My favorite café in Montpellier

This past week British guy and I went down to Montpellier to visit his good friend, the Doctor. He has a name, but we call him the Doctor because...well, because he is a doctor.

At any rate, British guy was taking a two-day course so I spent my time wandering around and obsessively checking Twitter. I spotted Café Latitude while running errands with the Doctor and decided to spend the following morning there so I could scope out the place and catch up on some writing.

Café Latitude

I'm a sucker for a good café. I always have been. I blame my Northern California upbringing. In Northern California we take our coffee and our cafés very seriously. Just ask a group of resident San Franciscans for their opinion on the best café in town (Philz. In the Mission.). You'll be sure to incite a lively debate. Maybe some fist-fighting.

So I appreciate a good café, and as soon as I walked past Café Latitude, I knew it was going to be good. I got that warm, fuzzy feeling. (What? You guys don't get that when you find a nice place to have a cup of coffee?)

Café Latitude is the café that writers dream of. Open, airy, rustic. It's quiet and calm, but not without its local characters swinging by for their morning coffee and a political debate. As soon as I walk through the door I fall in love with the place. I track down the barista, order my café crème, grab a seat by the window and sit for two hours. I write. I stare out the window. I write some more. A man sits down next to me. "Bonjour," he says with a smile as he flicks open his newspaper. A couple sitting on the patio outside are sipping rosé as the morning sunshine filters through the trees. I glance at the clock. 11:00 a.m. on a Wednesday morning. I love France.

Here are a few photos.

The address is: 1 rue Ste-Croix. It's around the corner from the Cathedral, and just down the street from Don Peppino's. (One of the Doctor's favorite pizza joints in Montpellier. I haven't been, but he swears by it.) Basically if you find yourself in Montpellier and you don't go to Café Latitude, you will regret it. Go. We need more people in the world drinking rosé at 11:00 am. I should probably insert a "drink responsibly" caption here somewhere...

And speaking of cafés, check out my write-up of Stars & Bucks in Ramallah, West Bank on The Purple Passport. I'm a finalist in the Purple Passport writing contest. Voting starts soon...I'm just sayin'

California Dreaming, Ramallah Reminiscing

A year ago today, I wrote the following while sitting in the Stars & Bucks (yes, you read that correctly) café in Ramallah. I had been in the West Bank for four months at that point and decided to write a little blurb about how I was feeling. In third person. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Somewhere in the Middle East, a young American woman sits at a cafe (a blatant and hilarious rip-off of a well-known American chain) contemplating the day's events over an iced latte. 


She looks out over the scuttle of taxi cabs and pedestrians. The soldiers lean apathetically against the beige stones; flicking cigarettes to pass the time. Trash swirls in tumbleweed fashion amid the vendor stalls where fat tomatoes sit in stacks with dirt still clinging to their taut flesh. 


It is noon. 


The call to prayer bounces off the hills and hangs in the air for a moment before falling on the ears of the dutiful and the not-so-dutiful. This young woman falls into the latter category and pulls her sweater self-consciously around her shoulders. But even with this gesture of insecurity, she thinks with satisfaction that she feels comfortable in this place. 


Jostling through crowds and swinging from buses and taxis like an over-confident kid on the monkey bars has now become a familiar routine and adds a confident swagger to the spectacle of her blonde hair in a crowd of brunettes, shiny raven locks and brightly colored hijab. She is an outsider, but she is an outsider who is learning how to belong. 


She can march past the gawking teenage boys in their tight jeans; their crude phrases falling a foot short  as she glares with a ferocity that silences even the most rambunctious of them. She knows to examine the wares of the vendors while shaking her head with disinterest and murmuring "ghralli, ghralli. expensive. expensive." Her palate has learned to crave warm pita bread drenched in spiced olive oil, washing it down-oddly enough--with buttermilk. 


But today is special. 


Today her heart has nestled into the foothills of this place. 


Today she knows she will never escape its hold and her heart will always beat a little faster when she sees the flag bearing the red triangle with the three stripes. 


Today she sips her latte and knows that whatever chaos this place might hold, she belongs to it. 

Painting on a building in Bethlehem

Painting in Tel Aviv

(Sorry for the quick post of old material, but...getting ready to head to Italy for a few weeks, then to the UK, and then home to California for the holidays. Possibly Spain in-between. Chaos. The best kind of chaos, but nonetheless chaos.) 


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