In an unusual departure from convention, I chose to leave the house early to do my studying elsewhere. There’s a long day ahead, and a proper breakfast is needed if any sort of critical thinking is going to get done. I drive to the nearby eclectic cafe with little to no parking and an outdoor patio that is oddly quiet and more than suitable on a beautiful Southern spring morning.

The cafe is an artistically renovated older building with bright clashing yet complementary colors. The inside is littered with local paintings for sale, most of them overpriced pop art pieces. One is a blend of “Starry Night” and Charlotte institutions obstructing the sky as opposed to Saint-Rémy-de-Provence. The noisy vibrance of a busy kitchen is sedated by the music softly playing in background, a bright and comfortable playlist of Marley, Dire Straits, and Sublime. The food itself is local, free range, organic, single sourced,  with a plethora of vegan options. Even I cringe inside as I ask the waitress where there coffee is from. “Dilworth,” she responds; not my favorite but decent and fresh at the very least. As pretentious as this can seem, this dedication to fresh, quality food is why the very diverse group of patrons are here in the first place. The air is a thick smoky, sweet perfume haze of Southwestern chilis and sweet potatoes. Though not a place for traditional Southern fare, it cannot escape the necessity of baking fresh biscuits and keeping grit bowls as a morning staple.

I forget that it is the morning after St. Patrick’s Day until a few minutes after sitting down. That explains the quiet, which doesn’t quite last. Despite very likely being the only person in the cafe with an Irish passport I celebrated the least, resorting to little more than a pint of Guinness at home and a relatively early night in bed. I can see the day before weighing upon patron and server alike. The waiting staff is unified into an archetype by their collective eccentricities. All but one waitress, for there are only waitresses on duty, have their left nostril pierced (the Ayuverda side), and the exception to this standard is the lone septum piercing.  Second hand dresses and shoes accompanied by hand made jewelry are the staff’s uniform. Fueled by caffeine the pure necessity to provide nourishment for a hungover clientele, each bustles gracefully about proud of the plates they bear to each table.

It’s late morning, too late for a pre-work crowd, but too early for a lunch crowd. The lone business professional in his navy chinos and tobacco Allen Edmonds appears to be getting an early lunch in so he can take off from work for the weekend. Equal populations of hippies, yuppies, and the blue collar crowd are here. This was apparently the rare occasion where St. Paddy’s coincides with the kick off of March Madness, and many of latter group are flying their various collegiate colors. It’s hard to tell if they took the day off, have the day off, are out of work, or are just dodging on account of the headache.

Depressingly, I hear no Southern accents and I realize that I’m surrounded by transplants like myself. I shouldn’t think so negatively on this but I have come to endear the lyricism and meter of the language.  I came to get some reading down while I ate, but I found myself helpless, drowning in the cacophony of life, waves of inter-personal conversations crashing and receding on me. I find myself being slightly annoyed by various trivialities. The pack of middle aged women covered in Indiana red, various sneakers with matching pink accents, and uniform Coach purses who are fresh out of group fitness and in search of pseudo-healthy brunch. The parents who let their child order an apple juice, flapjacks, topped with fruit compote, and a side of hash browns ensuring only one macronutrient will be employed today. Perhaps most bothersome, is the unwashed hipster wearing fake spectacles explaining to his female company why the ergonomics of glassware doesn’t agree with him.

In the midst of my annoyances, I realize something much grander in an age where authentic currency is rare. While I may not endorse eclecticism for the mere sake of appearing aesthetically unique, and I was likewise in protest of the commercial uniformity others were casting their vote to, everyone here was engaged with the people around them, listening, conversing, and sharing It was a rare moment, where no one was glued to a screen, whether handheld or wall mounted. The imaginary and well curated online personas of each individual were put aside. People instead became united by a shared love for good food as they recovered from the jubilation of the previous night. The veil of representation and the copy of life was torn down, and instead this hooky playing patrons were living. For that, they gained my admiration.