There are various seating options inside the small café. There are three pairs of armless upholstered chairs, set low to the ground on stumpy legs and positioned on either side of a low table. There are round tables barely able to contain two laptops, with as many as four black leather bar chairs encircling them. My favorite situation, however, is a high chair at the dark granite countertop – by far the best position for spontaneous stranger exchanges.
I beeline for the seat, wiggling past a Norwegian with stroller here, and squeezing by an Aussie couple there, before claiming my territory at the window counter with my computer bag and outer jacket. I have reached Home Sweet Home for the next few hours.
Welcome to:
The length of the line inevitably provides ample time to contemplate the menu. Supremo classic chai latte for here? Regular black peach iced tea? Not today.
“Medium mochachillo, no whip please.” It was a well-analyzed decision.
“Wow, you must come here often. You order like a pro!” Helena winked.
Why yes, yes I do.
Step Two: commence computer initialization. I lean over my chair and close out all the pop-ups whilst monitoring the pick-up counter. Malisa calls out the drink orders as if she were presenting members of a studio audience with various prizes they had won, varying her pitch and elongating selected syllables to accentuate the excitement of her tone.
“Espresso macchiato for Ronaldo,” she grins as she proudly bestows him with his reward. “An iced matcha latte for Anja – enjoy!” she chirps, a satisfied smile on her lips. “And a medium mochachillo for Nancy!” She makes it sound like I have won the lottery.
Delicious beverage in hand, I settle into my spot. Knowing my laptop battery’s life is about as short-lived as one run down the track at the Sliding Center, I turn to the potential friend next to me and ask sweetly, “Excuse me, would you please plug this in for me?” I secretly hope that my Canadian-esque politeness will allow me to pass as a local.
I never know where that initial communication will take me, which makes the line a more exciting part of my day than one might expect. During my first visit to Blenz, it evolved into a lengthy, though intermittent, conversation with a VANOC (Vancouver Olympic Committee) volunteer named Ryan.
“Can I ask you something?” I begin shyly. I’m emboldened by the friendly vibes that flow from him like heat from coffee, plus I’m just bursting with curiosity about everything Olympic.
“Sure,” he shrugs, looking up from his own computer to meet my gaze. His nose ring catches the light as he turns his head, and the florescent bulbs emphasize the blonde tips highlighted in his hair.
“Did VANOC provide you housing?” This question had been nagging me for a few days.
“No, we had to find it on our own,” his voice does not express excess frustration, but rather resigned acceptance. “I’m living in a house with ten other people, and we don’t have internet.”
“Oh. I’m living in a shipping container with ten beds in one room. Our bathroom is in a different trailer – I have to put on boots and a coat to brush my teeth,” I counter, then add for good measure, “We don’t have internet either.”
“Wow. Okay, you win!” he laughs in disbelief.
After a few more exchanges we return to our own affairs. It is not long however, before my inquisitiveness prods me to speak up again.
“Can I ask you something else?”
“Yeah, sure,” he chuckles, his agreement obviously genuine.
I ask him something else about being a volunteer, which he answers in enough detail to suit me temporarily. I explain my internship with Cleanevent, then our conversation fizzles out for another period of time.
By the end of the evening, I learn that in the real world he works at a bank in Saskatchewan, though for the duration of the Games he is a volunteer at the Main Transportation area of Whistler Olympic Park. This initial interaction gives me the courage and the inspiration to both seek out conversations with strangers and to be open to them when they fall into my lap.
“Supremo classic apple cider for Ryan!”
* * *
Blenz is not only my home base, but that of my friends. We meet here before or after work to get online, to share about our day, and to make a game plan for the night’s activities. Whenever I enter Blenz, my eyes search each patron for recognition, and about fifty percent of the time I know someone who is already seated, bent over a computer. If not, I continually glance over my shoulder at the people entering and exiting, hoping to prevent a sneak attack.
 |
| A daily occurrence |
She pours out all her frustration and disappointment with our company’s management, and it breaks my heart to hear her despair.
