1. The comfy chairs.
There are two worn leather chairs, just inside the entrance, around the corner on the left. I prefer the one by the window, but either will do. The backs are just the right angle for sitting comfortably with my legs crossed and the arms are just the right height for holding my elbows while I work on my laptop. When I need to stare off into space, as I often do when I get stuck with something I’m working on, I just need to gaze to my left out the window, beyond the Chipotle parking lot. There is a ridge line to the North, not unlike those that edge the neighboring Finger Lakes. From the its hilltop perch, the floor to ceiling window mostly reveals a vast skyscape. The scenes are often dramatic. I can watch storms rolling in from the North, swaths of gray that coalesce into a black mass. Sometimes they pour down rain, blurring the window. Other times they roll right past, the blue rising up from the horizon like paint spilling upside-down from the hilltops. On hot summer days, I can bask in the burning sun while keeping cool inside, though I keep a sweater in my car for days when the A/C turns into an Arctic blast from the fans above my chair. In winter, I can watch the flakes pile up on Grant Avenue at the base of the hill. That’s usually when my husband calls, urging me to come home. But the swirling skyful of white is just too beautiful and mesmerizing. I’ll get another cup of coffee and take my chances later.
2. A bottomless coffee cup.
I have signed up for Panera’s monthly plan which gives me unlimited beverages 365 days a year. I’m afraid Panera is not making much on me, though I do order breakfast or lunch occasionally.
3. Real food.
As advertised, Panera’s food is fresh and clean. My breakfast choice is either the steel-ground oatmeal with strawberries (I skip the pecans to eliminate some calories) or the multi-grain bagel flat, sliced, with chive and onion cream cheese. It’s about half the calories of a regular bagel and toasts to a lovely crunch. For lunch, I skip the sandwiches (most over 1000 calories) and opt for soup or salad with an apple for my side. I only splurge on the usual baguette side for the French onion soup so I can dip the bread in the broth.
4. The drive.
Since we moved to Auburn from the Boston area, we have been amazed at how scenic every drive is. We turn out our driveway and are in picture-perfect rolling farmland. But then there is “The Arterial” and Grant Ave. The quickest route to Panera is on these busy, commercials streets, but I recently discovered a back way to Panera that makes the drive a little longer but oh-so-much more pleasant. It even include a quirky farm with a big red barn and fake animals!
5. Getting work done.
Whether I’m working on my writing, paying the bills, or researching something on the internet, I am able to concentrate here in a way that is impossible at home, even if I am alone in a quiet room. I am somehow able to tune out the background music, noisy customers, and beeping alarms and tune in to the work at hand. I can’t get distracted from it because there is nothing else I can do here. Except of course for . . .
6. People-watching.
The variety of customers is astonishing. From octogenarians to infants on their first outing to a restaurant, the parade in and out is colorful and diverse. And I have the perfect vantage point from my corner by the window. Only a few tables hidden behind the fake-stone wall with the fireplace curiously set at eye level mar my view of the entire dining room. The large table right in front of me hosts a regular breakfast group of Baby-boomers. Sometimes I overhear bits of conversation, but I don’t really tune in, even though one male voice is so deep and resonant that it is hard to ignore. I wonder how they met, what their connection is, what common past compels them to stay closely connected. The large table further back often hosts meetings of various sorts, usually more women than men. Are they working on a candidate’s campaign? Planning the next fundraiser for their church? Gathering information to present at the next City Council meeting? Tables of two host managers interviewing candidates, tutors working with students, women catching up on one another’s lives, couples taking a break from their phones to share some time together, and sponsors meeting with men and women in recovery. There are times in my life when I have been half of each of these pairs. I’ve also seen many families, mostly moms with kids, probably because I am here during the day. Toddlers often love the smile of a stranger, but they make me feel guilty when I need to drop out of the endless smile volley. The groups often include three generations, sometimes four, with the youngest member the focus of all the attention. It’s fun to guess who looks like who and to wonder whether any are adopted, as my own children are.
7. The staff.
Relentlessly friendly, most of the staff know me by name and I know some of theirs. We all know that we, the regulars and the staff, are part of the same family.
