I can’t trace the love affair to college. Students engaged in conversation over coffee about as good as the freeze-dried species astronauts endured for lack of other neighborhood options. I’m talking about the kind which extends an aromatic expression so tantalizing it’s known to entrance mortals by sending olfactory signals from a nether world drawing them away from mundane activities. My first genuine encounter with the real thing evolved quickly into a daily ritual observed rightly in San Juan, Puerto Rico, cafe rico capital of the USA. A member of that small group of American expatriates who knew each other by sight, if not name; we’d pass on Fortaleza Street in Old San Juan, or Loiza Street in Santurce. Most of us were en route to our favorite morning coffee spots. Mine was Kasalta set on Calle McCleary in Ocean Park. Known for its fresh “pan de aqua,” this bakery-spot was destined to become the unofficial sacred ground of forged friendships capable of withstanding the caprices of time. Professional opportunities there came to pass; and I laid eyes upon the bronze statuesque form of one who would become a great love. The “practice” which began in the A.M. hours drifted well past noon like tides on lazy summer days. Latin manana was no doubt inspired there. The rich coffee was witnessed to work as truth serum drawing from even the most remote poignant stories, sometimes rave reviews of the previous night’s adventures. Mystical musings on the workings of the universe could be overheard in several languages, and political gossip--prohibited at local bars and colmados--was warmly welcomed.

Sundays turned Kasalta into a virtual Grand Central Station as families piled in for their ritual Sabbath stop in search of fresh bread, glamorously designed treats, and some of the richest coffee known to the Western world. Kasalta and its daily planet inhabitants saw me through the transition from carefree single woman to stressed out single mother. My first daughter took to the ritual effortlessly. I’ll never forget the look on her face as she gazed into the glass case filled with exotic delicacies turning suddenly to face a midget engaged in the same act. I fear her perceptual paradigm was shifted from that day hence. Such risks are to be assumed when one imbibes in Initiation rites linked to the caffeinated bean known to etch more than flavor onto psyche and soma. Every cup of coffee thereafter is compared with those first rites of relish like predecessors to one’s foremost lover. Over time Kasalta “upgraded” by transforming itself into an efficient, commercial establishment. This new incarnation ironically occurred in parallel with a profound shift in its customer base. Many of my previous familiars married, headed for suburbia, or moved back to “the states.” I eventually followed this route, returning to “sacred ground” on irregular visits to Puerto Rico. Names were forgotten, but some faces still hinted at more magical times when evocative tales waited for coffee’s enticing directive.

