NEWBURYPORT CAFE REDUX

Today my thesis mate and I meet again to work on our projects, hoping to keep each other on track.  We decide to meet in Newburyport.  It's farther for me to drive, but I'm an ocean girl at heart, the view is excellent, and I'm rolling around some revisions for another writing piece I'm working on that is completely separate from my thesis capstone project.  I'd be lying if I said I wanted to be anywhere else for inspiration.

I avoid the highway on my way there because the back roads are shorter distance and only a driving time difference of about eight minutes.  The view driving along the Merrimack River is amazing.  The ice covering the Haverhill end where the fresh water flows entices me to stop along route 113 so I can snap a picture.

When I finally roll into Newburyport, I am reasonably sure of where I'm going, but I space out and miss the street I want to take.  I have to go two more down to avoid the one-way coming at me, and I discover that I am on the street directly across from where I think I need to be.  I pass a police car, hoping I don't look too confused, and end up right where Mapquest's satellite told me I would.  I recognize the parking lot, the shoreline, and the buildings.  (Bless you, technology.)  I see the marina, the dry-docked boats, and some alleys, but I don't see the coffee shop, which is different than the one we visited last Saturday -- I'm not entirely daft. 

I ask a gentleman who is walking his dog and holding a cup of coffee, figuring he must've come from the café, and he directs me to the hidden door on the far side of the marina building.  I wonder aloud if I am supposed to park back in the public lot, but he assures me it's okay to park right there amongst the boats.  I slip into a tight, unmarked space between two hybrids.  Yup, this is Newburyport and this is an upscale coffee shop; if there are hybrids, I am definitely in the right place.

There are a couple of chairs near the gas-fed fireplace, some square tables, and one coveted table near the fire that has been crafted out of an old baby grand piano shell.  I want that piano table; I want it badly, but the couple taking it up is not about to relent.  I sink into one of the upholstered chairs.

Meanwhile, a dad with two toddlers is having a hard time.  One of the little kids is in severe meltdown mode.  As I get myself organized, he takes the tantrum-infested child to the car, leaving the older boy behind and bewildered, which causes him to go into a panic-fueled meltdown.  Screaming, he wanders over and opens the front door.  Knowing we are right at the salty mouth of the Merrimack, and knowing there is little ice here should disaster strike and this youngster step the wrong way, I get up and go to the door, close enough to grab him if necessary but far enough away not to scare the living buhjeezus out of him.  Even though I have just arrived and this dad is just leaving, one of the patrons who has been watching this entire escapade asks, "Is he yours?"  No, you stupid moron.  If he were mine, I'd pick him up and carry him outside.  If he were mine, I would've been here eating with him..  If he were mine, I'd be one damn old toddler mom.  Dad comes back to collect son #2, and I hand him the boy's jacket, which I grab from their table.  Poor sap, I think.  His wife is going to get an earful when he gets home.

After a short stint in the comfy chair, I realize no work will be done while I am this relaxed.  I secure a table for me and my notebook, pens, pencils, magazine, drafts, and general mayhem.  My thesis partner-in-crime is running just a few minutes late, and her daughter has decided to tag along.  At first I can tell that the preteen knows how uncool we adults are.  She's perfectly polite and ridiculously cute, but man, how tough it must be to spend Saturday morning with two teachers.  I do not envy her plight. 

After some drinks (coffee, tea, and hot chocolate) and munchies, we all get down to business, the adults with our writing projects and the daughter with various projects of her own.  Eventually she takes out a Rainbow Loom.  This fascinates me.  I watch, first out of the corner of my eye then full-on, as this girl, who admits she has yet to learn geometry, creates intricate patterns with colored bands on a plastic peg board that resembles a Medieval torture device.  I am floored when she tells me she invents some of the patterns that she weaves using hybrids of real directions and her own common sense.  I weakly refer to a scarf I am knitting using giant needles.  Ohmigod, could I sound any lamer?  I doubt it.

Suddenly I am distracted by the espresso machine that sounds more like an airplane taking off and landing than a coffee maker.  We've worked for just over two hours when the couple finally vacates the piano table.  We swoop in and grab it before anyone else can commandeer the spots.  My cohort takes the end, setting herself up as if she is going to play out her masterpiece on the nonexistent ivory keyboard rather than her laptop keyboard.  I nestle in by the curved indentation where the sound plate and the top board prop arm would be if this were truly still a piano. 

We work for an hour before we talk again.  My friend tells me we have another grad school chum who is struggling through thesis season and informs me she messaged grad school chum about joining us.  Before we pack up, mate #3 responds and assures us that next Saturday will be her day to join the fun and games. 

While we gather our belongings, I notice there are paintings for sale on the walls.  Well, I noticed the paintings before this point because one of the paintings is supposed to be of a green pear, but it looks more like two giant lime-colored ass cheeks.  Of course, out of all the paintings that are on the wall, this pear-ass is the largest.  I walk over to the painting and discover it is for sale for $250.  I also discover that its official name is "Pear Derriere."  I'm pretty sure I don't want another set of oversized ass cheeks in my house; my one set is more than enough.

The drive home is surprisingly uneventful.  The air temperature outside has finally reached 34 degrees, and this feels like a heat wave to me.  I open my front driver's side window halfway while keeping the heat low on my feet so I can enjoy some fresh air without being too risky to my recently-restored health (thanks for nothing, severe cold symptoms).  I turn the radio on to keep me company.  I have been kicking myself for not bringing music with me this morning.  No matter how many times I switch stations on my way to Newburyport, the only decent music I come across is the Violent Femmes.  While we are in the coffee shop writing, the music is fantastic: Big Band, smooth jazz, Andrews Sisters, even Henry Mancini's theme from The Pink Panther.  Coming home I don't hold out much hope for good music, but I am surprised by a set of four songs by Led Zepplin, a Black Sabbath tune, Dirty Laundry (which is one of the few Eagles songs I can tolerate), and the Offspring.

Reality sets in quickly, though.  At home I plop down my pack full of writing supplies, leaving it zippered shut for hours.  If only I had the follow-through from all that hard work this morning.  Tomorrow.  Tomorrow I will do it.  After all, tomorrow is another day.  At Tara.  And frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.

See?  Distracted again already.