The Calabash Cappuccino

"Have you ever heard of a city called Tunis?" asked Island Irv as soon as I'd settled down with my Sunday morning latte in Egret Coffee Cafe and Dance Bar.

"Sure," I said. "It's the capital of Tunisia, on the northeast corner of Africa, near the tip of the Italian boot—or, if you prefer, the island of Malta."

He seemed puzzled by the inclusion of footwear in my response, and nothing more followed from him on the subject of geography. Before he could think of another topic, someone else, someone else took center stage.

"Double cappuccino, half-caf, oat milk, caramel drizzle, a touch of cinnamon. Foam—just enough to look nice, no more," Spoke ordered.

I call him Spode because he reminds me of a character of that name in the P.G. Wodehouse novels. He's nothing like Spode, really, except that he's the sort who can turn ordering coffee into a Shakespearean tragedy.

This local version of Spod is a bit of a celebrity. He writes a column for Port City Arts and Entertainment, reviewing local hot spots and the arts scene, keeping us informed of the cultural goings-on in the city.

After placing his order, he walked toward the seating area and immediately came to a standstill. He resembled a man who, after lunch with old friends from out of town, suddenly realizes he left his wallet on the kitchen counter at home.

Minutes later, the barista approached him with his order.

"Your double capp," said the barista who arrived at just that moment.

"I haven't found a table. I can't stand and have my coffee," he said.

"There are tables near the window," said the barista, "and several along the far wall."

She made a delicate sweep with her arm, as though revealing tables that had been invisible until this very moment. Her gesture was so dramatic that I wondered if she was enrolled in drama classes at UNCW. I decided to call her Desdemona. I don't know why. Just a whim, I think.

"Oh, that won't do at all," said Spode. "I need a cafe table in the center of the room. The light is too bright near the windows, and the television near the far wall is too loud. I need a quiet, well-lighted space to enjoy my coffee."

As Desdemona walked past our table, I caught her eye. "Well, that turned a little dark, didn't it?" I whispered.

"That's alright," she said. Then, turning to glance back at Spode, she added in a low, menacing tone, "I can go dark too."

Several minutes passed with Spode standing in the middle of the room, giving the evil eye to seated customers. Eventually, he walked back to the order-here spot.

"Excuse me," he said, moving to the front of the line. "I need to make a small change in my order," he said to the barista at the counter. "I've decided against the sprinkling of cinnamon on my cappuccino."

The order taker gave Spode a look that clearly communicated: I'm not a major player in this episode, only an extra with no speaking parts. This intrepid extra demonstrated professional-level improvisation by looking at the barista to his left, who nodded knowingly and moved away, presumably to handle the modification.

Spode turned back to the seating area and walked to a table that had just opened up very near our own. Desdemona soon returned with his order.

"I'm sorry," said Spode, "but that's simply far too much foam. Can you remake it with half as much?"

She took the coffee away without a word.

Presently, a beautiful, thin-foam cappuccino was delivered to Spode's table. I expected to see him bloom like a flower in a gentle summer rain, but it wasn't to be.

"Excuse me," Spode called after the retreating Desdemona. "I don't want to be a bother, but I changed my order to leave off the cinnamon, and yet there's cinnamon sprinkled all over the foam."

Desdemona gave him a long, slow, expressionless look.

"I simply will not be able to write my article if I can't enjoy my coffee exactly the way I like it," he said. "Anything less will ruin my entire day."

The expression on the barista's face remained unchanged.

"Please," Spode whined.

Still silent, she took the coffee away again.

Several minutes passed without noticeable barista activity. Spode appeared anxious and eventually gestured for attention.

"Am I ever going to get my coffee?" he asked when Desdemona arrived table-side. "At this rate, I'll have the article finished before it gets here."

“Hang tight,” said Desdemona, calm in that Zen-like state of not caring. “Don’t lose your cool and disappoint your readers with an anxious article. We’re bringing in a master barista from Calabash to make your coffee.”

Unfortunately, I had to leave before the Calabash specialist arrived, which disappointed me; I’d been eager to talk with this legendary craftsman. I’ve long wondered about the fuss over blonde espresso. That mystery, it seems, will have to wait for another Sunday morning.

As for Island Irv’s geography lesson, that mystery will have to wait. Some questions—like some cappuccinos—are destined to remain unfinished.

E2 Hidden Canvases: The Stars of the Show

The photographs were everywhere.

