The Middlewesterner

THE MORNING NEWS

Kristina's Cafe, Ripon, Wisconsin, December 4, 2006

On Monday, while waiting for a prescription to be filled across the street, I stopped for a quick breakfast at Kristina's Cafe. It was about 8:40 a.m., and I caught the cafe during its coffee klatch. There were five men and two women sitting at the tables near the front of the place. They were having coffee and talking. The women sat catty-corner from one another. One of the women had her back to me. I was in a position to observe the other woman.

This was coffee klatch. Nothing of much consequence was getting discussed. "What's John doing now?" one of them asked. "How was your trip back?" another wanted to know.

"We stayed in Nevada an extra day because of the storm."

"How were the roads?"

"If I had a dollar for every set of tracks we saw run off into the ditch," the traveler said, "I'd be a rich man. But we didn't have any problem."

I wasn't really eavesdropping. From where I was sitting, I had to strain to hear what people in the group were saying - strain, and read lips. Mostly this was an opportunity to observe body language and facial expressions.

I could see the woman at the far end of the bunch, and her face was lively. I didn't know what she was saying or hearing, yet I could tell when she was especially interested, or when she was dismissing what she was hearing. Her eyes said it; her lips spoke without sound. A raised eyebrow, a tilt of the head. She licked her lips with her tongue, licked them again.

The men, in contrast, did not give anything away with their faces. These were friends having coffee, but to look at them, they might have been playing a million dollar poker hand. They sat straight-faced, expressionless for the most part, reserved as statues. They moved their eyes to look at each other, but rarely turned their heads. They never leaned into the conversation; they seldom even nodded. Sometimes the only response they made to something someone said was a little twinkle of the eye. A psychologist might say these men had pretty flat affects. That's how I'd put it. You know they are friends; you know they were enjoying the conversation; yet their expressions didn't show it.

An anthropologist sitting in my place having breakfast might have been taken with such a difference in expressiveness between the men and that woman. Such an anthropologist might wonder whether the woman at the end of the table was an outlier; whether she was simply more expressive than everyone else in the culture and not fully representative of her gender. So he would watch other women whose faces he could see: were they more expressive than the men? The answer would have been Yes. Perhaps not so vividly expressive as that woman at the far end of the coffee klatch, but the other females in Kristina's on that Monday morning did investment themselves more fully in their conversations than any of the men did.

The fellow on this side of the table at the far end got up to pay his check. The woman who'd had her back to me got up and moved down the line, to sit across from the other woman in the group. Now I could see half her face as she talked, and I could see that half her face was five times more expressive than any of the men's.

Yes, the anthropologist in my booth would have concluded, the difference in expressiveness might be related to gender.

The fellow who had gotten up from the far end came back to get his coat. The woman who'd taken his seat said, "I took your chair," as if the chair belonged to him and not to the establishment.

"Well," the fellow said, "I got it warmed up for you."

NOTES FROM THE VAGABOND JOURNAL: KRISTINA'S CAFE, RIPON, WISCONSIN JANUARY 30, 2004 - 4

They're talking about the bitter

cold weather over at one of the booths, the fellow sitting down, another standing there who'd stopped to say hello. The cold?

"February is a short month," one of them says. "March is a lamb sometimes."

"Yeah," the other fellow admits, "we've been through it before.

"Have a seat anywhere you can find one," my waitress says to a couple who've just come in.

"You need coffee before you start out?" she wants to know.

"Both de-caf?" she asks.

She brings my piece of pie and a scoop of ice cream. She brings more coffee. She brings my bill. I leave a good tip on the table, pay at the cash register, snug my coat around me.

I see that the woman in the blue sweater has nearly finished her meal. Soon they'll leave, the two of them. Their missing friend? You wonder. A phonebook still sits at the end of their table, though you have to believe they've given up the notion of having lunch with their absent friend today.

And me? My breath fogs as I step outside. I follow the fog of it to my car. I've been fed, well-served, sated.

NOTES FROM THE VAGABOND JOURNAL: KRISTINA'S CAFE, RIPON, WISCONSIN JANUARY 30, 2004 - 3

A pair of businessmen

have come in and they take a booth that has just been cleaned up. "You need coffee today?" the waitress asks.

"No," one says. "No," says the other. Later I overhear them talking shop - "That line should be the slowest."

