Finding Third Place

They say you need a place that is not home and is not work, but where you can go and talk about either. They call it the Third Place. Mine, at least in the early hours, is this: a café owned by one person, to which many other people belong.

There are many layers to the experience of being in this place. There is the pleasant din of people chatting, and also music—obscure and wonderful music—played so you can hear it, but not so loudly that it is an impediment to conversation. There is the clink of forks touching plates and spoons stirring coffee, a sound that reminds me of falling asleep in the family cabin while the firelight plays on the ceiling and the adults are awake in the next room, talking softly and doing the dishes.

I have been thinking about coming here since I went to sleep last night. I asked myself if it made sense since I really do not need another dark chocolate croissant, nor do I need the cup of coffee I knew I’d get, and the mild panic that sets in after; like I am taking off on my own tiny, invisible airplane. I really could do without all that. But I want to come here. And I am not the only one.

When the place first opened, people filtered in slowly to test it out. There were the obvious questions: would it be cozy? Would the music be decent? Would the owners be kind? Would they be people we want to see every day? Would the coffee be strong? Would the sandwiches be worth paying, and returning for? Would it be a pleasant place to meet, to sit and work, to stare out the window?

Now we know. Not only are people coming for scones and staying for sandwiches, some (like me) are bringing their laptops and even—in one case—a printer. A few are having their mail delivered. Some are bringing peonies and lilacs from their gardens because they know there will be a vase waiting, someone happy to receive them, and they will be put out for all to enjoy. There’s a bulletin board you can stare at and imagine everything you will never do but which beckons anyway—the dogs you could adopt, the apartments you could live in, the concerts you could hear, the faraway places you could go, and always the yoga.

This place has the magic. It is ill equipped to be a restaurant: there is no real kitchen and only a tiny, dorm-size refrigerator. The owner rolls out pastry on a desk. In the afternoon, she stops by our table and tells me about her baking visions. She wants to bake a Hummingbird cake. Hope it goes well, I say. I will want a slice of cake now and then, and where else would I get it? Who else would I trust to bake a cake? Not many people, I’ll tell you that. Who else would I trust to make a small world that reminds me, again and again, how sweet it is to be alive?

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