A writing place

Coffee that warms the body on a cold winter day in Chicago...the Hazelnut carafe that says on the placard that it was fresh at 4:00p.m. It is only 5 p.m., and the half and half just makes the coffee perfect...it tastes smooth and palatable. The storefront isn't much from the road, but inside are sconces of light dimmed to the right level for writing on a laptop, and the music is obvioiusly from a local jazz station...Charlie Parker esque sax is obviously the norm in this area of the country. The flight into Chicago was uneventful, but the usual snffles and baby cries made the terminal the world's worst place to hangout. It was an easy taxi ride to the suburban cafe, and it was obviously not the most popular place in the world, but the fireplace and the warm bread accompanied by the perfect coffee was a draw for the more creative types. It was well-known by writers who happened to be travelling through. I recognized one gentleman from the airport who had indicated to the ticket counter that he was waiting for a transfer flight back to Dallas, and was needing a place to write was sitting comfortably in a booth, with a notebook and a laptop. He was deep in the writing process, typing intently and not noticing anyone or anything in the writing space he had created. It was obvious he had made the journey to the cafe to sample the fresh bread.

I enjoyed a quiet, uninterrupted evening of typing myself, trying to be more like the seasoned traveller to block out extraneous stimuli, but the occasional mumble in the booth next door made it a challenge later. It was a debate over the Chicago hockey teams....professional hockey was obviously taken very seriously here. The booth vacated, and I enjoyed an evening of nothing but writing....finally feeling productive after my travel time cutting into my writing time.