The Root Note

I attended a 2-hour meeting today. With my kids. Do I have any takers on guessing how much of the actual meeting I listened in on? You get the idea. And since they were basically ignored (with the exception of course of the constant "Knock it off" or "Don't do that again" kind of thing) for the 2 hours, they came home needing even more attention. Making lunch proved difficult with constant demands. Demands like start the movie, chocolate milk please, no, I wanted strawberry milk, pick me up, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE, I want to go outside, I need to go poopy. On and on it went. Add to the demands about 200 gigga-Jules of energy (per child), and it was a quick run to my cell phone to text the husband and ask what my chances were of possibly getting out of the house tonight. His response was that he took the night off specifically to spend it with me, but that I could go anyway :) He's my favorite.

I was bragging about this privilege to a friend of mine, and she asked where I was going. I gave her the typical "Caribou" to which she responded, "Have you ever been to The Root Note?" I had never heard of the place, but she said it's "a hippy place," which is a turn-on for me. So I tried unsuccessfully to find it on-line, called to check on the very important "free wi-fi" info, and began my journey to the place.

It must be newer, because even though it's store front can't be found on Google Maps, it's easily found on 4th Street across from Coney Island and Deaf Ear Records.

Off subject a bit, I took a walk around down town a few weeks go with my kids that jump-started a love for this city that I've hated for so many years. I like the artsy, quaintness of its age and it's old, dingy, knick-knacky stores.

Anyway, you walk in the door to an ordering counter, inlaid with natural stones. There is an herb garden growing to your immediate right. A pleasant, very "chill" guy walked up to take my order. I tell him I'm usually a coffee drinker (since their chalk-board menu says nothing about coffee), and he offers me tea as a change-up. My fear was that hippies have outgrown coffee. Thankfully, I was wrong. So I unconfidentally ordered a "mocha-minty thing," completely spacing that I need it to be decaf if I intend to sleep any time in the next several days. Oh well. At least I ordered a small. He says he'll deliver it to me.

So I begin to stroll the lengthy cafe, trying to stay inconspicuous-- like I'm not a nube, but am instead a cool, sophisticated regular. Down with the times. I see several people lounging in the squishy couches. One guy with a fanny pack and beret covered a couch with just his "stuff" but was sitting away from it. I was almost to the end of my loop, so I slid into a table against a wall behind a thin, hat-wearing, multi-braceleted, multi-pierced maybe 18-year-old guy who was writing away in his leather-bound journal.

I unloaded my laptop only to realize I had chosen one of the only tables without an outlet nearby. Of course, the journaling, decorated teenager ahead of me had one just above his head. Another option was directly beside what would be a distracting table of yappy, yuppie businessmen. They turned out to be having a meeting about a play one of the men was evidently writing and possibly directing. Though their clean, dressy appearance put them as out of place as my grandparents at a Metallica concert, they were very much in their own element.

I began my move toward the men and noticed that my movement had attracted the attention of the teenager-- who was actually a woman in her late 30's. Oops. Anyway, I broke the awkwardness and answered her unspoken question with "I need a power outlet. I can't believe I forgot." Without blinking, she offered to pick up all her things and move so I could take the table. "I'm low tech tonight," she assured. I graciously took her up on it, apologized, and moved in.

A few minutes later, a pleasant, "chill" young lady with dreds, uniformed the same as my cashier glided to my table and smoothly, jokingly apologized for accidentally making my coffee a large instead of small. Thinking only of the amount of caffeine I was about to ingest, I returned her demeanor and jested that I wasn't sure I could handle that kind of mess-up, but that I'd let it slide this time.

For the record, it is g.o.o.d. coffee.

Right now, I'm listening to "Stairway to Heaven" on classical guitar, and it's incredible. Just a side note.

The table in front of me has a single, waxy leaf in a vase of water. The entire length of ledge above my head is lined with syrups for coffee. There's a hot-tub shaped wooden box in the corner by the playwrights with big rocks and plants over a black tarp-- as if to make a pond but missing the water. The lighting is accomplished with typical cone-shaped, naturally colored, down-facing glass fixtures.

"Chill" is the best word for The Root Note. I feel as though I should drop my voice low and smooth it out like hot fudge in order to speak here. I should also have sun glasses and a beret. It's a sweet place, and I recommend it.