Across from the bay and down the road from Dunkin is a moderately occupied parking lot. There are no directional lines, just an array of unaligned cars. A morphed idea of symmetry and unison. The lot is never empty, but rarely full. In comparison to the other parking lots around town, the average car in this gravel has more bumper stickers than those in places like the Dunkin Donuts down the street. The intricate mural on the side depicting the Grateful Dead attracts the kind of people who decorate their car in excess. There is one spot always taken in the back left corner. There reigns a tan -worn but well kept- Volkswagen Bus. It is the Barista’s and tastefully decorated with adhesive intent.
Walking into Stella Blue Bistro is the favorite part of most of my days. The entrance bell chimes in unison with the soft rock that echoes throughout. There is a little step to get in (that some people miss) under a sign that reads “hippies enter here.” Most of the left wall is taken up by a famous black and white photo from Woodstock in 1969. Pictured are hundreds of people getting out of their cars and walking to the concerts soon to come. It’s the type of photo where new things keep catching your eye no matter how long or how often you stop to notice it. The walls are lined with stickers and posters and frames of forgotten and famous musicians. Primarily the Grateful Dead. All sorts of teddy bear’s dancing and reminders of the song Stella Blue, where this coffee shop received its name. Quotes and post-its reminding people to chill out and that weed is always an option. What seems to be hundreds of mini buddhas and natural remedies with an appreciation for bees. All decor in a “where’s Waldo?” fashion.
I am always welcomed by a smile from every barista in their tie dyed shirt. They know me here. I come often but I am not sure enough to be considered a regular. They know my name but my order is not memorized like for some. I bring my Stella Blue reusable cup which lands me a discount on coffee. I’m loyal to oat milk and caramel if I choose for there to be a sweet touch to the morning. Every table is different and no chair looks alike. Out of 13 there are two tables I gravitate towards the most. The one with the chessboard and the one by the window where I have a perfect view and close enough range to see and hear every interaction. I watch quietly as she opens the door gently. She looks around and smiles in every direction genuinely. The kind of smile that is soft and its strength is delivered through the eyes.
She gracefully enters and waits in line poised with the stance of a lifelong ballerina. Politely she views the menu behind the counter even though she orders the same drink every Tuesday and Thursday when she finds herself here. She addresses the Barista by name asking how her morning was and waits for a response. They talk as her drinks are being made. The Barista’s eyes dart up and down as she switches between her work and looking above the counter at the woman in the long floral dress. The Barista compliments something I cannot hear and the woman touches her hair flattered and blushes embarrassingly. She orders a green karma smoothie filled with spinach, kale, avocado, chia seeds, almond milk, and agave, and a hot green tea to keep the day alive. She says thank you and her body bends forward just a little in grace. The Barista says anytime. You could tell she meant it.
My attention is interrupted as the sound of loose keys slams into the glass door upon entrance drawing out the hum of the chimes. A woman enters quickly, pulls her sunglasses down briefly over her tanned nose and decides to keep them on despite being indoors. She examines her surroundings only to check out those around her, seemingly unimpressed. She had long visibly dyed and recently blown out hair and a workout set on that never really broke into sweat. She speaks loudly to the phone in her excessively manicured nails. I then noticed the kid. A little girl laughing and smiling hopping up and off the step trying to get her attention. She grabs the girl by the wrist and begins to complain about how the line at Starbucks this morning was just something she could just not do. The Barista looks confused about the ruckus and asks her what she wants from afar, understanding the attention of a little girl.
She runs around picking up anything her tiny hands can get around. She tugs on her mom’s sleeve and points to things her mother’s eyes do not have the interest to meet. The woman in the floral dress notices the girl’s excitement for a crystal beyond her short arms reach. She picks up the amethyst, bends over so her dress tickles the ground and places it in the girl’s wide eyed hands. She explains how it is not just pretty rock, but it’s spiritual powers will fill her with grace and protection. Plus, it matches the bow in her tangled hair. The girl says nothing, but looks fondly at the kind tall stranger. Her mother notices her sleeve tugging stopped, looks around, and finds her daughter. She tells her to put the junk back and sits to finish her very disruptive gossip sipping a large iced vanilla latte with extra espresso, extra cream, and extra vanilla with only 4 ice cubes as requested. The Barista made eye contact with a customer who had sat before. Nothing was said out loud or on their faces, just a mutual understanding.
The bell chimes again and an older man enters smoothly. He was youthful despite his age, tanned and hair stamped white. He makes eye contact with as many, as if he was eager to say hello. He places a worn book and Newsday Newspaper on a table. He examines it briefly as if something had surprised him. He walks up to the counter, says good morning and references how beautiful the weather is. He includes all the other customers in his outgoing courtesy. He sits and opens the paper with a dramatic “newspaper flop” to make it remain upright. He peeks around briefly again. This time more at his surroundings than its inhabitants and his face comes to a satisfied smile. He begins to read. He is tall with the looks of a once great athlete and the eyes of someone who would be very educated on every aspect of last night’s game. Despite never ordering, food is brought to his table. Some sort of omelette with hash-browns and a coffee with half and half. He does not read while he eats. He watches the young girl admire the wall of Woodstock goers.
He spoke on how it’s a shame that young people won’t have anything remotely as fun and culturally significant in their lifetime due to technology. He received nothing from the mother whom this was directed towards and a customer out of pity or interest responded asking him more. He then went on to explain to anyone that would listen how he worked at Woodstock, built some of the stages and is even featured on Netflix’s documentary. He was a college athlete at the time but that summer changed his life. He grew out his hair, hitchhiked home and never looked back from the hippie lifestyle. The Barista shakes her head subtly and smiles over in his direction, as if she has heard this story a thousand times. He places a 50 dollar bill in the tip jar that reads “the Beatles are overrated, change my mind.” He fills his coffee up with a tad more half and half and goes back to his book and drinks his coffee with the lid resting on the table and a napkin strategically around the side. The door opens again. There is a pause as a middle aged woman waits for an older man with cane to hobble up the step and into the doorway. With a deep breath of relief he looks up and gives presumably his daughter a dirty look, curses and begins to leave.
As he turns his daughter grabs him, whispers something aggressively, and leads him to a table looking around apologetically. He sat bewildered, looking around in disgust and genuine confusion. He adjusts his Vietnam War veteran cap and mumbles how this is a load of hippie crap. Did the peace signs act as bulletproof vests? He asked out loud and was ignored except for a few confused eyebrow looks. His daughter returns and they engage in historical conversations about anti-war protests of the past. The daughter finishes his sentences in mockery to shut him up. He sighs knowing she will never understand and looks to the side making eye contact with a sign that advises to make love, not war. He scoffs about how his brother would love this place and makes a face when Bob Dylan echoed around him. His daughter gets up and he adjusts his jeans emptying out his pockets. She returns with a hot black coffee that he sips despite its visible steam. He opens his mouth about to complain and shuts it surprisingly satisfied. He takes another sip and leans back into his chair.
I look back down at my food. The ice in my coffee has begun to melt. This does not bother me. Instead, I sit amazed by taste buds and timelines. How a series of footsteps guided people to Stella Blue Bistro at 8:58 on a Tuesday morning through a door that chimed when they entered. Years of knowledge and preference determining how they take their coffee and interact with the world around them. All have an acquired opinion and an acquired taste. Some come once, passing through and share their existence with all those around them for those given moments. Others come, and decide to stay.