“I think I just want to go home,” she sighs, her eyes glassy with unshed tears.
“What would it take to make you want to stay? Can you talk to Joey again? Do you want to switch venues with me? You’d love the Sliding Center. There has to be a way to fix this,” I am in full problem-solving mode.
We reach a decision, and I can see her relax. When she stands up to place her beverage order, I turn my attention back to my blog – at least momentarily.
“Do you work for Cleanevent?” the young man to my right leans forward to enter my field of vision and points at my Cleanevent Academy binder.
“Yeah, I do,” I answer, turning towards him. “Do you?” I wonder how much of my conversation he has just overheard.
“Nah, I did, but I quit,” he says, and I smile knowingly. “As soon as I arrived at the camp and they showed me to my container, I decided to look for another job. I’m so glad I did.”
“Yeah, Camp Cleanevent is…interesting,” I hesitate, always uncomfortable with negative gossip. “I try my best not to spend any time there. I come to Blenz instead!”
“Good move!” he laughs. “I’m Mohammed,” he offers, extending his hand.
“Nancy,” I return, smiling at my new friend.
We continue to converse on and off, just as I had with Ryan. He asks if I know Carlos, the Camp Cleanevent cook, and I introduce him to my friends who wander into Blenz also looking to take advantage of the free WiFi. He even asks me to watch his computer while he runs to the bathroom. It quickly becomes clear that my ease chatting with Ryan was not as rare as I had originally assumed. It must be Blenz.
“Medium mocha latte for Mohammed!”
* * *
Early one morning as I enter Blenz and stand in line, my ritual inspection of the area detects the waving arms of Cory, who has overtaken a small corner of the coffee shop but offers me the empty green chair next to him. We’re lucky enough to score two tables in our empire, and despite being located just outside the bathroom I am thankful for this choice real estate. As we both type away furiously, hunched over the tables that don’t even reach our knees while we’re seated, a man in his early fifties with graying hair and a beer gut materializes in front of us and stares down awkwardly before speaking.
“I’m having a lot of trouble here,” his deep voice begins, then he pauses for an uncomfortably long moment as I look up at him expectantly.
What does this guy want? I wonder, squirming a bit under his gaze.
“The password is ‘Blenz Loves You’?” he asks finally, referring to the WiFi connection.
“No,” I explain, relieved that he does not turn out to be the major creeper I suspected him to be. “That’s the network. The password is Whistler with a capital ‘W’”.
“Oooh, okay. Thank you,” he nods, leaving as abruptly as he appeared.
I shudder involuntarily, exchanging a what was that?! glance with Cory.
“Regular café americano, no cream or sugar,” for the Creeper That Wasn’t.
* * *
Today is my last day in Whistler. The village is quiet, and Blenz is not as packed as usual. My frequent glances over my shoulder are only returned by the man with the violin on my right, who has hung on the wall for the past three weeks, and the noble inukshuk painted against an azure sky to the left.
“Will you watch my computer for me?” are the first words I speak to the woman. “I have to run to the bathroom”.
“Sure,” she agrees easily, then adds “the bathroom line at Starbucks isn’t long.” It is understood between us, though unspoken, that the single restroom at Blenz has been out of order for the past week and a half.
“Oh good, I didn’t want to have to go all the way down to the public ones,” I thank her and hurry out. I fully realize, as I scurry next door, that three weeks ago there would have been no way that I would have risked leaving my computer out of the sight of trusted eyes. The culture of coffee, saturated with conversation, has soaked into my bloodstream with every beerstein-style glass mug of warm latte, loosening my stress and ushering in a refreshingly positive outlook on the goodness of people. Change has brewed inside me, and will continue to percolate even after I leave Whistler behind me.
“Regular strawberry tea latte!” for the Kind Kindred Spirit. And a regretful goodbye ― for Blenz Coffee.
I enjoyed reading this, Nancy! Love you, Daddy.
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