8. The regulars.
Margaret: Margaret is here every day. She picks the same small two-seater table. Regulars always choose the same spots, unless they are not available. Don’t even get me started on what happens when one of my chairs is not available. (OK, I’ve started already).
Digression: My reaction to my seats being taken depends on my mood. On a bad day, when I am really needing some Panera time, this situation causes a physical sensation of panic. Often I leave immediately and try to hold back tears until I get in the car. Of course, a large part of me wants to stare down whoever is in my seat, willing them to leave, but luckily I have resisted this temptation. (Except maybe for a quick petulant look that might move a very emotionally intelligent person. This rarely works). Sitting at a regular table is simply not an option for me on a bad day. It’s comfy chair or nothing. Recently, I realized the Starbucks down the street also has comfy chairs. Sometimes I will turn on my heel and head there, but it is just not the same. The new Roast and Toast also has comfy chairs, but it’s too big a risk—they are usually taken. On a good day, turning the corner to see my chairs taken still pulls me up short. The disappointment is profound, but I am not completely disabled by it. I am able to take a deep breath and consider my options. I actually have a list, including hours of operation, of “comfy chair cafe’s” from Geneva to Syracuse. They’re a fine alternative occasionally, but a longer drive and none has all of the advantages of Panera. Some days I can even sit at a regular table, but it must, of course, be one that faces my chairs!
Now back to Margaret . . . She always has a book to read. I’ve never gotten close enough to actually read the title, but they appear to be works of popular fiction. Sometimes we chat, sometimes it’s just a quick hello. One year my husband and I ran into her and her husband at the New York State Fair. Dick comes in occasionally to join her and always says hello. Margaret has speaking relationships with more regulars than I do. There are a lot of regulars I know by face but not name. We greet one another with a nod and a smile, sometimes a “How are you?” but somehow we are past the point where we can ask one another’s names.
Name Unknown. One of these nodding acquaintances became a speaking friend when he one day answered my “How are you?” honestly. He had just had a cancer treatment. I could tell he was feeling low and he seemed to want to talk. As he told me a bit about his recurring brain cancer, his mood seem to lift. He was genuinely appreciative of my interest and concern. As he raised a hand in goodbye, he said, “Well, whatcha gonna do?” and left with a shrug and smile. Whenever I see him now, I ask him how he is in a tone that lets him know I am truly interested.
Jim. I call Jim “my Panera husband” though I think he may be uncomfortable with that moniker. He’s also a comfy chair sitter, so when he is here we share the comfy chair corner. Over time, we have talked more and more and found much we have in common. We talk politics and shows we’ve been streaming. I have often shared info I discovered while researching my book, including showing him pictures of my family. He’s shared with me about his family, including kids and grandkids. His wife Mary also comes in, usually separately, and I have gotten to know her a bit as well. A few years ago, when Jim had not been in for a while, our family of regulars found out that his daughter had died. We were all shocked and saddened. We had a feeling of helplessness, being only “Panera friends.” I reached out with a sympathy card, and when he started coming in again, we were able to talk about his loss. I see him and Mary at events around town (we seem drawn to the same sorts of events) and they both came to my book reading at the library. Are we really only “Panera friends”?
Paul and Steve. Paul and Steve are both tall, with sturdy builds, square jaws, and winning smiles. They are probably in their early fifties. Handsome. I often find them occupying the two comfy chairs. The first few times, I didn’t hide my disappointment and took a seat facing them, waiting for them to leave (unless it was a bad day when I turned on my heel to cry in the car). One day, they offered to give up the seats. “Do you want to sit here?” they asked, moving to get up. “OH, no, please. It’s fine. I do love those chairs, but I’ll be fine.” This was not what I wanted to do, but how could I be anything but kind in response to their kindness? “I’m Steve,” one of them offered, “and this is Paul.” I tried to register their names in my brain as I introduced myself. Gradually our conversations grew longer as we repeatedly intersected at the chairs. I wondered about their friendship and the regularity of their meetings. Sponsor and sponsee? They both laughed easily and our “war” over the seats became a private joke between us. Somehow I no longer felt so bad when they got to the chairs first. How could I? We were friends now.
