People are strange, when you’re a stranger

As someone who frequents coffeeshops, I’ve developed very strict rules about proper coffeeshop etiquette. Hyper children do not belong in coffeeshops. People in ties do not belong in coffeeshops (they have an air of tension about them; it’s unnerving). For the love of all things holy, couples meeting with wedding coordinators do not belong in coffeeshops. Several times, I’ve been on the verge of literary greatness only to be distracted by an exclamation of, “I just LOVE calla lilles!” And most of all, Bluetooth headsets do not belong in coffeeshops. Unless someone is in the Secret Service or driving a car, that level of accessibility borders on obsessive compulsive.

In short, I’m an antsy coffeeshop customer. And thus begins my story…

Having hit a wall during my research at home today, I headed to Caribou Coffee with my books. My problem wasn’t lack of concentration, I justified; it was lack of a cinnamon latte. I settled into the perfect corner at the ‘Bou with a nice protective buffer from any people and got to work. Soon after, an elderly woman with a giant cup of coffee came shuffling towards me, making odd sounds.

At first, I thought she was humming. But as she settled into the table next to mine, I realized she was singing. It was the kind of singing that sounds like mumbling to everyone but the singer. In the mind of the singer, it’s accompanied by an inner soundtrack and self-delusion, making it sound like the greatest song ever sung. This woman’s song sounded like a 40s love ballad, a sweet, bluesy song, in which her mumbles were intertwined with dah daah daaaah's. Great. In the midst of Caribou Coffee, I had freakin’ Dinah Shore sitting next to me.

Right away I associated her quirkiness with mental illness. When the woman’s song only gave way to another, when she didn’t even care that people were most likely mocking her, I peeked down at her shoes and got all the confirmation I needed: tan and blue sneakers. Crazy people always wear weird-colored sneakers. This woman was cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. Not only did I grow more frustrated with the interruption, but I'm ashamed to say that I began to dismiss her as a person. There I was trying to work and do something important, and a crazy old lady had to come and sit next to me and derail my train of thought, sluggish as it was.

Then I saw her smile.

I peered over to get a full view of the crazy lady, and my cynicism immediately melted into sentiment. With an unselfconscious smile, she propped her elbows on the table, hands gently cupping her cheeks. She watched the rain outside while gently swaying to her music. Her short legs allowed her feet to just barely hit the floor, and occasionally, her toes would reach down to tap to her song. She showed no signs of being alone, and I got the feeling that she wasn’t. Was she dreaming of a long-ago dance with a great love? Was she humming a song she once sang to her children? It was obvious that while she sat alone, she nonetheless kept the company of someone. Judging by the sadness in her eyes, it seemed a person who was unable—for one reason or another—to be with her anymore. When I heard the first break in her music, I caught her patting her eye with a napkin. She wasn’t pitiful, though; if anything, she was enviable. She was fully living in her moment, unaware of those of us around her. In my lap was a book on transcendentalism, and at the table next to me was a woman living Emerson’s words: “It is easy in the world to live after the world’s opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude.” Perfect sweetness is the only way to describe the look on her face. Whether or not people judged her didn’t seem to matter.

Maybe we’re quick to notice the craziness in others because we don’t want to see it in ourselves. I’m an introvert who loves dogs and books – it doesn’t take a specialist to see my potential as a crazy old lady. I have all the makings. Maybe that’s why I was a little harsh on this woman. Perhaps we most estrange those people who address our own fears. They have something we have, too, but rather than notice that, it’s easier to dismiss them and go about our delusion of being the coolest kid in town.

Happy people seem to be the first ones pegged as nutters. When I moved to Charlotte, I spent the first week thinking I had moved to a town of simpletons. People I didn’t know kept waving and asking how I was, telling me to have a blessed day. I’d smile back while reaching for my pepper spray. I soon learned, however, that it’s not being crazy; it’s being Southern. I absolutely love it now. Errands are so much more enjoyable when in the company (and not just presence) of strangers. For so long I’ve associated intelligence with cynicism – surely, anyone who has a brain cell realizes how screwed the world is and how horrible people can be toward each other. But there’s something to be said about knowing how screwed the world is, but believing in people anyway, in accepting those who seem different or odd. The latter is much more courageous. (And as I’m learning, is much more difficult.)

I prolonged my visit to the coffeeshop because I felt such peace coming from that woman. She was teaching me just as much as the book before me. We settled into a rhythm, my note-taking set to her soft serenade. If I was the one who was normal—the one who bustled into a coffeeshop dismissing someone for being different—and she was the one who was crazy, perhaps I’m not as smart as I think I am.