Spread across our dining room table, propped against bookshelves, laid out in neat rows on the floor, Ms. Wonder had transformed our home into a gallery of industrial maritime poetry. 

Each image showed a different aspect of her vision: the geometric patterns formed by shipping containers, the abstract beauty of weathered hull plates, the unexpected colors that saltwater and time had painted onto steel.

And somehow, from this sea of images, we had to choose twenty-three.

"It's like Sophie's Choice," I said, immediately regretting the dramatic comparison.

"It's nothing like Sophie's Choice," Ms. Wonder corrected, though I detected a hint of shared anxiety in her voice. "It's more like... having to choose which of your children gets to go to the good school."

"That's not actually better," I pointed out.

She sighed and picked up a photograph of a cargo ship's stern, where rust and paint had created what looked like a Rothko painting. "I know. But how do I choose? Each one represents hours of waiting for the right light, the right tide, the right moment when the industrial becomes transcendent."

Princess Amy, who had been surprisingly quiet during breakfast, chose this moment to offer her perspective.

" What if you choose the wrong ones?" she asked, thinking she was being helpful. What if the photographs you leave out were actually the masterpieces, and the ones you select are just... adequate? What if you regret this decision for the rest of your life?

"Amy says hello," I told Ms. Wonder.

"Of course she does." Ms. Wonder set down the photograph and moved to the window, where morning light was doing interesting things to the sky. "Dr. Castellanos wants 'Fading Queen' as the centerpiece. That's non-negotiable. It's the first thing visitors will see when they enter the gallery."

"As it should be," I said. The massive photograph of the SS United States—the one she'd traveled to Mobile, Alabama, to capture—was undeniably the crown jewel of her "Hidden Canvases" series. 

"So that's one down, only twenty-two to go," I said, but Wonder didn't look relieved.

For the next hour, she talked me through her favorites, and each photograph came with a story. The container ship she'd photographed at dawn in Charleston, where she'd waited three hours for the light to hit the hull at exactly the right angle. The oil tanker in Wilmington, whose weathered paint had created an accidental landscape. The freighter in Southport, where she'd discovered that rust could look like brushstrokes.

"Georgia O'Keeffe said that nobody sees a flower, really—it's so small, we haven't time," Ms. Wonder explained, holding up a close-up of a ship's hull that looked nothing like a ship and everything like abstract art. "She painted them large so people would be surprised into taking time to look. That's what I'm trying to do with these vessels. Make people actually see them."

"I want to take the viewers on a journey," she continued. "Start with 'Fading Queen,' that monumental first impression, and then move them through smaller studies that show the evolution of my vision."

"Like chapters in a book," I said, and I could see her mind already organizing the photographs into a narrative.

For the next forty-five minutes, she discussed aesthetic details,  like grouping photographs by color palette, then by subject matter, creating visual conversations between images.

I watched Wonder's face as she talked, saw the moment when anxiety transformed into excitement. This wasn't just about selecting photographs anymore; it was about crafting an experience.

"I've made my decision," she said quietly.

"You have?"

"Well, not about everything, but I know the ones that matter. The ones that show what I'm really trying to say." She picked up a photograph I'd always loved—a close-up of a ship's hull where industrial patina had created something that looked like a seascape. "I want the theme to be transformation. About how time and elements can turn utility into beauty."

We worked through the afternoon and into the evening, Ms. Wonder selecting images while I offered occasional commentary. She chose photographs that showed her range—some massive and imposing, others intimate and delicate. Some from her early work, when she was still learning to see, and others from recent months, showing how far she'd come.

By dinner time, we had identified twenty-three photographs. "These are the ones," she said, and there was certainty in her voice now. "These tell the story I want to tell."

"They're perfect," I said. "Every single one."

The most experienced art-shipping company is in Charlotte," she said. We'll need to rent a van to get the photos there, but it'll be fine."

"Of course it will," I agreed, setting the Magic 8-Ball aside and making a mental note to consult it less frequently.

Five weeks to get twenty-three photographs boxed and delivered to the shipper, and then shipped from North Carolina to New York. Five weeks to ensure that Ms. Wonder's vision—captured in hundreds of hours of patient observation and refined through years of developing her artistic eye—arrived safely at Fort Schuyler.

To be continued next week in Post 3: "Shipping the Fleet."

