Monday was a dark day in our family. Our beloved DeLonghi Perfecta Espresso Machine refused to be part of our lives. How can the central glue to our existence for the last 3.5 years give up on us without a fight? The Esc Ok lights came on. Multiple attempts at resets and revival failed and one of the greatest joys of our life just left us cold. We could not start our days with our special cappuccinos; we could not come home to our lovingly brewed espressos. I looked longingly at the machine, hoping my love would resurrect it, but that was not meant to be.
Just in case any of you is thinking of me as a drama queen, let me walk you through the journey we embarked on 40 months ago. Williams Sonoma had just advertised the upscale Perfecta machine on sale. A $1,300 machine was available for a steal for as long as supplies lasted. I called every Williams Sonoma within a 60 mile radius and each one was sold out within minutes. And then lady luck showered her blessings. A store 80 miles away had one in stock and they could ship one to me.
From that moment, the DeLonghi Perfecta became a pivotal glue in our lives. Each day, the coffee it brewed permeated our senses filling us with joy and contentment. The reputation of our new household member spread quickly to family and friends. Visitors started arriving to partake in the brew. Teenagers congregated for hours on end to get their exotic coffees without spending a dime. Adults lingered for hours enriching our home with laughter and good vibes. Pretty soon, every moment of happiness and sadness was intertwined with endless cups of good coffee.
And then the end…it was so sudden. So unanticipated. Of course, a resurrection maybe possible for a fee – We will have to ship the entire unit to a service center to get an estimate which could cost me dearly.
Despite feeling like a bit of a traitor, we ordered a smaller DeLonghi machine. It came, it occupied a little corner in our kitchen and brewed us our first cups of cappuccino this evening. But, it cannot hold a candle to the grandeur, the scale, the taste and the impact exuded by our Perfecta.
The condolences are pouring in from all those who congregated with it. The outpour is amazing. And the verdict is unanimous – we cannot go back to a life without the Perfecta. It needs to come back into our lives and fill it with more love, joy and endless, amazing caffeine filled journeys.
I referenced this in a post several months back when I wrote about Redberry, a local frozen yogurt store in my hometown that revitalized my dying belief in a suburban upbringing. For the longest time, the mundane, daily rides through farmland that over the course of a decade was displaced by endless neighborhoods of upper-middle class McMansions (at an astonishing and disillusioning pace) became an irrepressible itch in my veins. All I wanted to do was escape from my suburban confinement, an existence I perceived for the longest time as an unfortunate, strangling microcosm of a “grander” life. So when I decided to go to college in New York City, the golden gates of limitless adrenaline, fun, and all that the suburbs were not thrust themselves open and beckoned me with all the allure I could feel in my 17 year-old universe.
For the most part, what I expected of city life was right on. In stark contrast with my hometown experience, which was compromised primarily of quickly-tiring coffee shop visits and really long Barnes and Noble stints, there was never a shortage of things to do in one of the greatest metropolises on the planet. As a film student, the access I had to the independent art scene- which included precious museums sprinkled along the High Line, world cinema gems at little theaters like the IFC and Film Forum, and New York’s notorious street art culture- simply blew my mind and expectations on every imaginable level. The Great Apple was undoubtedly the most incredible gift for an explorer’s soul, one that never did and never will stop giving. To walk the streets of New York is indeed to see life, every corner a living exhibit of an eternally metamorphosing culture and identity. From the streets of Greenwich Village that once made love to the beats and hippies to the wonders of Coney Island, Harlem, and Queens, what I saw in merely two years of city life transcended what I had seen in 17 years of suburban life.
But not what I had felt. The New York that fueled my mind and body was not the New York that fueled my heart.
I have always used boredom and unhappiness synonymously. When I’d sit on my couch in the suburbs with nothing to do, I allowed boredom to imply sadness, hollowness, and coldness when, in reality, none of those feelings were derived from my lack of things to do. But in the city, where there is no excuse to be bored, those feelings were more prominent then they’d ever been before. At first, I accepted the discrepancy as a product of loneliness in numbers, an oft-experienced city life sentiment. But with confusion, time and reflection as to why my heart wasn’t in sync with my mind in the “concrete jungle where dreams are made”, I slowly began to discover that the fatal flaw in my quest to city happiness was that it was anchored in dishonesty. I was trying so hard to shed the comfort I felt in my upbringing, the joy nurtured by my roots (despite their aforementioned shortcomings), that I was trying to replace a youth that made me who I am with a place and dream that, despite its seemingly idyllic facade, was too foreign to what really made me happy.
I will always have a billion more things to do in New York City than I will in the suburbs. But I will always have a billion more reasons to be happy in the suburbs and call it home. That’s because boredom doesn’t equate to unhappiness. Because adrenaline and flashing lights aren’t the only outlets to feed a soul that craves life. Community, on the other hand, truly is a fulfilling force.
It’s a realization that has been fermenting for the past two years, but only completely came into fruition recently, in the wake of the Newtown shooting tragedy that still haunts me deeply. The way that small town was able to mobilize in the face of tragedy, drawing love and comfort from a kind of nurturing community that is so inherent to a suburban upbringing, made my heart swell with pride from states away. Newtown’s solidarity in response to the senseless slaughter at Sandy Hook was a massive blow to my understanding of happiness. The elementary school teachers who wave to me years later at the grocery store, the coffee shop barista who knows my order by heart, the familiar faces who wave and smile even if we haven’t talked for years, the friends who gather at the same favorite spot for the same small-town adventures to reminisce about good old times…that’s community, that’s history, and that’s real happiness. At least for me. It’s a community that may have been forged by our boredom and internalization, but nevertheless one that warms the heart.
I saw New York City mobilize in the face of Hurricane Sandy as it has in other moments of unimaginable tragedy. It’s a city of fierce passion and commitment to its people, no doubt about it. But the aftermath of Newtown is what gave me the final piece to my unfinished puzzle of happiness. It showed me that real joy isn’t a result of what we do as much as who and what we are surrounded by. I can never speak ill of the suburban life again. Because the song of happiness has a harmony and melody, and wherever the latter takes us in our quest to fulfill our dreams, the former is what first lifts us into the air and gives us the grounding we need to soar.
The harmony of my suburban upbringing, I will never forget.