Boho Rebound

I bit the bullet, my back against the wall; my cupboard was bereft of coffee, my body begging for it. I went downstairs to Boho , the little tea and coffee shop two doors down from my above-the- shoe-shop flat. I hadn’t been there since the owner summarily chided Jack (and me by proxy) about being too enthusiastic on the premises.

The story goes that Jack came bounding into the coffee shop – genuinely happy for the first time living in England, having had a nice day at his brand new (at the time) “school” – and bounced into a chair to see over the counter and order “Milk and cookies, please!” He decided in his own three-year-old way that he was a regular, and anyway, we are also neighbors. The owner, all blond and gorgeous in her throaty Eastern European accent, snarled “We do not allow shoes on the chairs here.” She then grimaced and turned her back on us.

By the time milk and cookies arrived, my feelings were deeply hurt. Probably it wasn’t a big deal, and probably I shouldn’t have dwelled on it too much. More than likely, she forgot that she said it in the first place and didn’t mean anything personal by it. Could it be a language barrier married to a harsh sounding dialect? Was I especially sensitive that day? Then again, any civilized person knows that it is rude to put your feet on someone’s living room chair. I knew this at the time, but bit my bottom lip, trying to feel anger instead of embarrassment.

I felt stung and had ill feelings every time I walked by afterward. I wanted so much to build community, especially with those on my street – my literal neighbors who not only own the shop but who live above it as well. It felt ruined somehow.

The fact is it might be the coolest place on my street. Its tiny windows face the big church on Queens Street and advertise, in twirly letters, latte and cream tea. Tiered dishes of cupcakes and pastry beckon passersby into the shop. Little wooden bistro sets stand out front and beside the shop is a covered patio that houses several more colorful seating areas with polka-dot cushions.

The tea is served in individual tea pots, all of them different from the others. It’s like the owner collected them on her travels and now we get to share her experiences via Earl grey and steamed milk. The inside is a happy space – small counter, wooden furniture, great view. Boho is always packed in the morning with people reading daily newspapers and sipping on espresso, people who, mid dog-walk , popped in for a coffee, people who make it part of their daily routines to stop and chat with other towns folk next to a warm and cozy pot of English Breakfast tea.

Boho opens and closes on a whim. I’m not sure what the hours are, nor does it make any difference. Small town law dictates that if one needs to close shop to catch a football match, or visit a neighbor, or take a nap - it’s fine. Probably most other folks are doing the same.

And that’s why I was sad that I felt icky about going back.

But as I’ve already stated, there was a dire need last week end. Jack and I stumbled out of our door onto the sidewalk and took our time walking to Boho. The tinkling bell announced our arrival and we ordered one white coffee (that’s coffee with milk), one breakfast pastry (cinnamon apple), one glass of cold milk (because sometimes they steam it), and a chocolate cookie.

We sat on the covered patio and enjoyed our treat, the hurt feelings comforted a little with every tasty sip.