I could tell my life story in two words—the two words: "I drank." But I was not always a coffee drinker. This is the story of my downfall—and of my rise—for through the influence of a good woman, I have, thank Heaven, risen from the depths.
The influence crept upon me gradually, as it does for many young men. As a boy, I remember my father offering me a sip of his morning brew, but it didn’t captivate me then. I can recall disliking the bitter taste.
It wasn’t until I was well into my twenties and serving under NATO status in Germany that temptation struck me. My downfall began when the Army chose to reassign me from my comfortable NATO position to a "special assignment" in Rome.
You can read all about my "secret mission" in a previous blog post.
It was then that I first made acquaintance with the awful power of sidewalk cafes and spent hours sitting at little round tables, watching people walk by who, apparently, had something better to do than drink espresso in romantic little cafes located in centuries-old public squares.
Writing those words so many decades after the fact and remembering my life in Rome, living in Pensione Piazza di Spagna, about three blocks from the Spanish Steps, still makes me wonder why. Why did those people walking by think they had something better to do?
Here we were, living in the Eternal City, in an area so popular and refined that high-fashion brands, like Gucci, Bulgari, and Valentina, have their flagship shops in the neighborhood.
Each morning, before walking to Elissa Gelateria Pasticceria Cafe, I would sit on the rim of the pool surrounding the fountain, watching flower sellers and street artists getting set up for another day.
By 8:00 AM, I would meet a local writing group at the Elissa. A hard-drinking set, these reckless souls thought nothing of following one double cappuccino with another. They frequented mid-morning coffee houses the way others frequented happy hours.
How vividly I can recall that day! The gleaming espresso machines lined up on the counter behind the serving bar, and the colorful posters with smiling young people enjoying drinks with Italian names.
It was a café latte that first rang my bell. I lifted the cup to my lips with an assumption of sophistication, although I felt like a bumpkin from Shady Grove. The first sip was rich and creamy, unlike anything I'd experienced before. The warmth spread through me like liquid comfort itself, and by degrees, a strange exhilaration began to steal over me. I felt that I had crossed the Rubicon; I had burnt my boats along with my bridges. I ordered another round. I became the life and soul of that Roman cafe. I had the habit!
I found myself sinking deeper and deeper into the delightful world of caffeine. I knew all the baristas in the Eternal City by their first names, and they knew my drink by heart. I would simply walk through the door and say, "Il solito, por favore," and they understood immediately.
My consumption increased steadily. What had started as morning coffee became morning, afternoon, and evening coffee. Then late-night coffee. Weekend coffee marathons left me buzzing with energy and unable to sleep. I was consuming six, eight, sometimes ten cups a day. My hands developed a permanent slight tremor. My eyes took on the wide, alert look of the perpetually caffeinated.
But I felt invincible! I was more productive than ever, sharper in briefings, more creative in my reports. I could work sixteen-hour days without fatigue. Coffee had become my fuel, my inspiration, my reason for being.
When my Rome assignment ended, I returned to the States with my habit firmly entrenched. NASA offered me a position in Houston—a dream job working on the space program. I accepted eagerly, confident that my coffee-enhanced productivity would make me indispensable.
At first, all went well. My colleagues marveled at my energy, my ability to work through the night on critical calculations. I was the go-to person for last-minute projects, the one who never seemed to tire. But my weekend rituals had become legendary even to myself. My coffee binge began on Saturday morning—espresso after espresso as I explored Houston's coffee scene, meeting other enthusiasts, discussing beans and brewing methods until the early hours of Sunday morning.
And then came the inevitable Monday morning slam. The first time I overslept, my supervisor was understanding. "We all have rough weekends," he said. The second time, he raised an eyebrow. By the fourth consecutive Monday, the understanding had evaporated.
My dream job was lost to addiction. I was devastated. I wandered Houston in a daze, wondering how I'd let my habit destroy my career. It was during this dark period that I met the Wonder.
She was a photographer who spent her free time documenting the art scene in Houston. We met at a coffee shop near the Johnson Space Center—ironically, the very place where my addiction had cost me everything. I was nursing a single cup, trying to limit my intake, looking miserable.
"You look like someone who's been told coffee is bad for him," she observed, sliding into the seat across from me.
I poured out my story—Rome, the addiction, the lost job, my attempts to cut back.
"Let me get this straight," she said. "You lost your job because you drank too much coffee?"
I nodded, feeling like the sad sack I'd become. She leaned back in her chair and smiled—the most beautiful smile I'd ever seen.
"And this is a problem because...?"
"Because I'm addicted to caffeine!"
