The beauty of Jack Kerouac’s book “On the Road” is in the details. He travelled all over the place, and had a notebook with him, and just took tiny notes of what he saw, how he interpreted life. When it was time to write, he could connect the story with so many micro-moments of meaning, because those moments had their own tiny factoid.

I don't do that very well - take notes of the tiny moments in each day - but below is a quick story where I try to pay attention to the littlest things, just to see how it writes. This was from our time in New York, pre-Covid, and the plot is nothing at all - I just leave the hotel to get coffee...

—

When I step out of the elevator, the lobby is quiet. The coffee station is bare, the concierge mostly asleep. I say “mostly” because his eyes are open, but his mind is clearly elsewhere. Across the foyer, there is a sliver of sunlight on a couch, the only indication at all that it isn’t still nighttime. New York City has always struggled with catching the sunlight this early in the morning. Too many buildings too close together, I suppose.

I zip up my coat, and push through the glass turnstile doors into the street. Now there are others sharing my morning. The palette out here is all greys and browns: dark coats and hats, leather briefcases and satchels, functional umbrellas and scarves. The streets are still glassy from the night rains, each puddle a portal to an inverted world of skyscrapers and pastel skies.

My hands are deep in my pockets, my shoulders hunched against the chill. I’ve never been good with coldness - even as a kid, I would get cold so fast, and it would always feel like an icepick sinking into my spine. I take the three steps to the pavement, and join the murky grey stream of city regulars.

Honestly, I don’t know why I’m even out here. The hotel bed is warmer than this street corner. I tell myself I’m searching for beauty. Being new in a place allows a certain fleeting naivety, which sometimes leads to wonder, and so I’m walking the streets freezing my toes off for the wonder of it all. So much wonder, I try and convince myself. An umbrella up ahead just blew inside out, and my teeth are chattering.

What I really want, right now, is none of the wonder, and none of the beauty. I just want to return to my room. It’s warm there, and it has Rach, all asleep in a cosy bed. I could be under those covers right now, instead of shivering past another block of morning commuters. No one is looking up, and there’s a kind of eerie silence behind the dull city roar. There are engines running, brakes screeching, traffic lights tick-tick-ticking, a million clopping footsteps on the footpaths, but no voices. No birdsong. No faces.

I trudge along Madison Avenue with the grey coats and black umbrellas for another block, and turn onto East 27th. Somehow the ice-wind can turn corners, and it follows me all the way to the door of Birch Coffee, finding all the chinks in my armour of warmth and dropping little daggers down my spine. I push myself into the coffee shop wishing that I had never left the hotel.

“Welcome to Birch, honey.” Her eyes crinkle in the exact places that make it seem like she means it. “There’s a bit of a queue today, but try this while you’re waiting.” A small paper cup is pressed into my hands. It’s steaming, and it thaws my fingertips. “Single origin, Honduras, twelve days from roasting - we think today is the sweet spot!” And she’s off with a wink, sashaying through the bustle with her little tray of espresso cups and a smile for everyone.

I sip the coffee, and it runs through me like a lit fuse, like some delicious lava, heating my bloodstream and closing my eyes in overwhelm. The rest of my senses awaken in response - waves of conversation and laughter wash over me, the dull scream of the coffee grinders, the swoosh and hiss of the steam in the milk jugs, a Broken Bells song playing from somewhere in the ceiling. The fruity caramel notes in my cup mix with the rich nutty aroma of the store in a way that makes my mouth water.

I look up to a grid of golden sunlight stretched across the back wall, behind the baristas and their machines. Reflected light from the windows of the dark buildings down the street, a single warm beam that clearly wanted to be part of this morning with the rest of us. The customers have shed their coats, revealing bright reds and corporate blues and excellent silk greens. A rebirth of the human palette. Everyone here has faces, too. Faces that are seeking other faces, strangers that are connecting over the shared experience of frosty mornings and the nine-to-five battle ahead.

In this fractional moment of the day, Birch Coffee becomes a bottleneck of meaningful experience, a pinch in the hourglass between the cold dark morning and the discontented workplace. I can see all the frail human vessels being restored, filled up, tempered for what lies ahead. There is no status in this space, no labels or titles or hierarchies. Just faces, open and inviting and validating the human struggle. I am feeling warmer.

The door bumps into my shoulder as another cold soul presses in from outside. Face as grey as the street, hands shaking full with his umbrella and briefcase, eyes on the next step forward. Just trying to get in, or away, or above, or out. I reach for the door, swing it wide, makes some space and take his arm.

“Welcome to Birch.” I say with a smile, and he lifts his gaze, pale blues through rain-dropped bifocals. “You should try the the single origin - it’s Honduran, twelve days from roasting.” He raises his grey brows high, a slight smile.

I lean in conspiratorially, “I think today could be the sweet spot."