Medium roast...

Opinions on coffee get me in hot water.

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I’m a very opinionated man. My girlfriend and I met up to have a coffee earlier this week and upon discovering that our usual spot was closed, we ventured into the fresh daylight of Berlin to find a café willing to serve us. The one we found was suitably close to the train station, we only had an hour or so before our schedules demanded we spend our attention elsewhere. It was also shockingly expensive. I refocussed my attitude, deciding that this would be a treat rather than an unnecessarily costly excursion. We ordered our coffees and sat down, cold and eager. When our drinks arrived, I lifted my (very large) cup to my lips, closed my eyes, inhaled through my nose and took an expectant sip. Once I returned my cup to the table, I began discussing my take on the coffee with my girlfriend. My girlfriend may suggest, rightly so, that my speech more closely resembled a monologue than a discussion. The coffee was too acidic for my liking; I prefer a darker roast, but popular coffee houses like this often carry medium roasts for their inoffensive quality; I thought the service and product didn’t warrant the high price point; I found the serving sizes to be ridiculously large, my girlfriend’s cappuccino was almost half a litre. These are only a portion of the thoughts I shared with her. My girlfriend began laughing at my very serious, highly opinionated review of our café; she, in contrast, was simply happy to have a warm mug in her hands. After a little chatting, we determined that she, too, has strong viewpoints on fashion, design, literature, politics, the main difference between us seems to be that I am constantly communicating my opinions. Of which I have many.

While I communicated the many ways in which our newly discovered café fell short of my expectations, I don’t maintain that my perspective is the only one. I can imagine, for example, that someone else might love that café for its convenient location, extensive menu, fast service and vast seating. Maybe the coffee hits the spot. But that café hasn’t got what I’m looking for in a macchiato. When I only communicate my viewpoint—I usually do so with confidence and, occasionally, if the acidic coffee warrants it, vigour—I give the false impression that the thing I am communicating about, café or otherwise, is only valuable if I find it valuable. I forget, in my rants, that it may be important and valuable to others. I’ve run into this problem a few times: when my mom and I shop together and she shows me a shirt she likes, I’ll pull a face if I hate it. In my little, self important world, my honest opinion of the garment is of utmost importance and I forget that telling my mom how ugly the shirt she found me might affect her desire to help. I try to be more open and communicative when it comes to differing viewpoints in relationships. When I apologise to my mom for hurting her feelings while we were shopping together, for example, I try my best to tell her what I was thinking without suggesting that the way she thinks or feels is invalid. I try to set aside my self confident opinions in favour of empathy and humility.

Disliking a restaurant or café that a family member enjoys isn’t the end of the world, but I’m afraid my opinions don’t stop there. Of my multitudinous opinions, I  have strong feelings on how people should do their work, especially if we are colleagues. In the middle of my second year of university, I was given a group project with randomly assigned teammates. Of the five of us, I felt like only one other person seemed to put in the appropriate amount of effort. For context, we were in the thick of the COVID lockdowns, and any expression of teamwork had become difficult for absolutely everyone to manage. After every group video chat, I’d call the other like-minded student in my group to complain about my stress or wonder in disbelief at the teammates we were stuck with or plan our next steps to ensure that we completed our project. I concerned myself with the performance of everyone else in my group, believing that their effort was a reflection of mine, my reputation as a student was tied to theirs. Whenever their actions showed a lack of effort—if their designs were delayed, if they came off as careless—I felt let down.

Funny phrase, isn’t it? Let down. If I was looking for another way to write it, it would be disappointed; and when I hear let, I associate it with allow. I wonder, when someone doesn’t meet the expectations I set and I feel disappointed, if I have the option whether or not to allow their actions to influence my emotions. When I worked at a summer camp in the US, we occasionally had to do evening patrols. One night I was the first to sign in and when I signed out I noticed that of the forty something counsellors that were expected to do their rounds, I was the only one who bothered to show up. It was just my name on the sign in sheet. I was in disbelief, disappointed at the lack of commitment that my colleagues showed. Occasionally and seemingly unpredictably, my firm and ever-present opinions create high expectations, and when those expectations aren’t met, I struggle not to be emotionally affected. With my co-workers, with my teammates, the actions of others stirred bitterness into me. This week I managed to cope with a subpar coffee, but I’ve also had meltdowns because my burrito sprung a leak. Maybe I have the choice whether or not to allow that bitterness into my heart. I can’t control the strength of every cappuccino I’ll drink, I can’t control the actions of loved ones or strangers. All I can really control is how I respond. I wonder what happens if I decide that I won’t be let down?

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Hopefully our favourite café will be open next time. If you enjoyed this journal, please send it to someone you love.