The woman in the blue sweater pulls a cell phone out of her coat, flips it open, hands it to her friend who asks the waitress for a phone book. Now they're worried, I think.

An old couple comes in bickering about where to sit. The fellow isn't going to sit back in the smoking area, no, he's not. The woman sits at the far side of a table. The old man sits beside her at the far side of another table. She gets up and sits on this side of the table. He slides over to where she'd been sitting.

"I'm not going to sit with my back to the door," he says. I notice his right hand is missing. "You sit there."

The young enthusiastic waitress brings them menus. "You got a man?" the old woman asks her.

"Yes, I do," the waitress says.

"If he gives you a hard time," the old woman says, "give it to him back." To her own man she says, "If I wanted to sit here, you'd have me sit there." When a booth empties along the wall in the non-smoking area, the couple moves to it.

The level of sound in Kristina's rises and falls. People come and go. Some say hello to each other in passing.

"My Baby Is American-Made" is playing now over in the waitress work area.

To be continued....

NOTES FROM THE VAGABOND JOURNAL KRISTINA'S CAFE, RIPON, WISCONSIN JANUARY 30, 2004 - 2

I get my coffee refilled

even before I can see the bottom.

A friend of the woman in the blue sweater comes in. She doesn't want to sit so close to the door. Let's see, did I say it was cold? The woman in the blue sweater says she picked the table in order to stay away from the smoking area. They move to a booth farther from the door, closer to the smoking. They sit waiting for a third person to join them, even as the waitress asks if she can take their order.

A fellow I worked with at the printers for many years makes his way to the cash register to pay his bill; he comes forward to the front door and we make small talk for a bit. He leans on his crutches as he talks. He'd gone to the VA to have a knee joint replaced: he ended up losing half his leg. You have to admire a man who doesn't let his bad fortune get him down. He leaves when my tall, gangly, enthusiastic waitress checks to see that I'm satisfied with my soup.

The woman in the blue sweater and her friend give up waiting for the third friend to show up. They order their meals.

I can hear the trucker song "Convoy" playing on the radio in the waitresses' work area. Working people work here.

Old people eat here. Here and there a walker is pushed under a table or behind a chair until it is needed.

"You need anything else then?" I hear my waitress ask an old couple. "I'll get your ticket right away."

More coffee gets poured into my cup.

Another waitress, farther off: "I'll get that for you right away."

"You need anything else?"

I'm half done with my hamburger and fries and my waitress wants to know what else she can do for me. I tell her about this dream of vanilla ice cream and cherry pie I have. She says "Let me know as soon as you're ready for it. I could warm that pie for you."

To be continued....

NOTES FROM THE VAGABOND JOURNAL: KRISTINA'S CAFE, RIPON, WISCONSIN JANUARY 30, 2004 - 1

Did I say it was cold?

Someone in Ripon told me it was -16 or -17 degrees on her thermometer. It's still cold as I head to lunch at Kirstina's Cafe downtown. At the entrance, moisture has frosted on the inside of a big window. "D-L-O-C" someone has scratched out in the frost from the inside, where of course the message reads "C-O-L-D."

There is a small table not far inside the front door, suitable for a lone duck like me. A woman sits at a table for four farther in. She wears her hair short, her blue sweater thick. She has a coke and three glasses of water in front of her. She wears the distant look of someone waiting for other people to show up.

I've only pulled my chair out, I haven't even got my coat off yet, and the young waitress is asking if I'd like coffee. She pours it quicker than I can sit down. When I sit down, it is with my back to the door.

The place is busy, but it's not crazy-busy. I've been here other times when you had to wait for a table or booth to clear before you could sit down. Today there are a few empty places.

The level of noise rises and falls as people come and go. Some finish their meal and leave; others come in, rub their hands to warm them up, take the empty place.

It's Kristina's Cafe - "You've Tried the Rest; Now Try the Best" the sign says.

All around, the lower portion of wall is wood; the upper portion above the wood is wallpaper with a fabric feel and look to it. The chairs are blue-green; the carpet on the floor is blue, green, and red. There is a smoking area in the back half of the restaurant, closer to the kitchen. Framed art is hung along the wall off to my right; above the row of booths there, an eagle, a peacock, a still-life of a dried arrangement, and a plate with a duck painted on it.

To be continued....