A Taste of Home

I went to Starbucks.

After almost two months in El Salvador I could feel myself moving out of the "honeymoon" stage and beginning to "grieve" leaving home behind. I wasn't feeling full-blown homesick...yet, so I decided a taste of home might do me some good.

I remembered seeing those familiar, green, block letters on a building near one of the hotels that had hosted a conference I attended some weeks back. I remember being shocked that Starbucks had come full circle - returning to its roots, so to speak, in the land of coffee. But today I wasn't in the mood to analyze the arrival of the first Starbucks in Central America in terms of globalization and all its implications. Today, regardless of the fact that it was pushing 90 degrees outside, I just longed to hold that warm, white cup in my hand.

I spent the 30 minute bus ride across town running through the menu in my head: what would I order? A grande caramel macchiato, tall wet cappuccino? Should I get an iced coffee, a frapuccino, or a venti iced chai? It didn't really even matter; this was much more about connecting with home than anything else. And what a connection, I mean I have been to the original store at Pike Place. Starbucks is a Seattle phenomenon gone global! Aside from the apple and the evergreen, Starbucks is about as Washington State as it gets! Now I was feeling quite proud about my cross-town excursion. At this point it was quite clear that it really wasn't about the coffee - this was about me, and wanting to go "where everybody knows your name." Everything here is new and different: tastes, smells, sounds, words. I just wanted something that felt familiar, comfortable, like what I left behind. I wanted to be somewhere I fit, somewhere I could blend in and not feel like I so obviously stand out.

The bus driver kindly dropped me off right in front of the store since the bus had emptied along the route and I was now the last passenger riding. The parking lot was packed. Well, Saturday afternoon, I thought, maybe folks are out enjoying their weekend. As I rounded the corner to the front door it appeared that the parking lot was not the only thing that was packed. There was a line out the door! I had to wait in line to go inside the Starbucks! A million thoughts ran through my mind, most of them beginning with "this would never happen at home." How absurd! There's a Starbucks on every corner at home, I could just go to the one down the street, or at home I would have the option of a walk-up or a drive-thru window. What was worse is that the young man in a green apron, who had definitely reached his quota of coffee for the day judging by his upbeat and overly pleasant demeanor, was sharing stats about the coffee, the company and its beginnings as he VERY slowly ushered the line along. I knew all that stuff, I'M FROM WASHINGTON, I AM STARBUCKS, I wanted to scream.

Twenty minutes later, a little worse for wear and now borderline homesick from the sheer frustration, it was finally my turn to order. I was wishing I had made up my mind on the bus ride, with the same menu (and the same prices) I have the same problem making a drink decision at home. After all it took to get there, I opted for a simple grande latte, no frills, no fuss. "Grande latte para Cristi," they announced, calling my name with Spanish pronunciation even before I finished paying. As I gathered my drink and a sleeve for that oh-so-familiar white cup I couldn't help but notice the clientele; entire families, little kids and adults in shiny shoes, dresses and slacks, several gentlemen in suits and ties, young women all made up and wearing heels that made my feet hurt just looking at them. In my t-shirt and jeans, hair in a messy bun and zero make-up, dirt under my fingernails from my visits to the rural communities, and a sinking feeling in my gut at the thought of spending what some earn after a 10 hour day toiling under the hot sun in the sugar cane fields on one cup of coffee, I most certainly did not fit here!

I left the store in a hurry and made my way to the bus stop recognizing that it was now getting late and I still had at least a half-hour ride home. I wondered to myself if the old adage wasn't true; can you really never go home again? I enjoyed every last drop of what, I must confess, truly was a taste of home, and I came to the conclusion that perhaps it's not that you can't go home again, it's that you can't go home the same.