My entry in The Caffeine Society's Cafe Story contest. Wish me luck!
Dawn rises on the asphalt covered cobblestone streets of Walla Walla, Washington. Population: 29,710 souls. Many more souls walk these streets. Spectres throw shadows on the sidewalks. The Walla Walla, Umatilla, Cayuse and Nez Perce tribes. Prospectors, farmers and ranchers. Merchants and missionaries. Cowboys and railroaders. Convicts and politicians. Soldiers and painted ladies. They called this valley home. Black, white, red, yellow and brown blood was spilled here. Their color or creed doesn't matter now. They are part of the landscape. The cloudy haze that settles over the Blue Mountains.
A stream of real-time blurry-eyed homo-sapiens flow into Main street's MERCHANTS LTD. They grab a fresh baked croissant, bagle or sweet roll and coffee, then open their eyes and plug into the wired world on antique tables. Distressed wood floors sqeak in protest to classical, jazz, reggae and blues. A 1910 Howard M. Cable quarter-sawn oak upright that has pounded out rag to rock, rests in the corner. The footpads are aged to a weary glow. Many bands have played here. The notes beat into the high ceiling and press into the painted tin tiles.
Croissants and sweet rolls arn't the only offering here. Italian sausages and rounds of cheese age under glass. Pregnant boule loaves, pies and pastries stuff the deli cases. Wire and wood wine racks cradle local vintages. The abused brick wall on the opposite side is a gallery for local artists and photographers. Baskets and garlic ropes hang like laundry. The menu, handwritten in chalk on a blackboard, includes soups and sandwiches; fruit and cheese platters; Greek salad and the day's choice of house coffee.
Organic coffees from all over the world, provided by The Walla Walla Roastery, are brewed here. The refills are free. Steam from the machines comforts a cool morning and choruses with the opening of the heavy glass-fronted wood door that needs oiling. The clink of dishes and the soft taps on a keyboard lend percussion. Low-key conversation, spontaneous laughter and the register's ring add harmony. Most coffee shops have the nervous energy of a snack bar in a train station. Merchants has the laid-back feel of a bistro.
With exception of the co-owner, Bob Austin, that is. He moves in a blur as he handles the daily running of his business, an apron double-tied around his waist. The patron saint of Merchants, Mike Hammond's welded muffler sculpture of a jazz musician, stands serene above it all. This laid-back aura suits a place the Nez Perce named "land of many waters". This is a town deep-rooted in the soil and mountains, where wheat fields lay a patchwork quilt over undulating hills and vineyards drape fruited garlands acrosss the horizon. This is where ambitious souls and sleep-deprived college students are fueled by no less than 20 plus coffee shops. A Walla Walla native was once quoted as saying, "Coffee is the nectar of the gods." I suppose she would know...now. She throws her own shadow these days.*
Linda, you've got my vote. You've taken me to a place I wish I could be... peace and tranquillity seeped in history, with the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee. Much magic and imagination.
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Dawn rises on the asphalt covered cobblestone streets of Walla Walla, Washington. Population: 29,710 souls. Many more souls walk these streets. Spectres throw shadows on the sidewalks. The Walla Walla, Umatilla, Cayuse and Nez Perce tribes. Prospectors, farmers and ranchers. Merchants and missionaries. Cowboys and railroaders. Convicts and politicians. Soldiers and painted ladies. They called this valley home. Black, white, red, yellow and brown blood was spilled here. Their color or creed doesn't matter now. They are part of the landscape. The cloudy haze that settles over the Blue Mountains.
