A latina girl sloppily sips at her caramel macchiato as Ray Charles' soulful voice competes with the rainstorm outside. She fingers through Spark Notes for Lord of the Flies and is one of many getting their weekend fix of caffeinated beverages and leisurely reading at Corona, California's first and only book store. The violent wheather outside somehow does not hinder business but creates a rush in this unusually bright coffee house. I have to ask myself, "Why is every table taken and a line formed for coffee that snakes up to the edge of the building? Why are people of all ages flooding through the doors with dripping umbrellas of every shade in hand?" I decide to survey my surroundings with a cup of tea and conclude for myself.
I am soon fascinated by a trio sitting diagonally from my table for two. I first notice a woman in her mid-30’s wearing a merlot colored velour jumpsuit, petite eyeglasses, and a piece of jewelry every place on her body that jewelry is sold for: neck, ears, several fingers (including wedding), and wrist. She occasionally pushes her side swept bangs out of the way, calling my attention to her salon-originated highlights. She sits comfortably in her chair with one leg pulled up to her chin, shoeless, with white cotton sock peeping out form under her; the other leg dangles close to the ground. A rather large faux fur purse sits plumply in the fourth chair which is closest to her. I somehow get the impression that she is a woman of leisure, world’s apart from my Spark Notes-reading neighbor.
I observe with suspicion her diligence in taking notes as an older man dictates them to her. “Germany, France, Germany, England,” the man gruffly recites by heart then looks down and reads aloud an excerpt form a book. He dons a hawaiian print shirt of yellow, olive and navy with a crisp white jacket over, his flowered collar proudly displayed. He is slightly balding, but definitely dignified in manner. I can't help but notice the annoyance in their voices as they argue over historical notes. At first I think they are father and daughter, but weigh my observations and decide they are husband and wife, although he wears no wedding band.
The third party of this mismatched group is a teenage boy, most likely the woman’s son, although she seems very un-mother-like. He wears his scraggily brown hair long, to his shoulders. He sits sulkily in all black, reading a book on Zen Buddhism, seemingly uninterested in the talk of his tablemates.
Ray Charles still sighs heavily over the speakers as I turn my gaze back to my own table. My fiancé pokes and prods his palm pilot, roughly rubs his eye, then prods his palm again. He wears a “City of Corona” trucker’s hat, not for fashion, but for pride. I think how cute he is with that scowl on his face as he plans out his week. I am interrupted from my blissful admiration by the activities of the table adjacent to me. An awkward, but oblivious family of four, sits playing an intense card game. The father, mother, son and daughter each wear slacks and oversized t-shirts, all off-brand, in uncanny uniformity. The dad and son wear hand-knit greenish berets, while the mom opts for a red bandana, and the daughter sports a faded plum baseball cap. Each sips a Starbucks beverage while holding a handful of cards. Only the daughter takes time out to give me suspicious looks. This family radiates bizarreness.
I just notice the music changed. “I hate this cd,” an employee complains of the soft, generic, Cheryl Crowish music. There is somberness in the air. The crowd is quirky, but unpretentious, not the uptight and uber-cool group one might find at an underground coffee house. Yes, it is a little bright and the current cd on rotation is not my favorite, but I find a sense of comfort somewhere amidst the dark-wood paneling, green & jade striped wallpaper, whirring blenders, shuffling papers, overlapping conversations of math and boyfriends, WWII and whip cream, hot coffee and cold weather.
I delight to see strangers smiling at strangers in line, locals making friends with cashiers and asking for their “regular.” Yuppies, capitalists, however they are seen, the people of Corona are benefiting from this communal watering hole. But what exactly is it that they are getting from this business? I decide to think it over at home and put the cap back on my pen. As we gather our things to leave, a couple sits down with an overturned box containing the game “Stratego: Lord of the Rings.” They excitedly arrange the box around their tempting chocolate brownie and giant cookie.