My next life (I suspect we all have many) began in Key West, Florida. Since the San Juan sojourn spanned a decade, returning to America was not without its culture shock. This passage upstream closer to my realm of origin was perceived in a diametrically opposed manner by my new beau, who acted as initiating priest to the rites of a small, strange island nestled in the Gulf stream vortex. Hailing from northern Florida, he saw Key West as “the end of the line” fit for occupancy by society’s rejects. For me it marked a different dimension, the quintessence of new beginnings. Our perspectives ever after were cast from opposing shores. With two young daughters in tow, my first priority was to build a firm fiscal root structure. This necessity engaged all my time and effort. Visits to coffee spots became a thing of the past...until my younger daughter turned five, and began attending kindergarten. This welcome respite freed me to enjoy the ritual, which lured from memory like an enchanted carpet ride. No L.A. lunch lady was I, preferring my simple morning coffee ritual to other more coveted pleasures. Key West, renown for its literary community lived up to its reputation. It proved a fertile zone for courting the muse of inspiration. The ambient beauty was sufficient to trap the inner mind’s eye of lucky beholders. Even with expenses close to the marrow, I could leverage the twin bills needed for an excellent cup of coffee. This minimal investment assured that poetic streams of consciousness would surely follow. Minds must be fed like any other vital organs. Some choose well-engineered gearshifts to accelerate their sports cars, caffeine proved sufficient transport in my case. And while roads are designed for travel, Key West coffee guaranteed cerebral journeys shared with impassioned traveler-souls, the world’s last originals. I have come to the conclusion that topographically speaking, growth tends to happen at the fringes, reserved for those who can’t abide insulated existences, the geographical equivalent of “Ohio in all things.” Coastal regions call them as assuredly as the Sirens do elsewise lost sea captains. In communities of unusual like-minds, one spontaneously encounters other free radicals with whom to chronolog the vast expanse of personal time. This continental drift of seasoned souls can never be under-rated to the writer, for it plays constantly, telepathically, and metaphorically upon perception. One gets used to it. Extemporaneous bolts of near brilliance tend to happen under the tutelage of the great bean elixir, in essence producing the other good head. And while I enjoyed the reliable sensual security of a satisfying partner at home, he shared few of my interests. Therefore whenever I could, I’d yield to the quest of pursuing tabooing with other open minds interested in the subjects of astrology, past lives, the offbeat, and metaphysical. No shortage of lay philosophers abound in the Florida Keys. Some proved influential to the direction of varied works. One championed my first novel based on a different kind of world and future assuming an evolution of consciousness, rather than weaponry. Personal projects were fertilized in the fecund tributaries of the Florida Keys just before the winds of change blew suddenly sternly. A midlife crisis of hurricane proportions unhinged the moorings of my life. In an epoch of media buy-outs and corporate takeovers, the market was ominous for free-lance visionaries. Gainesville, Florida (one of those dreaded Ohios) was chosen by default. Just then rated the #1 U.S. residential community by Money Magazine, it soon became evident their criteria for this designation didn’t match my own. The state of my heart was destined to mirror the disappointing slings and arrows of outrageous professional fortune. I required a new place for soul sanctuary. Mystics aren’t too popular when mainstream mercantilism disguises the Holy Grail in the form of material objects. Survival DNA afforded me the requisite pragmatism to maintain two daughters. Five years later I live to tell my tale, celebrating arrival at the “single parent marathon finish line,” an accomplishment of considerable proportions. Naturally I celebrate with a fine cup of coffee. Looking back at those San Juan mornings when the unbroken ecstasy of each new day’s promise spoke of youth and optimism, now I speak with a mature woman’s voice. Romantic interludes are few and far between. The world has lost the innocence I once presumed. The Gainesville sojourn marked a Dostoyevsky phase, a prison-like chapter encouraging earnest self-development via the “dark night of soul” proven tactic. I say with no hyperbole that my morning coffee rituals were often the only motivation for levitating from sleep’s more promising terrain. Like an alcoholic gazing into his bottle, over my relished coffee cup I slowly assembled the broken pieces of my sense of self which fissured at forty. An optimist and generous by nature, it was difficult to reconcile the fact that when all doors closed, no compelling windows--as per professional opportunities--opened. Self-deliverance took time, patience, focus, and strength. Positively speaking, with nothing as engaging as life happening to distract me, Gainesville afforded a focus, which enhanced my work. A rapid succession of scripts, stories, and children’s books were born. I missed the company of friends, the encouragement of a mentor, the welcome arms of a lover. In this boot camp the literary muse was forced to dance alone. On occasion I would head for the local lovingly attended botanical garden expanse known as Kanapaha, coffee cup in hand. There walking the winding wooded pathways like a cloistered nun, I invited the companionship of nature’s elusive creatures. Otherwise Leonardo’s became my impromptu office situated next to the University of Florida. There a strange cast of regulars irregularly offered unexpected insights to whatever projects were engaging my attention. The coffee shop owner hailed from Brooklyn, and personified the adage, “you’re never too old to have a happy childhood.” Once invited to his home for dinner I witnessed with awestruck glee a property generously speckled with magical tree houses! Triangulated by an ancient creek bed, the structures hinted at a genie’s penchant for architectural design. There I had the pleasure of climbing to an afternoon perch to coax a children’s story into ink.

An island girl I was no stranger to either honesty or intrigue; but my spontaneity drew shocked responses from local countenances cloaked in long generations of Christian protocol. Land-locked in these dark wooded lands, they were an alien tribe and kept “a safe” distance. Isolated and virtually shunned, I looked forward to each of the thirty-three five hundred mile trips to the Florida Keys (the equivalent of circumnavigating the globe) to escape these insular parts. Change came over me like a mythical metamorphosis as the unnatural self was forced to biologically adapt to its surroundings. Yet sunny sensibilities burst from their false shell invoked like alchemy thanks to the ritual magic of the shared coffee cup. I longed to return to those lands of light before my fiery writer’s spirit was left to spent embers.

Now on the cusp of my daughter’s departure for university and a cerebral life of her own, I must again reinvent the journey. It will doubtless begin with a morning cafe! In the interim I have ventured in the direction of island life and encountered yet another memorable stop along the existential way. The Yellow Door boasts the only good coffee in a thirty mile radius. It’s owned by a brave woman whose background spans the continental U.S. In spite of her own parabolic journey, she’s managed one enormous feat: to keep heart. Trips to her welcome land have fertilized a friendship. Soon am I bound to that zone where roads both begin and end, depending upon your perspective. Surprisingly, I bought my first espresso machine. This investment is intended as a kind of insurance policy against life’s uncertainties mitigated considerably by the prospect of good head; you know, the other kind waiting each morning like manna from Mercury! Food for thought, indeed! Starbucks, Barney’s, and local buzz-shops have sprouted up everywhere following the scent of the new sagacious gold rush! Like all traditions, the moves are followed long after the sacred has left the dance to migrate elsewhere. But for us true believers the cream of a good bean still rises to the top, and thereby invites all earnest cognitive processes to follow its seductive lead.