"Honey," she said, reaching across the table to take my shaking hand, "do you realize that most people lose jobs because they drink too much alcohol, not too much coffee? Do you understand that your worst vice is something that makes you energetic and productive rather than sloppy and destructive?"
It was a revelation. She continued, "So you love coffee a little too much. So you get over-excited on weekends. These are not life-destroying problems. These are scheduling issues."
They laughed at me when I declined to join them and nursed a single glass of orange juice until lunch. I couldn't endure their teasing. Eventually, I accepted their challenge and ordered an Americano. They still teased me for ordering regular coffee rather than espresso. They clapped me on the shoulder and called me "Good old Genome!" I was intoxicated with the sudden acceptance.
How vividly I can recall that day! The gleaming espresso machines lined up on the counter behind the serving bar, and the colorful posters with smiling young people enjoying drinks with Italian names.
It was a café latte that first rang my bell. I lifted the cup to my lips with an assumption of sophistication, although I felt like a bumpkin from Shady Grove. The first sip was rich and creamy, unlike anything I'd experienced before. The warmth spread through me like liquid comfort itself, and by degrees, a strange exhilaration began to steal over me. I felt that I had crossed the Rubicon; I had burnt my boats along with my bridges. I ordered another round. I became the life and soul of that Roman cafe. I had the habit!
I found myself sinking deeper and deeper into the delightful world of caffeine. I knew all the baristas in the Eternal City by their first names, and they knew my drink by heart. I would simply walk through the door and say, "Il solito, por favore," and they understood immediately.
My consumption increased steadily. What had started as morning coffee became morning, afternoon, and evening coffee. Then late-night coffee. Weekend coffee marathons left me buzzing with energy and unable to sleep. I was consuming six, eight, sometimes ten cups a day. My hands developed a permanent slight tremor. My eyes took on the wide, alert look of the perpetually caffeinated.
But I felt invincible! I was more productive than ever, sharper in briefings, more creative in my reports. I could work sixteen-hour days without fatigue. Coffee had become my fuel, my inspiration, my reason for being.
When my Rome assignment ended, I returned to the States with my habit firmly entrenched. NASA offered me a position in Houston—a dream job working on the space program. I accepted eagerly, confident that my coffee-enhanced productivity would make me indispensable.
At first, all went well. My colleagues marveled at my energy, my ability to work through the night on critical calculations. I was the go-to person for last-minute projects, the one who never seemed to tire. But my weekend rituals had become legendary even to myself. My coffee binge began on Saturday morning—espresso after espresso as I explored Houston's coffee scene, meeting other enthusiasts, discussing beans and brewing methods until the early hours of Sunday morning.
And then came the inevitable Monday morning slam. The first time I overslept, my supervisor was understanding. "We all have rough weekends," he said. The second time, he raised an eyebrow. By the fourth consecutive Monday, the understanding had evaporated.
My dream job was lost to addiction. I was devastated. I wandered Houston in a daze, wondering how I'd let my habit destroy my career. It was during this dark period that I met the Wonder.
She was a photographer who spent her free time documenting the art scene in Houston. We met at a coffee shop near the Johnson Space Center—ironically, the very place where my addiction had cost me everything. I was nursing a single cup, trying to limit my intake, looking miserable.
"You look like someone who's been told coffee is bad for him," she observed, sliding into the seat across from me.
I poured out my story—Rome, the addiction, the lost job, my attempts to cut back.
"Let me get this straight," she said. "You lost your job because you drank too much coffee?"
I nodded, feeling like the sad sack I'd become. She leaned back in her chair and smiled—the most beautiful smile I'd ever seen.
"And this is a problem because...?"
"Because I'm addicted to caffeine!"
"Honey," she said, reaching across the table to take my shaking hand, "do you realize that most people lose jobs because they drink too much alcohol, not too much coffee? Do you understand that your worst vice is something that makes you energetic and productive rather than sloppy and destructive?"
It was a revelation. She continued, "So you love coffee a little too much. So you get over-excited on weekends. These are not life-destroying problems. These are scheduling issues."
Her words didn't just change my attitude; they revolutionized my life! Before I knew what was happening, I was lying in bed with her every Sunday morning, listening to smooth jazz on 93FM KKBQ and reading the Houston Chronicle.
I hadn't conquered a terrible addiction; I had simply learned to manage my schedule. Coffee was not my downfall; it was my salvation from far worse vices. I drank espresso for energy and joy, and for that, I am grateful.
Most importantly, I found a woman who saw my quirks not as character flaws but as interesting challenges to be approached with love and wisdom. I am saved—not saved from coffee, but saved by the understanding of Ms. Wonder.
