The Best of South Durham

If you want a great cup of brew-haha in the South Durham district, you go to Bean Traders in Homestead Market. Remember the smell of coffee in the morning when you first learned that you love coffee? That's Bean Traders. Have you ever had the experience of wanting something so badly, that you got out of bed, got dressed, and drove through the night looking for that something? That's Bean Traders. Casual coffee imbibers beware. Once you've had Bean Traders Bijou or Bodhi blend, you will not condone anything else.

Bean Traders

Bean Traders is so good that when Starbucks launched it's assault on the SoDu coffee market, it lasted three years right across the street from Bean Traders--you could see the front door of each establishment from the front door of the other. In the end, Starbucks surrendered, closed it's doors and begged the Village at Bean Traders to forgive them their inconsiderate behavior. They forgave. The Village is like that. Their loyalty is fierce and they show no mercy but they hold no grudges.

If you want the best cajun food and zydeco, blues and Nawlen's jazz, you go to Papa Mojo's Roadhouse in Greenwood Commons. Have you ever sucked crawfish heads? You will at PM's Roadhouse. Have you ever eaten gator tail? You will at Papa M's R. Have you ever danced in the parking lot under a full moon and not cared who your dance partner was? You will on Wednesday open mic night. Laissez les bon temps rouler? Yeah, baby, heaped up, pressed down and running over.

Papa Mojo's Roadhouse

And where do you find hot, fierce, intentional living? Where do you find examples of people living fully as human beings, without restriction and limitation? That would be Native Grounds. Many have moved on to other chapters and they are sorely missed by the remnant but, on any given morning you will still find Island Irv, the Enforcer, the Duck Man, Inspector Rivera, the Genome, Amy Normal and the rest of the cast, enjoying the good stuff and doing the best they can to ignore the bad.

Not everyone wants to ride a wild wind and dance with the devil on Saturday night. Some just want a little garden to bloom and fruit in season. That's cool. But for me, sometimes the best I can do is stay tethered and wait for the wind to settle. What would I do without the SoDu? I do hope it survives the current infestation of vampire kittens.

Emergency Backup Mistress of the Greater SODU

I woke up yesterday with an intense pang of joy, and after a little investigation, determined that it was only hypomania and no need to redecorate the house or change the wardrobe. Still I was in oojah-com-spiff mood when I entered the salle de bains and found that escapee from the pasha's harem, Ms Wonder, already there.

Have I told you about the Wonder? Surely I have. What a woman! Those pouty lips, those emerald green eyes, that strawberry blond hair.

When I wished her a happy MLK day, she gave me a certain look. Not the response I expected and I counted it as quite a slice of fruitcake, let me tell you. I realize that she's recovering from surgery and suffers some discomfort yet but still, I was somewhat disappointed. 

I didn't expect unbridled happiness. I know the Russian soul, burdened as it is by centuries of angst, is not prepared for unbridled happiness, and so it was probably for the best that the morning played out the way it did. 

The Renaissance district of Durham, near Jordan Lake, rarely gets the praise that's lavished on the rest of the city by the Top-10-Places-to-Live media. Probably due to the glitter of high-end retail. 

Despite the surface appearance, a rich tapestry of subculture makes the Renaissance a great place to be on any given morning and especially a holiday morning. 

Out in the bright sunshine, I began to feel the joy that attends a Monday holiday, and after the usual qigong tryst, I entered the doors of Dulce Cafe with a light heart and a tra-la-la on my lips. 

"Grande dark," said the barista placing my usual on the counter. This was not the desired tone. Too cool, too indifferent, too uncaring. I'd had my quota of indifference and this was just all wrong.

The barista was, no surprise, Amy Normal, emergency backup mistress of the greater South Durham night, and her attitude of barely tolerable disdain for the clientele is due to her fighting the forces of darkness all night, applying complex eye makeup and facial hardware each morning, and the maintenance of her forbidden romance with the manga-haired, love monkey (her words not mine), Foo Dog.

