the fountain did the trick today.
I walked through the memorial and crossed the street. Teaism was a hip chain that had two locations in the city, here and Dupont Circle. The Dupont location was often awash in hipsters and artisans, desperate to have their calm, collected aloofness noticed. The Penn Quarter location was a lot more businesslike and included a basement perfect for meetings. The eventual end of many Craigslist classifieds concluded in the basement of Teaism.
I stared at the sidewalk as I opened the glass door and walked in. Patrons sat at skinny tables for two and lunched on Bento boxes.
I crossed to the counter, ordered peppermint Chamomile, and walked carefully down the stairs after receiving my cup of steaming liquid. The basement was a riot of tables and chairs. Everywhere there was signs of collaboration with wooden tables and chairs scootched and clattered together.
At a long table in the corner sat a collection of men and women. Among them on the table sat a black sign with removable white letters that said, “Be Well.” Calmness melted over me, like being lowered into a warm bathtub. I had never seen these people before but I felt like I was home.
The ages of the group seemed to range from thirty to fifty. Most of them had plates in front of them; the rest had steaming bowls of brown liquid. They all used chopsticks, with a varying degree of success. The woman closest to me reached into her bowl and pulled out a spiderweb of rice noodles. The man on the far end of the table kept pinching bite sized pieces off his blue plate, dropping them almost immediately. Everywhere around me was the sound of the sticks pinging off the plates mixed with the sounds of people cursing their ability to eat with chopsticks.
I went up to one of the people sitting at the table and tapped him on the shoulder. He was white and wiry and wore a well combed-over slap of brown hair. “Can I sit down?”
The man contorted in his chair, motioning to the chairs that had their back to the wall. “Sure right over there. Are you here for Be Well?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, please sit down.”
“I'm Greg.”
“Tom, but we do the name thing all together in the beginning.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
I stood for an awkward moment, staring at Tom before walking around the table and squeezing myself in a chair between the wall and the table. I sat for a moment in an odd combination of calmness and claustrophobia.
The assembled group ate without acknowledging me. They smiled warmly when I met one of their gazes but none made any effort to introduce themselves.
A plump Hispanic woman descended the stairs and came toward the table. In her left hand was a spiral notebook with a pen shoved in the wire. In her right hand she carried a large red cup with a string hanging off the side of the cup that spun like a top. It made me think of a weather vane for some reason.
She sat down at the head of the table and steeped the bag a couple of times. She wore a dark long sleeve shirt and jeans; her hair gathered at the top of her head. Her face was a little round, but her eyes were dark and welcoming.
“I see we have a newcomer,” she said.
I nodded at her.
“And you're shy,” she said, rising from her chair. “It’s okay, we are all shy when we are around people that we don't know, but if you keep coming,” she put her hands on my shoulders. I felt all tension drop out of me, “you will know us all better and you will feel comfortable. What's your name?”
“Greg.”
“I'm Sylvia,” she said. She had a way about her. Sylvia’s voice and demeanor had a quality that was soothing and peaceful. In her presence I felt the muscles release in my back, I sat deeper in my chair, my feet flatter on the floor. She had the calm confidence that just made you relax and spread out. She was mesmerizing, comforting, and kept your rapt attention. She went back to her chair.
The people
I walked through the memorial and crossed the street. Teaism was a hip chain that had two locations in the city, here and Dupont Circle. The Dupont location was often awash in hipsters and artisans, desperate to have their calm, collected aloofness noticed. The Penn Quarter location was a lot more businesslike and included a basement perfect for meetings. The eventual end of many Craigslist classifieds concluded in the basement of Teaism.
I stared at the sidewalk as I opened the glass door and walked in. Patrons sat at skinny tables for two and lunched on Bento boxes.
I crossed to the counter, ordered peppermint Chamomile, and walked carefully down the stairs after receiving my cup of steaming liquid. The basement was a riot of tables and chairs. Everywhere there was signs of collaboration with wooden tables and chairs scootched and clattered together.
At a long table in the corner sat a collection of men and women. Among them on the table sat a black sign with removable white letters that said, “Be Well.” Calmness melted over me, like being lowered into a warm bathtub. I had never seen these people before but I felt like I was home.
The ages of the group seemed to range from thirty to fifty. Most of them had plates in front of them; the rest had steaming bowls of brown liquid. They all used chopsticks, with a varying degree of success. The woman closest to me reached into her bowl and pulled out a spiderweb of rice noodles. The man on the far end of the table kept pinching bite sized pieces off his blue plate, dropping them almost immediately. Everywhere around me was the sound of the sticks pinging off the plates mixed with the sounds of people cursing their ability to eat with chopsticks.
I went up to one of the people sitting at the table and tapped him on the shoulder. He was white and wiry and wore a well combed-over slap of brown hair. “Can I sit down?”
The man contorted in his chair, motioning to the chairs that had their back to the wall. “Sure right over there. Are you here for Be Well?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, please sit down.”
“I'm Greg.”
“Tom, but we do the name thing all together in the beginning.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
I stood for an awkward moment, staring at Tom before walking around the table and squeezing myself in a chair between the wall and the table. I sat for a moment in an odd combination of calmness and claustrophobia.
The assembled group ate without acknowledging me. They smiled warmly when I met one of their gazes but none made any effort to introduce themselves.
A plump Hispanic woman descended the stairs and came toward the table. In her left hand was a spiral notebook with a pen shoved in the wire. In her right hand she carried a large red cup with a string hanging off the side of the cup that spun like a top. It made me think of a weather vane for some reason.
She sat down at the head of the table and steeped the bag a couple of times. She wore a dark long sleeve shirt and jeans; her hair gathered at the top of her head. Her face was a little round, but her eyes were dark and welcoming.
“I see we have a newcomer,” she said.
I nodded at her.
“And you're shy,” she said, rising from her chair. “It’s okay, we are all shy when we are around people that we don't know, but if you keep coming,” she put her hands on my shoulders. I felt all tension drop out of me, “you will know us all better and you will feel comfortable. What's your name?”
“Greg.”
“I'm Sylvia,” she said. She had a way about her. Sylvia’s voice and demeanor had a quality that was soothing and peaceful. In her presence I felt the muscles release in my back, I sat deeper in my chair, my feet flatter on the floor. She had the calm confidence that just made you relax and spread out. She was mesmerizing, comforting, and kept your rapt attention. She went back to her chair.
The people
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