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Café Flore, San Francisco
Joy Magezis
Going
back to the Cafe Flore in San Francisco after all these years reminds me of when they rstbuilt the place out of glass, some wood and metal piping. In thosedays it was full of idealism and green plants. I used to go there towrite.When the new owners took over the greenhouse cafe, the plantsdisappeared but I was still drawn to the place. It was the light andthe diverse, casual atmosphere. Somehow I always felt safeinside.As the kids and the job took over my life, I remember escaping tothe cafe at night. I can just picture it . Opening the glass door, themusic inside assaulted my ears. The heavy bass sound vibrated inmy bones. Good. Take me over. Take me out of myself.Walking through the darkened room toward the long woodenbar, I looked the place over. It was about half full with the usualassortment - everyone from young punks to ageing hippies. Agood number of gays. A few black faces. A mixture of men andwomen. Somehow we all seemed to mingle here comfortably.I bought a cafe latte and examined the tall glass. Layers of milkand espresso were expertly piled one atop the other. But thereal test of the drink was yet to come. Would it clear my head of 
 From the archives of 
Cafe Magazine
www.cafemagazine.co.uk 
 
screaming kids and boring paper-work? I made my way to an emptytable by the glass wall and plopped myself onto the long woodenbench which ran the length of it. Then I breathed it all in, blendingthe aroma of fresh-ground coffee with the lively ambience.Taking hold of the tall spoon protruding from the glass, I slowlystirred my coffee. Then I took my rst sip of the rich, foamy brew.My brain began to unfog. I stared up at the huge ceiling fan,watching the long blades as they spun.A few more sips of the potent liquid and my mind was soaring,high on a wave of lucidity. Finding the currents of my inner thoughts, I rode them toward my future.I never dreamed that future would take me to Britain. But I wasswept up in adventure and settled in a foreign land. Now that thekids have grown, I’ve come back to rediscover my greenhousesanctuary.The glass structure hasn’t changed much. Small rounded tablesstill dot the perimeter. Inside, the espresso machine steams on -though the place is strangely subdued.I look around. It’s not just the faces that have changed. There’ssomething else as well. The mood seems almost ominous.At the long wooden bar I order my usual. Right away I can seethe cafe latte won’t be layered. I suppose that’s too much to hopefor.Sitting down on the wooden bench by the glass wall, I feeluneasy. What am I expecting? I sip my drink. The coffee still givesme a buzz. I think about the old regulars and the Tuesday-nightpoetry readings. Where have they all gone? San Francisco’s apricey town now. Have they moved out?Suddenly a guy comes up to me, looking gaunt but familiar. “Youback?” He says it like I’ve been gone a week.I motion at the empty chair and he sits down. “Where iseveryone?”He looks away, out through the glass to the crisp, blue sky.“Gone.”“Where to? Portland? Seattle? Surely not LA!”A heavy laugh pours out of him, deep and ironic. Then he stops
 
short. “I’m going , too.”I stare at him. Something’s really wrong.He meets my eye. His are gentle now and wise. ‘’Died of AIDS,’’he says.
From the archives of 
Cafe Magazine
cafemagazine.co.uk
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