Would-be punks and hipster-looking people frequent this place on Friday and Saturday nights. ‘Sunday must be family day,’ I think to myself. But couldn't families play cards at their kitchen tables, read in their living rooms and study in a library? They can, but these people choose not to. I realize that they seek the warmth and company of the people that populate this area. It isn't just the fancy drinks and mounds of reading material that draw people out of their houses in bad weather. I decide they gain strength from sitting amongst a group whose laughter and chatter spills onto their table, an eclectic group who makes no demands and only asks, “Tall, Grande, or Venti?”
I am soon fascinated by a trio sitting diagonally from my table for two. I first notice a woman in her mid-30’s wearing a merlot colored velour jumpsuit, petite eyeglasses, and a piece of jewelry every place on her body that jewelry is sold for: neck, ears, several fingers (including wedding), and wrist. She occasionally pushes her side swept bangs out of the way, calling my attention to her salon-originated highlights. She sits comfortably in her chair with one leg pulled up to her chin, shoeless, with white cotton sock peeping out form under her; the other leg dangles close to the ground. A rather large faux fur purse sits plumply in the fourth chair which is closest to her. I somehow get the impression that she is a woman of leisure, world’s apart from my Spark Notes-reading neighbor.
I observe with suspicion her diligence in taking notes as an older man dictates them to her. “Germany, France, Germany, England,” the man gruffly recites by heart then looks down and reads aloud an excerpt form a book. He dons a hawaiian print shirt of yellow, olive and navy with a crisp white jacket over, his flowered collar proudly displayed. He is slightly balding, but definitely dignified in manner. I can't help but notice the annoyance in their voices as they argue over historical notes. At first I think they are father and daughter, but weigh my observations and decide they are husband and wife, although he wears no wedding band.
The third party of this mismatched group is a teenage boy, most likely the woman’s son, although she seems very un-mother-like. He wears his scraggily brown hair long, to his shoulders. He sits sulkily in all black, reading a book on Zen Buddhism, seemingly uninterested in the talk of his tablemates.
Ray Charles still sighs heavily over the speakers as I turn my gaze back to my own table. My fiancé pokes and prods his palm pilot, roughly rubs his eye, then prods his palm again. He wears a “City of Corona” trucker’s hat, not for fashion, but for pride. I think how cute he is with that scowl on his face as he plans out his week. I am interrupted from my blissful admiration by the activities of the table adjacent to me. An awkward, but oblivious family of four, sits playing an intense card game. The father, mother, son and daughter each wear slacks and oversized t-shirts, all off-brand, in uncanny uniformity. The dad and son wear hand-knit greenish berets, while the mom opts for a red bandana, and the daughter sports a faded plum baseball cap. Each sips a Starbucks beverage while holding a handful of cards. Only the daughter takes time out to give me suspicious looks. This family radiates bizarreness.
I just notice the music changed. “I hate this cd,” an employee complains of the soft, generic, Cheryl Crowish music. There is somberness in the air. The crowd is quirky, but unpretentious, not the uptight and uber-cool group one might find at an underground coffee house. Yes, it is a little bright and the current cd on rotation is not my favorite, but I find a sense of comfort somewhere amidst the dark-wood paneling, green & jade striped wallpaper, whirring blenders, shuffling papers, overlapping conversations of math and boyfriends, WWII and whip cream, hot coffee and cold weather.
I delight to see strangers smiling at strangers in line, locals making friends with cashiers and asking for their “regular.” Yuppies, capitalists, however they are seen, the people of Corona are benefiting from this communal watering hole. But what exactly is it that they are getting from this business? I decide to think it over at home and put the cap back on my pen. As we gather our things to leave, a couple sits down with an overturned box containing the game “Stratego: Lord of the Rings.” They excitedly arrange the box around their tempting chocolate brownie and giant cookie.
Would-be punks and hipster-looking people frequent this place on Friday and Saturday nights. ‘Sunday must be family day,’ I think to myself. But couldn't families play cards at their kitchen tables, read in their living rooms and study in a library? They can, but these people choose not to. I realize that they seek the warmth and company of the people that populate this area. It isn't just the fancy drinks and mounds of reading material that draw people out of their houses in bad weather. I decide they gain strength from sitting amongst a group whose laughter and chatter spills onto their table, an eclectic group who makes no demands and only asks, “Tall, Grande, or Venti?”
