The Coffee House, The Photo... and That Era

Sitting in the sprawling coffee house, I am transported.

First of all, it’s old. Just the kind of old that I adore, the era that speaks to my soul.
Early 1900s, born approximately the same year as the Ballroom I cherish, as the house where I grew up - and also as my grandma. The Era of Love, for me.

Then, it’s huge AND it’s intimate. What a feat.

Also, it’s alive, very much alive, without being busy. Another feat.

Finally, it’s “away.” “Away” is such a turn-on for me. Away from the familiar, “Away” speaks of so much yet undiscovered, of adventure and also of anonymity. A delicious cocktail.

I am in the old port of Veracruz with my friend and stepping inside La Parroquia (born in 1926) has taken me further away than the few hours of airplane ride to get there.

The voices of the waiters, dressed in long white aprons and black bow ties, calling out to each other - but not too loudly - the towering, shiny espresso machine hissing at the hands of someone who seems more like its lover than a barista. The smell of coffee, the sight of one “Lechera” after the next being poured into tiny cups from way up high on the tables all around us.

Veracruz worships coffee and even though I don’t drink it, I am ready to worship its Essence too (a few days later I am hiking in the countryside and learn that coffee bushes grow wild along the path, just like blackberries do in Washington).

I sink into my chair. Exhale. Smile, take it all in. I feel as though I am in Cuba even though I have never been to Cuba. And if I squint my eyes just right, I erase all the cell phones in people’s hands and I am, for sure, back 100 years.

We order, slowly. The meal arrives. The spell persists.

The fans, all the same, and beautiful in their simplicity are whirring, sparkling clean, and efficient. The temperature is perfect.

And this is when I turn around and catch it.

On the whole back wall of the coffee house, is an enormous mural. A life-size black and white photo of this place decades and decades ago. The tables, the walls, the ceiling, and the waiters. I don’t need to squint my eyes to get the mural to blend into the shop, for the yesteryear to merge into today. I hold my breath. Two waiters are sitting at small tables in front of the mural. Dressed in black and white, only their skin color distinguishes them from their long-gone colleagues. My phone is in my purse and I am afraid to move. I barely pivot in my chair, reach for my friend’s camera, and take one single photo.

I know that I will want to wait to be back home to really, really look at it, and when I do, I plunge into it. Gratitude, Legacy, Belonging, … there is a story here that I am still savoring. A moment.

Maybe it was a Gift, maybe it was a marketing plan. Maybe it was just for me and maybe thousands of people have taken this same photo and will again. Maybe the new waiters are asked to sit in front of the old waiters throughout the day. I know that it does not matter because Magic does not lose its power when it is shared, it is not exclusive.

And this for me was Magic.

Days later I had the photo printed and it now lives in my kitchen, with me in my barely 2-year-old home, feeding me tiny cupfuls of timelessness, tradition, and of That Era. It is precious.