Raindrops are pestering the skylight above me, a watery
“tap-tap-tap” that then dribbles onto a tin roof in the neighboring
hutong, greeting the metal with a muted plunk. The charcoal-roasted
coffee in my cup is potent, too bitter for my soft American palate, but
better than the alternative; no coffee at all.
<shameless plug>
I'm listening obsessively to my friend Dave's new album
</shameless plug>
To my left is an oblong room brimming with low, wooden tables and
benches bedecked with crimson cushions and bamboo mats. The room is
partitioned by latticework, the odd teak bookshelf, and a gorgeous
circular door frame. To my right, a floor-to-ceiling window, which
gazes upon the now-familiar gray brick walls enveloping the tiny
courtyard neighborhoods that creep and crawl through Beijing, like
architectural inchworms.
At home, I spend the better part of my days in coffee shops, writing,
caffeinating, eavesdropping, writing some more, checking my e-mail
obsessively. I can’t say that I’m a coffeehouse connoisseur, per se,
but I know the cozy small business java nooks and highbrow cafes
of Boston, Cambridge, and Somerville like the back of my jittery hand.
These places are my offices, my spots for interviews and meetings, my comfort zones.
Whenever I travel, the first thing I do is seek out a coffee shop,
to immediately compare, contrast, and, ultimately, settle in for an
afternoon of feeling at home, regardless of whether I’m on the Cape (Hot Chocolate Sparrow) in Rochester,
NY, (Java Joe’s), Galway, Ireland (Bananaphoblacht), or, now, Beijing.
I’ve discovered a few spectacular coffee joints since I’ve been here, and these
slices of home have been havens for me. There’s a marked difference,
though, between parking it for a few hours in a Somerville retail
space, and nestling into a building that’s been standing for an
immeasurable amount of time. True, the Three Trees (on Nanluogu Xiang, in Dongcheng) probably hasn’t
been whipping up lattes for much more than a couple of years, but the
building in which it’s located likely dates to the Yuan Dynasty, which
is awe-inspiring. The architecture teems with authenticity and
austerity, and I imagine that the corner in which I’m settled was once
part of a wealthy family’s living room, given the size of the space,
the amount of natural light, the quality of the woodwork, and the
aesthetic details imbued in the room’s structure.
As a writer, being surrounded by tangible history like this is
enough fuel for endless stories, and I’m finding that it’s easier to
work here than it is when I’m at home, banging my head against a
formica table in a modern cafe bedecked with urban decor. Knowing that
thousands of people and nearly a thousand years have passed through
this space–this spot for coffee and cigarettes and the clickety-clack
of fingers on iBook keyboards–makes me appreciate the Three Trees for
much more than just its similarities to my hometown haunts.
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