturday I seem to find myself going back to his market stall to buy some dessert as an excuse to hear more about his life. He has a close friend that moved from Italy to Berkeley, California to open his own pizzeria. My hometown is not far from the pizzeria. He used to live in East London and would go to raves in the 90s. For the work I do now (I work at a record label), it is very closely linked with London rave culture. Now, he has a wife and kids and lives a life full of cannolis and other Italian sweet treats, and today, he asked when I was moving. “July 5,” I said. “On my birthday?! You can’t leave me on my birthday!” I promised him we would pay him a visit next weekend, because no Saturday evening is complete without a homemade bowl of tiramisu.

It is the little interactions that leave me feeling the most fulfilled. The fact the Tiramisu Man remembered the details of our last conversation, or that I shared a laugh with the corner store king, or how earlier today when I was walking down the street I ran into one of my barista friends and we exchanged waves. It is always the small moments I think about the most. I sometimes have this existential worry that these moments are not treasured by others in the same way that I treasure them myself, but maybe that’s for another time, or something to confine to the bounds of my journal or therapy sessions. (After becoming regulars at the Greek coffee shop for a week — at the level of taking midday shots with the owner and receiving many free cookies — my friends went to the same island and said the cafe owner didn’t remember us which then caused me to spiral about this very topic because here I was in London, about to buy a postcard to send them, saying thanks for everything.) I think because I am so far away from home, and because I have moved nearly 19 times in my 26 years of living, and because I like the taste of coffee, I find myself journalling and thinking about and appreciating my five minute conversations with the not-so-random-people around me.

Soon, I will be scoping out a new coffee shop and a new weekend market to frequent, and I will become a part of a new community, and another ten months down the line the new, not-so-random people and places will forever immortalize themselves in the pages of my journal and the little section of my heart, sitting alongside all of the other communities I have been so lucky to be a part of. I guess we are all just characters in each others stories after all, and perhaps that does not have to be such a bitter thing so much as it is sweet.

source: @jordanklancaster (i <3 her doodles)