Looking for Lattes

“The summer we fell in love, which was the summer of ‘72, we were both home in Schenectady, New York on break from our respective colleges, Kirkland and the Manhattan School of Music. Mitch had strolled into a bar one night with a pal and I was sitting with my best friend, having a beer. Mitch (with whom I’d had a brief flirtation in high school) sat down next to me and asked if he could call me. I said OK, privately lamenting the fact that I hadn’t worn my contact lenses that night and looked like hell. I did have on a cute red bandana halter top and white painter pants, which were in vogue that summer. Probably a bit of cleavage showed.”—Kathryn E. Livingston

Words & Wonder

By Kathryn E. Livingston

FLETCHER North Carolina—(Hubris)—August/September 2024—The most expeditious way to get to Asheville, North Carolina from my home in New Jersey is a direct, two-hour flight out of Newark Airport. For some inane reason, however, my husband and I prefer to drive. Of course, we’ve been to plenty of places where this isn’t an option (Hong Kong comes to mind). But a trip to North Carolina to visit family in our RAV4 Hybrid seemed quite do-able. We know because we’ve done it before.

It took two days there and two days back, due to the necessity of sleep (we are no longer of an age for all-nighters), with a number of stops for gas, coffee (decaf only; I’m literally allergic to caffeine), lunch, dinner, etc., but our journey to my sister’s home in Fletcher began auspiciously enough. As Mitch drove south, I furiously Googled and found a coffee roastery in Lovingston, Virginia (pop. 520). In a garage behind a modest house, a man sat with sacks of coffee beans and a roaster. A young woman manned the coffee bar, and she served us two delicious, iced decaf lattes (Mitch ordered a mocha). Trager Brothers Coffee is a coffee drinker’s oasis. (Whenever possible we steer clear of chains like Starbucks and Dunkin’.)

Later in the day, I focused on a lunch stop, and found a place in Danville, Virginia, where we ordered a decadent plate of truffle fries and a salad from an angelic looking young blonde who introduced herself as Emma.

“Have you read the book?” I inquired, always assuming that everyone has. She stared blankly.

“Emma by Jane Austen?”

“No.”

Okayyy, I thought. I should just shut up about what people ought to read. Mitch (my spouse of 47 years) knowingly nodded his disapproval (of me).  So I let it go. For a while. But when he went off to freshen up at the end of our meal, Emma stopped by with the check.

By that time I had Googled a photo of the book cover. “You see? Here it is: Emma.”

She bent forward, this time with interest: “I’m going to read it! I love to read!”

I glowed with satisfaction, just as my husband returned and asked, “Do you have iced decaf?”

The answer was no, but Emma—now my best friend—directed us down the street where we were able to score two iced decafs—his black, mine, a latte. This obsession may seem odd, but the theme of a refreshing iced drink has followed us throughout our long marriage, beginning with one of our very first dates.

The summer we fell in love, which was the summer of ‘72, we were both home in Schenectady, New York on break from our respective colleges, Kirkland and the Manhattan School of Music. Mitch had strolled into a bar one night with a pal and I was sitting with my best friend, having a beer. Mitch (with whom I’d had a brief flirtation in high school) sat down next to me and asked if he could call me. I said OK, privately lamenting the fact that I hadn’t worn my contact lenses that night and looked like hell. I did have on a cute red bandana halter top and white painter pants, which were in vogue that summer. Probably a bit of cleavage showed.

Days later, we were “dating.” This basically meant walking around town in the evenings; or I’d pick him up in my father’s Chrysler (Mitch didn’t have a driver’s license; the only driving he’d done was when he’d stolen his dad’s car and gone for an under-age joy ride a few years earlier).

One steamy night, we sauntered up to Friendly’s for ice cream (there were no fancy coffee shops in those days, no Starbucks, no roasteries). We sat across from one another at a small table in the center of the room, scoured the menu, and decided to order Vanilla “Fribbles,” milk-shake-like drinks that came (and apparently still come) in a tall glass, a signature treat at the chain restaurant.

When the Fribbles arrived, we stared at each other and then burst into laughter.

“How could something be called a Fribb . . . le?!”

“How could it? A Fribble?”

We spent the next 15 minutes laughing so hard that we could scarcely sip. I believe I snorted some milk up my nose. Mitch was convulsed. We could . . . not . . . stop laughing.

I’d never laughed so hard with any boy ever (possibly with my favorite male cousin when I was five years old). But none of the boys I’d dated had inspired such gleeful hysteria. I’d never coughed, and hiccupped, and totally lost it with any guy. I was too busy trying to look pretty and pretending to be cool. Tears streamed from our eyes. No doubt, people were staring at us. They probably thought we were high.

That evening, the Fribble, and the 15 minutes of fitful laughter, sealed our fate. I’d found someone I could be myself with, and so had Mitch. We’d laughed so hard our sides ached. Not at a joke. Not at a movie. Not at each other. “Not hyperbole.”

At a word. A funny word. A word neither of us would ever forget. We fell in love laughing our guts out over our frosty non-alcoholic drinks.

But back to our road trip.

Finally, we arrived at my sister’s where we were surrounded by my “southern” family (all hailing from New York State). We spent the next few days exploring locally—Lake Lure, a street festival in Hendersonville—as well as playing with my nephew’s young kids, and chatting for hours (my niece, my sister and myself). Mitch—a classical musician—practiced his clarinet, took walks, and eagerly awaited our departure. After a brief visit with friends high up in the mountains of Burnsville, we were on the road again with a stop in Draper, Virginia (pop. 320) for lunch and a latte (with whipped cream—sorry, vegan friends).

The ride home took another two days; back on Route 81 traffic was stopped for an hour. We bailed at Buchanan, Virginia and switched to beautiful back roads, sailing around corners, up hills, and over railroad tracks, past corn fields, horses, and cows. For dinner, we located an extraordinary farm to table: Zynodoa in Staunton, Virginia where Mitch had a splendid strawberry gazpacho. After checking into a motel for the night, we rose to find that highway traffic was delayed again; we jumped ship and found our last latte at Denim Coffee in the historic town of Carlisle, Pennsylvania, where Benjamin Franklin once held treaty meetings (and sipped java?) with Indians.

Not all our stops were fruitful—there were a few less than satisfying experiences where decaf was not to be found (even in Manhattan, the search for decaf can be daunting). And there were one or two mediocre meals (someone forgot to double check the Yelp reviews). The trip was long, hot (even with AC), and tiring. But somehow, we kept our sense of humor. If you love the one you’re with, bad coffee, no coffee, and even Confederate flags can’t break you. It all began with Fribbles, and thankfully, we’re still laughing.

More: To read more of Kathryn E. Livingston’s work, write to her at [email protected], or order her books: click here,  and here. (Yin, Yang, Yogini: A Woman’s Quest for Balance, Strength, and Inner Peace is available at Amazon.com or through your favorite bookseller!)