Leave to Irv

You and I haven't discussed it here on The Circular Journey, but Island Irv—one of our more popular guests and a friend of the blog—has been struggling with the employment situation since moving to Wilma.

He's reached that stage of life where one is willing to give up a bit of income in return for more leisure time.

He's reached that stage of life where one is willing to give up a bit of income in return for more leisure time.

"I'm done with corporate America," he announced at our coffee klatch last Sunday.

"Will you look for a job at a local fish hatchery?" I asked.

He gave me a look that said... well, I'm not exactly sure what it said, but it said a lot and I got the message.

"I'm going to take a few days off and think about it," he said.

"Oh, no, no, no," I said. "That sounds good in theory, but it's a mug's game if you ask me. What you should do is put an ad in the personals."

"I don't know," he said skeptically. "Does anyone do that anymore? Sounds like a waste of time to me."

"Not those personals," I said. "You're no doubt thinking of the publications common in the last century. I'm talking about the modern personal ads. Social media."

His expression changed. I realized I'd said something that found traction in his mental machinery.

"You mean, like LinkedIn?" he asked.

"Not just LinkedIn," I said. "Shoot the moon!"

"What are you talking about? Give me details."

"Ms. Wonder tells me that people ask for help finding jobs on the NextDoor app. And I know that people sell everything—up to and including themselves—on TikTok and Instagram."

I paused to see if he was still listening. He was.

"Here's what I'm thinking," I said. "I'll help you build a few social media sites with your bio and CV, and then we'll build your personal brand."

"I like it," he said. "You put together a plan for building the web presence and I'll put together a description of the perfect job."

"Great!" I said. "Do it today and we'll meet again tomorrow morning to discuss the kickoff."

The next morning at Ibis Coffee Cafe and Dance Bar, we were both vibrating at maximum frequency—he was thinking about his new career and I was anxious to spread goodness and light, heaped up, pressed down, and spilling over.

"Did you finish the job description?" I asked.

"Even better," he said with unmistakable pride. "I learned that the Brunswick Weekly has a personal want-ad section. I finished my ad and sent it to them in time for today's edition."

"You mean that edition?" I asked, pointing to the publication someone had left on the counter.

"Do you suppose...?" he said, picking up the paper and flipping pages with increasing urgency.

"Here it is!" he exclaimed. His lips moved silently as he read the thing.

Then: "Damn auto-correct to hell!"

"'Ssup?" I said.

He handed me the paper and pointed at his ad with a trembling finger.

"Read it for yourself," he said grimly. "There's a typo in the ad. It should read 'exceptions list' but actually says 'exceptional list'."

I read the dreadful thing and immediately understood why one little typo had dashed the cup of joy from his lips. The ad read as follows:

Leave it to Irv:

Need someone to manage your affairs?
Run your errands? Drive you to appointments?
I'm willing to do whatever you need done.
You name it, I'll do it.

My exceptional list includes doing anything:

• immoral
• illegal 
• unethical

Schedule a callback: text IRVIRV to 910910.*

"Yes, I see what you mean," I said carefully. "It reads the exceptional list, not the exceptions list. But cheer up, Irv—I'll bet no one notices the ad. I'll bet you don't get any response at all. Is that your phone buzzing?"

He held the phone up for me to see a thread of text messages scrolling continuously up the screen like credits at the end of a particularly long movie.

Eventually, he lifted his head from the table and said in a hollow voice, "I've got to do something about this now. What am I going to do?"

"My way of dealing with this kind of problem is to deny everything," I said.

"Deny it?" he said.

"Stout denial," I said. "Eventually, everyone will lose interest and it will all go away."

"I seriously doubt that this will go away anytime soon."

"Remember," I said, grasping at straws, "it's an election year. People have short attention spans."

"Do you really think it will simply blow over?" he asked.

"Just make sure your wife doesn't see it," I said.

From the look on his face, I doubt the suggestion was helpful.

And so, my friends, this post brings you up-to-date on current events in the old metrop. Thanks for joining us here at The Circular Journey.

Enjoy your day, and keep in mind that no matter how joyous the morning begins, the Fate sisters have ways to leave you in a heap on the floor before lunch. Especially if auto-correct is involved.

Let the Good Times Roll!

The Pilgrimage That Wasn't: A Mardi Gras Story

If things had gone as planned—not that they ever do—I would have arrived in New Orleans that afternoon. It was Mardi Gras! 

