This morning I woke up with a sense of purpose. Not to do anything particularly useful or productive but I did wake up and get up. So that’s new. Saturday and Sunday mornings had previously been reserved for getting up to feed the whining cats and then flopping back into bed until I felt like opening my eyes to play Candy Crush for a few hours, followed by some quality Netflix time with the possibility of a bathroom break. In my old apartment, there wasn’t anything else to do or anywhere else to really go but my bedroom. That’s my excuse. If I wanted to go sit outside, I’d have to buy a beer at The “Scenewhile” and go sit in their “beer garden”, which, let’s be honest, is a freakin’ patio. My only outdoor space was an alley between a grumpy man’s antique store and the bar, and yes, I have seen someone peeing in it more than once. It’s all about ambience, people.
So now, I live on this quiet(ish) street in Heritage Hill and although it’s only a mile down the road from the pee-filled alley, it’s worlds away. I have a gigantic porch on which to sit and sip my coffee on weekend mornings, and incidentally where I can get inspired to weave a little blog about that very subject. It’s funny to think about how excited I was to live in Eastown only a year and a half ago. I wrote a blog called “Eastown and Down” raving about all the culture and vibrancy I was to experience and how much safer and less ghetto it was than my previous residence in Little Mexico, near the Black Hills. That sentence looks a lot more racist than it is. The two places are literally called Little Mexico and the Black Hills. But after over a year of pretending the bar wasn’t loud underneath my attempts to sleep and that the alley wasn’t a disgusting mess and that the homeless crackheads who begged me for money every day were “just part of the culture”, I couldn’t go on with my guise of coolness any longer. I am not cool. I am not a hipster. I’m a 28-year old professional who likes sipping coffee (or beer) on her porch. There. I said it.
As I sit in this canary yellow patio chair that I inherited from a BFF’s parents, I can’t help but smile and wave at all of the morning joggers. Usually I’d scoff and mutter something mean under my breath but not this morning. The birds are chirping, there’s Bailey’s in my coffee (I didn’t have any cream) and the breeze is fluttering my greasy, greasy hair. If I want some overpriced coffee or a pastry, I’m only a block away from the Wealthy Bakery and Rowster. But don’t go to Rowster if you don’t know everything about coffee. They will judge you and they will be wearing overalls that one of their friends made out of organic materials. They do not have a menu and they will be shocked if you don’t know what they have or what you want. There is an apparent prerequisite to be psychic in order to patronize that place. I recommend going up the street a bit to the pee-filled alley area of Eastown and ordering your less pretentious coffee from the kind hipsters at The Sparrows. They have a menu and they’ll also make recommendations that aren’t dripping with resentment for the synthetic fabrics all over your body. Oops…rage tangent! Although there are pretentious vegans and other more earth-conscious people running rampant in this new neighborhood, there’s also a sense of pride that can be seen in more than just the “Heritage Hill Home” plaques adorning most of the house fronts on the street. They bike over to the farmers market and take their tiny dogs on walks while I wonder silently what the eff to put in my recycling bin.
But really, what?