"Good morning, Amy," I said in measured tones, and I meant it to sting.

"It may be good for you," she said, "but you don't have to open this cafe after a night of being stalked by the ninja vampire cat that threatens the Renaissance, do you?"

I must admit that this new motif did present an interesting diversion but I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing that just yet. 

"There is that," I said.

"If you only knew how fragile the defenses are that keep the general public from general disaster, you would cry like a baby and wet your pants," she said with a hard-edged eye.

"Oh, I don't know," I said nonchalantly, "it may not be as bad as it sounds when you consider that the general public can be so very annoying with little or no provocation."

She started, spilling a customer's skinny, mocha something-or-other and then stared at me with the look of someone caught feeding Froot Loops to her betas.

"I wish I'd said that," she said with a thoughtful air and I immediately logged into SuperBetter and gave myself 10 points for meaningful human contact. There is more good than bad in each moment if only we take a deep breath and look for it.

Witch of Woodcroft

The Native Grounds Cafe sits just off Fayetteville Road in the Southpoint District of Durham and I had just opened the door to enter when I heard a familiar voice say, "So kindly don't speak rot to me." I was amazed to hear this voice because I'd not enjoyed the company of the Emperor of South Durham since before the holiday apocalypse. He spotted me as I entered and waved a patronizing hand.

"Ah, Genome, so here your are," he said.

I thought about denying it but couldn't think of a substantial argument.

"Come in and have a crumpet," he said.

"Thanks," I said but then immediately shook the bean for the barista who is fairly new and probably not yet fully cognizant of the Emperor's style.

"Did you bring that bag?"

"No, sorry, I forgot," I said.

"Well of all the muddle-headed asses," he said adding something about 'Others abide our question, thou are free,' or something like that. Meant nothing to me but perhaps you are familiar with the gag. Then he dismissed me with a weary gesture and called for another Earl Grey before turning back to his waiting audience.

I sat at a table with the Enforcer and Island Irv, as is my custom, and enjoyed a cup of the hot and strengthening until the Duck Man came in strewing the flu like tattered remnants of a bad dream. I decided it was time to head for the horizon and was in the middle of see-you-latering when I heard that familiar voice again.

"Pushing off?"

"I thought I would," I said.

"Can I rely on you not to bungle that job?" he demanded and I nodded in reply. I'm sure you know how it is when the circs demand tactful surrender.

"Tell me in your own words what you're to do," he said.

"Go the the sporting goods store--"

"--on Chapel Hill Road," he said.

"Right, on Chapel Hill Road," I said.

"--and get the large duffle bag. Now buzz off. The door is behind you. Grasp the handle and push."

Weaker men, no doubt, would have been sickened by having their morning cut into like this but there is a tough, bulldog strain in the Genomes that has often caused comment. I stood firm, took three qigong breaths, and walked out into the morning with a light heart, happy to have it in me to perform this little act of duty. Then something buzzed in my pocket causing me to retrieve my personal communication device and look at the screen.

I don't know if you were one of the gang that followed the most recent tale of high suspense and international intrigue involving the adjacent kingdom of the United States but, if you were, then you may recall that the events began with a tsunami of text messages.

At first glance, my phone now had about two dozen of the things waiting for me but closer inspection revealed only three. They all bore the same signature--Gladys, Witch of Woodcroft.

The first read:
'Come at once. Serious rift in fabric of universe.'

The second:
'Received no reply to msg come at once. Come at once. Reply.'

The third:
'What the hell! Why no answer. Must I cast a spell? What is wrong with people these days? Have all the decent men been caught up in the Mayan Rapture? Come at once.'

Again, I remained calm. Three deep qigong breaths and I was centered and ready for all that life might send my way.

I typed a reply and hit the send button:
'Sorry. Static and whatnot. Did you say whiskey or whiskers? Reply.'