A Table for My Diary
Coffee shops became places to write, watch and feel at home.
Before I left Britain, my GP had asked why I wanted to go to China. ‘They have no milk in their tea,’ he said.
Hangzhou soon gave me plenty of opportunities to question that picture. Alongside my new fondness for milk tea, I discovered a growing list of cafés I wanted to try.
Cash Miel became an early favourite. It was smaller than Starbucks, with pastries on display and coffee for around fifteen yuan. I liked choosing something from the counter and settling into a corner. It felt familiar without being quite like home.
A student called Karen introduced me to MAAN, a much larger café with a rustic interior, lamps, mirrors and space to linger. I ordered a white chocolate mocha topped with an extravagant amount of cream. At thirty-five yuan, it was a treat, but the surroundings were part of what I was paying for.
Soon I had a list: a cinnamon latte at Mona Bros, hot chocolate elsewhere, seasonal drinks to try when the weather changed. Days off acquired small ambitions of their own.
Compared with my usual coffee and scone at Tesco back home, it all felt rather adventurous.
Then Cash Miel closed.
I was surprised by how much I missed it. I had only been going for a few months, yet it had already become part of my routine. I noticed other cafés opening and disappearing too. It encouraged me to stop saving every place on my list for some distant treat day.
Ichido, Tous les Jours, Hard Rock Café and Greybox each took a turn. Sometimes I went for the drink; often I went for the space.
I brought my diary. Sitting alone gave me time to write, listen to the language around me and watch everyday interactions without needing to participate in every one of them.
Johnny, a British colleague I had met during onboarding, enjoyed coffee shops too. We often met at Costa on our days off and talked through work, relationships, settling in and whatever came next.
He shared my interest in Chinese language and culture. It was good to have someone with whom I could compare impressions, rather than simply trade complaints.
Johnny pointed out the practical appeal as well: a comfortable seat, air conditioning and more room than our apartments. A couple of coffees could buy us an afternoon somewhere pleasant.
I was discovering that a café didn’t have to offer the best coffee I had ever tasted to become important to me.
Sometimes all I needed was a table, my diary and time to stay.