How a Coffee Shop Became My Refuge
When the simple act of being seen feels like home.
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For all its faults, Starbucks is still a cozy place.
The warmth of the space, the music in my ears (when it’s not turned up way too loud), and the smell of coffee and baked goods make it inviting. The staff are usually friendly, and some create that Cheers-like vibe where regulars are welcomed by name and a smile.
There’s plenty to criticize about Starbucks— or big corporate food and beverage chains in general. A lot of those critiques are valid, though some feel over the top. Still, these places fill gaps in our day-to-day lives. They offer things we’ve lost— spaces for connection, like those that disappeared along with local landmarks or as economies shifted. Cozy spots like these, or the chance to build community, are part of what they provide.
I think of the Tim Hortons just down the street, barely out of sight from where I’m sitting now. Before it was renovated, groups of older men used to gather on its steps to chat, play endless games of chess, and support each other in whatever ways they needed. While that sense of community probably existed with or without Tim Hortons, the café gave them a common ground— a public space where they could show up, be seen, and be acknowledged. Watching those chess-playing men as I walked or drove by reminded me that community still exists— even if it’s on the decline 1.
Steve MacDouell has written a lot about this kind of thing, usually focusing on locally owned coffee shops in his work with Strong Towns. But what Steve points out about the value of those spaces applies to places like Starbucks too. In some communities, Starbucks is the only option for a third place.
Of course, food and beverage spots acting as “third places” isn’t just about coffee shops. The Taco Bell Drawing Club is one example. And while it’s fictional, Cheers captured the essence of local bars that, for decades, anchored neighbourhoods across North America. These ideas aren’t new— they’re as old as time. Think of sipping coffee at a Parisian café or enjoying an afternoon drink at an Italian soda shop. These third places are what sociologist Ray Oldenburg called “great good places”.
It’s been a while since I’ve felt connected to any one place.
That’s a strange thing to admit, considering how much of my life I’ve spent trying to root myself in place (for example) or studying its importance (like this).
For the past five to ten years, though, I’ve felt increasingly disconnected from place. Owning a home has kept me anchored but away from the local sphere. Living just far enough from the city’s core means I’m not part of its daily energy. Getting older, along with former collaborators, has shifted priorities— family stability is now a necessity, not an option. And, let’s be honest, my energy isn’t what it used to be.
Still, even with all that, this Starbucks— of all places— has become a kind of refuge. It’s familiar. It feels like community. It’s a great good place.
As the seasons change— from summer to fall to winter— so do my morning drinks. I drink less coffee in the colder months, switching to big cups of tea. Tea brings a steady warmth that coffee can’t match.
One morning, I walked up to the counter, and the barista started ringing up my usual (grande decaf pour-over, black) without asking. I corrected them: “Actually, I’ll have a grande chai tea— just one bag.” They smiled, gave me a look of mock confusion, and said, “Oh, so now you’re changing your regular order after months of consistency?”
I’m not special— plenty of people order the same thing every day. My coffee order might stand out, but I don’t. And yet, being recognized by someone outside my usual circle, remembered for something small but personal, felt surprisingly meaningful. It was cozy.
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See also Bowling Alone and Join or Die.
