Monday, September 12, 2005
Confessions of an East Coast Girl in a Santa Barbara Starbucks
A gray haired and wrinkled couple with rickety bones sit in Starbucks on the corner of State and Cota and share. They share a newspaper and a venti coffee, probably the least expensive house blend. They give off vibes of Colorado, or Northern California. Their age tricks an onlooker to think that they are less active then they actually are. They are visitors, and probably arrived here via RV. They dress themselves in Navajo print vests and fishing hats that should have lores on them. The man wears closed toe Birkenstocks with navy blue socks that you can see the tops of because his khaki pants don’t hit the shoes. He has a gray beard that reaches his gray hair, with almost no bald spots. He shuffles his shoe off to place his socked foot on top of, he looks like a bunyan type of man, while reading something to his bride. She listens intently while sipping from her thermos. They have Momma and Poppa bear stainless steel thermoses. A larger one for him, a smaller, slimmer thermos for her. She wears new balance sneakers. Her hair color mimics that of her thermos, silver, and it forms a flip under her khaki cap. She wears a fanny pack that probably carries everything she would ever need in life, as long as she was with him.
They pour small amounts of coffee into the tops of their thermos’. They sip eloquently. Small Sips. I presume their names are very crunchy, she could be Magda, and he looks like a Phil. Magda calls her husband Phillip when she wants his attention all for her own. When Magda is feeling sassy she calls him Philippe. I presume that Magda is a professor the way she adjusts her posture, has her glasses hanging around her neck from a string and speaks of current events with her less-than-put-together husband. Phil sells things. He probably sells fishing equipment, or maybe John Deere tractors. He also smokes, probably a pack and half a day. Phil wheezes a little when he laughs at his wife’s jokes
As they read the local section of the Santa Barbara News Press, the word flabbergasted is thrown around. The world is not the same as before they met, which was so many harvest moons ago. As America changed, Magda and Phil changed, together. They live a simple life. A life filled with vegetable gardens, of washing the Buick on Sunday afternoons and then cruising through the green leaved streets, of reading, and discussing and rocking in the chair that was a baby shower gift on their front porch. Magda and Phil have three children, all boys. The two eldest boys, Peter and Daniel went to east coast schools, Ivy I presume. The third, Leif, enlisted in the marines at the age of 18 in order to receive a free education. He was taken by the Gulf War. The family talks as if he is going to be home at Christmas, because if they close their eyes tight enough, he is still with them. Magda and Phil raised their boys to be men. Think-for-yourself type of men. Silver-lining-in-every-gray type of men. Gentlemen in every aspect. They are a family of intelligence.
Phil and Magda are cultured, in a way that they have never really been anywhere, but have experienced new things. I would presume that the farthest distance they have traveled was for their son’s commencements on the east coast. Phil and Magda antique at flea markets, attend pow-wows at local conservations and stargaze during a meteor shower. They almost never dine out, but when they do, he drinks scotch, well, Johnny Walker Black on-the-rocks and she sips white zin, Rose, at best.
They still have things to talk about. In the forty-five minutes that it has taken to consume their large coffee, the conversation has had no holes. Phil and Magda still look at each other while they speak. Again, sharing the stage, they both listen, they both speak, and they both look. When Magda is onto something, Phil nods his head intently in agreement.
They casually pack up their belongings and head to their next destination. Phil forgets his cane leaning next to window they were sitting next to. As I quickly grabbed it and scurried up to the front to give it to him, I learned that Phil's real name is John. John, Phil it’s all the same thing. John smiled through the window as a thank you and I extended a warm wave. Wouldn’t you know that John and Magda rode off on matching bicycles, complete with baskets to carry their matching thermoses, never knowing that I just affected their reality as much as they just affected mine.
They pour small amounts of coffee into the tops of their thermos’. They sip eloquently. Small Sips. I presume their names are very crunchy, she could be Magda, and he looks like a Phil. Magda calls her husband Phillip when she wants his attention all for her own. When Magda is feeling sassy she calls him Philippe. I presume that Magda is a professor the way she adjusts her posture, has her glasses hanging around her neck from a string and speaks of current events with her less-than-put-together husband. Phil sells things. He probably sells fishing equipment, or maybe John Deere tractors. He also smokes, probably a pack and half a day. Phil wheezes a little when he laughs at his wife’s jokes
As they read the local section of the Santa Barbara News Press, the word flabbergasted is thrown around. The world is not the same as before they met, which was so many harvest moons ago. As America changed, Magda and Phil changed, together. They live a simple life. A life filled with vegetable gardens, of washing the Buick on Sunday afternoons and then cruising through the green leaved streets, of reading, and discussing and rocking in the chair that was a baby shower gift on their front porch. Magda and Phil have three children, all boys. The two eldest boys, Peter and Daniel went to east coast schools, Ivy I presume. The third, Leif, enlisted in the marines at the age of 18 in order to receive a free education. He was taken by the Gulf War. The family talks as if he is going to be home at Christmas, because if they close their eyes tight enough, he is still with them. Magda and Phil raised their boys to be men. Think-for-yourself type of men. Silver-lining-in-every-gray type of men. Gentlemen in every aspect. They are a family of intelligence.
Phil and Magda are cultured, in a way that they have never really been anywhere, but have experienced new things. I would presume that the farthest distance they have traveled was for their son’s commencements on the east coast. Phil and Magda antique at flea markets, attend pow-wows at local conservations and stargaze during a meteor shower. They almost never dine out, but when they do, he drinks scotch, well, Johnny Walker Black on-the-rocks and she sips white zin, Rose, at best.
They still have things to talk about. In the forty-five minutes that it has taken to consume their large coffee, the conversation has had no holes. Phil and Magda still look at each other while they speak. Again, sharing the stage, they both listen, they both speak, and they both look. When Magda is onto something, Phil nods his head intently in agreement.
They casually pack up their belongings and head to their next destination. Phil forgets his cane leaning next to window they were sitting next to. As I quickly grabbed it and scurried up to the front to give it to him, I learned that Phil's real name is John. John, Phil it’s all the same thing. John smiled through the window as a thank you and I extended a warm wave. Wouldn’t you know that John and Magda rode off on matching bicycles, complete with baskets to carry their matching thermoses, never knowing that I just affected their reality as much as they just affected mine.
// posted by .elle. @ 8:03 PM 
