I had first been introduced to this small coffeehouse on my first visit to Alameda. A stone’s throw away from the main drag of the city, the small shop offers local art and clothing, as well as some of the best tea and coffee I can remember having in California. Small bulletin boards are placed in the front with flyers for services and shows, littered in business cards and announcements of upcoming performances. On this particular night was a bluegrass-folk group. But the garden in the back, is what makes Julie’s my routine stop when driving up north, or back down to Long Beach.
The back patio garden of Julie’s had never seemed as welcoming as it did Saturday afternoon. I sat with my cell phone turned off, watching a young girl chase a kitten through rose bushes; while I sipped from a large glass mug of some aromatic tea that the woman at the counter promised would make things right with the world. After the drive in from San Francisco, I was more than happy to accept any help offered.
Covered in dark and jade green vines, roses and blossoms spring from between leaves that cover the walls and the small wooden gazebo. Small round tables and chairs are joined by wooden benches, filled with a mix of people that would rarely be placed together. Mothers with children, talking to local artists and activists about health care and taxes, while they are setting up their new exhibit inside of the shop. Middle-aged housewives knitting with pierced and tattooed students, gossiping about which actor or musician is cuter. The unexpected explosion of “What the hell is the deal with the Jonas brothers anyways?” was thrown into the conversation while the rest of the group laughed at missing the next stitch. The woman at the counter, who I deemed perfection in my mind (could have been pulled out of a pin up collection), was speaking to an older business man about the different types of chai tea as he joked about divorce rates paying off his mortgage.
A young girl runs after one of the cats gracing the garden. A flash a sun-lightened blonde, she giggles as she tries to pounce on the cat. With the attention span only a child could get away with, she goes back to her hot chocolate and coloring book when she realizes her mom has yet to notice her running around. When she looks up at me, and I smile and wave.
With rare sincerity she came over and said, “You must not be an adult, because you’re not talking on a phone.” Laughing without knowing a response, I move my purse over to give her room on the bench next to me. For the next hour and a half we sat coloring in her notebook and my Slavoj Žižek book. She regaled me in stories of school. Tales of monkey bars and sandboxes I could still see from my past so clearly. She drew me a picture of her dog. Brown and purple with a pink collar and blues eyes winking at me. The knowing look telling me that while he didn’t physically exist to comfort her, his pictures covered her wall and her parent’s refrigerator door; there to run after tennis balls and chew up her homework whenever her parents didn’t seem to find the time. So I drew her a picture of the bunny I remember drawing at her age. White and beige, jumping through rose bushes as she did, and eating carrots off of the dinner table. A bunny I was never able to have in an apartment in Glendale, yet graced my bedroom walls and parent’s refrigerator, there to keep me company while my dad worked and my mom was on the phone.
Often inclined to borrow somebody's dreams till tomorrow... 