Kurt. As soon as he walked in and joined me in the second chair, I knew Kurt was an artist, or at least a creative person of some sort. He wore a rakish beret and the vest over his loose white shirt was colorful. Maybe an African print? As he asked if he could join me, his smiling face was open, even inviting. He just seemed like someone I could talk to, someone I would have something in common with, though I didn’t yet know what it was. I run into Kurt every six weeks or so, and each time we learn more about one another. Musician and psychotherapist are among the hats he wears. He owns a barn a bit south of here that he and his partner have turned into an arts center where artists of all kinds can go to work on their projects. I told him I would go there to continue work on my book if only it had a comfy chair (it doesn’t). I still plan to stop there some day. Kurt’s partner teachers at the University of Nebraska Omaha, the same school where I got my MFA in Creative Writing a few years ago. One day I was attending a meeting about a new community initiative to address the homeless problem in Auburn, and there was Kurt! So many points of intersection.
Linda and Mike. Linda has chin length hair a delicate shade of red that she wears curled softly under. She is slight of build, but seems strong. She comes in often with Mike, a tall, dignified man with blond-gray hair who seems to favor nautical attire. We had a nodding acquaintance for a while until one day on her way in Linda asks me what I am working on and we talk about the book. We introduce ourselves, then I ask what her husband’s name is while he is parking the car. “That’s not my husband,” Linda shoots back, “that’s my son.” I had them both down for late sixties, early seventies so this didn’t make sense. “I’m ninety-nine,” she tells me with a smile, clearly proud of her longevity. Now we greet one another whenever they come is and usually have a short conversation. Linda loves to tell me what she’s been doing or planning to do: cooking a lamb dinner, weeding the garden, walking in Hoopes Park, cleaning the floors, taking their beagle Trixie, who they adopted a few years ago, to the vet. Right after they adopted her, Linda shared photos of the oddly cute pup. For holidays, Linda and Mike go to an elegant colonial restaurant one town over. It seems to be just the two of them. Linda’s husband is dead, and Mike is an only “child.” I’ve been tempted many times to invite them to join us, but haven’t yet. They live in a stately white house with black shutters right near the park. Every year, Mike takes his vacation on Nantucket (hence the nautical style). Linda is now 101.
9. Seeing friends.
Everyone knows where I sit and friends who occasionally stop in always look for me here. I feel like Lucy behind her “Psychiatric Help 5 cents” sign—people are checking to see if the doctor is in! I even call it my office and that’s partly why I work so well here. When I leave home for the office, I am headed to work, so that’s what I do when I’m here. I even imagine an invisible glass door and feel like I’m inviting people into my office when they come up to chat or just to say hello.
10. The stranger.
One day a stranger came in and sat in the other chair, to my right. He was an older gentleman, someone who could have been a professor of some sort, with a worn tweed jacket and a brown wool scarf around his neck against the autumn chill. We nodded and smiled, acknowledging one another. As he sipped his coffee, I could see out of the corner of my eye that he was periodically looking over towards me. I got the sense he wanted to talk, so I pulled myself away from my work of the day to meet his gaze. As soon as I did, he immediately spoke, “Do you remember where you were on nine-eleven.” I only then realized that the day was indeed September 11. A bit odd to ask a stranger, but an apt question for the day. I explained to him how I had been home alone, how I had to pick up my kids, ages nine and five, from school and keep them from the news until my husband could get home and we could tell them together. He listened patiently. “How about you?” I asked. “How do you remember it?” “My son worked in the second tower,” he answered. At first I thought his son had died that day, but he continued to tell me how his son had not gone into his company’s new office at the World Trade Center but had stayed back in the old office that day. His life had been spared. Except the gentleman and his wife did not know this until much later in the morning. For several hours, they thought their son had died. Clearly, this memory was as fresh today as it was every September 11. The fear, the anxiety, the relief—all came flooding back. And he needed to share it with someone. I was so glad I gone into the office that day so I could offer an empathetic ear to the man’s story. I was glad he had stepped through the invisible door to my office. I’m glad he saw the “Psychiatric Help 5 cents” sign. And I’m glad I flipped over the sign to say “The Doctor is IN.”
You never know what will happen at Panera.
Rambling Rose 