Didn't happen, of course. Cobblestones are the reason. 

If you're one of the regulars who are never happier than when curled up with one of my stories, you may remember the post about my last visit to Charleston, SC. You can find that post by searching for: 'Charleston Memories.' 

Picture this: narrow little streets from an earlier era, cobblestone alleyways hiding in wait like mischievous cats, ready to throw off their whiskers and pounce the moment you stop paying attention. 

Those charming old pathways between colonial-era shops are wonderfully uneven, irregular cobblestone trails leading to embowered interiors flanked by large potted tropical plants. Beautiful, yes—but treacherous.

The footing is never predictable, and walking them requires a ramshackle gait and mindful maneuvering, something I sometimes forget. To put it simply: I stumble. Life is often like that; well, my life. At least that's the story I tell; you may tell it differently.

As I learned during my Charleston wanderings, cobblestones aren't level, aren't ordered, and definitely aren't boring. They can't be walked without paying attention to what you're doing and where you're going—which is a good thing, really. Keeps you in the moment. Of course, that life lesson didn't prevent me from taking an unfortunate tumble that scotched my Mardi Gras plans.

But this post isn't about Charleston; it isn't even about New Orleans. It's about the planned pilgrimage that would take me to the sacred places of my own personal mythology. 

New Orleans is one of those special places from my past, and if there are secular pilgrimages in America, then Mardi Gras is surely one. Mardi Gras, of course, is framed by Epiphany at the beginning and Ash Wednesday at the close. Between those holy days is a period of indulgence and joyful celebration of life. 

This symbolic timing is significant when viewing Mardi Gras as a secular pilgrimage. Just as Christmas combines a secular aspect, represented by Santa Claus, with a religious one, celebrating Christ's birth, Mardi Gras also unites the spiritual and the profane. 

As I mentioned at the beginning, I didn't make it to New Orleans; I'm actually sitting in Wilmington's Egret Cafe, far from Durham, where I originally made plans for my pilgrimage more than twelve years ago.

Obviously, those well-laid plans for a mythological pilgrimage 'ganged agley.' I still plan to make that journey one day. But for today, I'm happy to be in Wilmington, thinking of New Orleans, and celebrating the joys of being alive—even if life is sometimes paved with cobblestones that demand we stay present, stay mindful, and occasionally, stay off our feet to heal.

Even though the New Orleans pilgrimage is somewhere in a nebulous future, I will be making a pilgrimage of a different sort soon. I hope you'll come back regularly so that I can tell you all about it.

Until then, stay happy and healthy. I hope you're celebrating the joys of life with me. Laissez les bons temps rouler!

Tootsie Roll Epiphany

My favorite barista, Laura, was ringing up my order when she directed a curious look toward the neighborhood of my right ear. I immediately assumed there was a noodle hanging there, which sometimes happens at lunchtime, but it turned out to be something far more interesting.

"A Tootsie Roll is coming out of your ear," she said.

Well, those weren't her exact words, but that's what my startled brain heard. And as soon as she said it, I knew the Universe was tapping me on the shoulder with one of its cosmic pranks; a reminder that the material is not what it seems, no doubt.

Because, let's be clear: Tootsie Rolls don't move about by ear-hole; they're delivered by 18-wheelers like the one seen through the window behind me, at just the right height to align with my ear from Laura's vantage point. A perfectly mundane explanation for a delightfully absurd moment.

The timing couldn't have been better. Just before Laura's vision, I'd been planning a new meditation workshop. I'd spent most of the morning thinking about how our minds tell us things that aren't true; how they create stories, fill in gaps, and sometimes convince us that Tootsie Rolls are sprouting from our ears. 

Meditation, I would explain to my students, can teach us to harness our minds in more beneficial ways; to see clearly, in other words. To distinguish true reality from the stories we tell ourselves.

And here was the Universe, right on cue, delivering a perfect teaching moment via an 18-wheeler and a barista with a good eye for visual comedy.

Now, for those of you who think the purpose of this post is to announce my workshop, you're close. I'm actually announcing a new blog that will focus on meditation and these little moments where reality reveals itself to be far stranger—and funnier—than we usually notice. I'll tell you all about it in that blog. I know it's a nick out of time, but that's the way I work. Sometimes enlightenment arrives by Tootsie Roll truck, and sometimes blog announcements arrive sideways.

Stay tuned. And watch out for what's emerging from your ears.