The Cafe Where Time Doesn’t Exist

There’s a sweet little cafe in a nearby town that I love to visit as often as I can.

It’s like one of those little cafes they feature sometimes in movies, just a little nondescript place with an underlying sense of nostalgia that’s increasingly hard to come by.

It’s hard to describe why I love the place so darn much. I think it might be a combination of a bunch of seemingly little things.

It might be the big front windows that show the passersby, going about their business on a lazy Sunday morning.

It might be the charming little child’s trike parked in the narrow doorway of the restaurant, or the old-fashioned ping of the doorbell that lets the help know someone new just walked in.

It might be the ceiling fans silently spinning overhead, or the steaming hot black coffee in my oversized cup. Does time move more slowly here? Sure seems like it.

Maybe it’s because the day is overcast, and I feel liked I’ve somehow slipped back into time, or to a place where time doesn’t exist, or isn’t important.

As I wait for a friend, I notice the polka music on the tinny radio playing faintly in the background. It’s a radio program that’s been presented on Sunday mornings for many years in the area, and brings back wonderful memories of simpler days long passed.

The old men at the counter greet each other good morning, share gossip and a laugh or two, and wish each other a good day as each departs. The waitress greets a new couple who just sat down, and I chuckle as they casually inquire whether she is of Italian or Polish ancestry, a common occurrence in these parts.

“What’ll you have, sweetheart?” the man asks the woman, which reminds me of my father asking my mother the same in similar situations, and a happy, warm feeling passes through me along with the memory of many cafe meals while traveling with them as a child.

Speaking of which, across from me is a very young man with a gentleman who appears to be his Dad. He is enjoying several colossal-sized blueberry pancakes, and I’m wondering how many he will actually finish when he looks up at me, and I smile back at him. He barely takes notice, as he and his father are having quite a lively conversation and I’m just another lady at a table.

Eventually they finish and as they leave, the boy gets on the trike that was left in the doorway, and pedals after his father as they make their way down the street, making a charming sight.

I start to think I could sit here all day and soak all this goodness right up, but soon my friend shows up for our breakfast date, and I’m jarred out of my little bubble and pulled back into the real world.

But it’s still not quite as real as it could be, and I’m thankful for that.


Published November 2, 2017.


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