Free Mochas and American Flags

I am here. Here. Right now, here. The American flag waves outside of the window with a sort of ashamed grace. I came here to study, and to redeem my free Starbucks beverage. The coupon was given to me back in Portland on Thanksgiving Day.

“Oh, here you are, sorry,” said the barista apologetically.
“What?” I snapped back.
“Here, take this,” she said as she handed me a free beverage coupon.
“Are you just handing these out today?” I said in confusion.
“No, just when we screw up a drink,” she replied.
“But you didn’t screw up my drink, er, I mean, I don’t know if you did yet.”
“Oh no, I just took too long, I’m sorry.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah”
“Ok”
“Yes”
“Great, I will leave now, out this um, door.”

Yeah, so rock ‘n’ roll for Starbucks and their pledge to make your drink with incredible speed and astonishing accuracy. Now I’m downing this mocha, and I can’t decide if it tastes good because it was made with incredible speed and astonishing accuracy or just because I didn’t pay a dime for it. But that’s beside the point. Frick, what is the point?

Whatever.

I’m looking at this flag outside - it’s the American flag - and it waves in the foreground of the Emerald City, which is currently framed by thin, dark clouds. I did come here to study. My books are in my bag right now and sort of looking at me like I’m crazy. Writing about free mochas and American flags? You need to think about Skinner and Piaget, or Greene and Lewis, people that are above you – you dirtbag. Dirtbag? What the hell? That’s not even one word…it’s dirt (space) bag. Dirt bag. I know I should study. It’s really quiet right now in Starbucks, and that’s rare. Usually a good assortment of neo-jazz and old Christmas songs about this time. But the city looked way too good today. I’m living what I’ve been wanting to live right now, and while all I want to do is return to Portland, I’m finding comfort in becoming lost in such a big city. I’m on the outskirts of Seattle now, by Union Bay, watching ships rock back and forth, young business women’s hair fly in the wind.

We sort of like to be lost, to be unheard of for a while. Community stresses people out, annoys our conscience, but sometimes we love to return to the garden and hide from ourselves, and Someone Else. No one knows me here. I could go talk to that guy over by the door and tell him I’m about to leave for Iraq, scared to death and deeply saddened that I can’t spend Christmas with my family. I could cry in his arms and freak this whole place out, maybe pull out a small handkerchief and wave in the air dramatically while I yelped for the country.

Or not.

I think I’ll just hide. I’ll look at that flag wave in the air, stare at the city, and keep talking to my textbooks. This is just a part of all of us. We love to belong, but hiding who we are and starting as a new person is something we sometimes wish for. Lead a dramatically different lifestyle somewhere far away. But the same thing always runs across my mind when I look at cities from far away: Since when is it about me?