the latte letters: dublin

recommendations tucked inside woes

Dearest friend,

At a 9 o’clock in the morning that should’ve been 4 a.m, I was sitting outside a Parisian-style cafe, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette with my Danish friend, Lia. I met her at Trinity’s hiking club (though I never actually hiked), and we’ve been pen pals since I moved back home. We’re laughing over lattes like we did a year ago, and while we sit and talk, I wonder how long it’ll be until I see her again.

Returning to Ireland’s fairest city to graduate feels like picking right back up where I left off: I never see the same face twice on the street, the weather and buses are reliably unreliable, and most importantly, my favorite coffeeshops are all the same.

My fixation with specific spots is obscenely territorial: I must’ve spent at least half my time in Dublin reading or writing in its extensive haven of charming cafes. Thus, I must revisit all of them, undertaking an unknowingly bittersweet crawl through a suddenly old life.

I flew into the country at a 5 a.m that my body swore was midnight. Catching the bus into the city center is a slog of its own: striding through oddly strong winds, throwing incorrect change in the bus’s coin reader yet boarding regardless, and exiting at an unfamiliar stop on Dame Street. I headed straight to Shoe Lane Café, the perfect spot to watch morning shadows soften into daylight. Dublin prefers to wake up slowly, but Shoe Lane long obliged my American sensibilities by opening at 6 a.m.

It waits for me on Tara Street beside the Liffey, off Pearse Street, under ten minutes walking from Trinity. Mist sprinkles on and off from heavy clouds. Shoe Lane’s baristas laugh like friends as they work, and my latte is ready before I turn to walk upstairs.

Its second floor window panes divide a white, unreadable sky, and provide plenty of light on even the gloomiest days. I eat half a scone and finish a thankfully strong latte that fuels me for the journey towards my next one.

I’d never been to Chez Max before, but I enjoy quiet places run by owners who spread paperwork across unused tables, only leaving their post to chain-smoke cigarettes and chat with regulars on the street. Lia was one of those regulars, and she moved us to a table outside—I thought I heard her speak French with the owner to inform him.

Shortly before flying out to London, Lia updates me on the Trinity debate scene, shares her views on world politics, and tells me about the Irishman she’s close to breaking up with. Lia hails from Copenhagen, and aims to return there as a post-grad. He, on the other hand, will likely never leave.

I wonder if, for both of us, Dublin will become the shoe of a foregone fashion, the kind that will always fit; sometimes uncomfortably, sometimes like it was specially tailored, whenever we try it on for size. Walking side-by-side towards Trinity’s BLU libraries, I notice this city still suits me perfectly.

Once we part ways, I journey over to Pearse Street to visit Cloud Picker. It looms beside the gym I used to visit nearly every morning, offering an ever-enticing reward for my efforts. Now without a workout under my belt, I watch the same specialty third-wave-coffee technology dispense milk and espresso to preconfigured measurements. These machines make perfect lattes every time, and while there’s less personality to the process, it may as well be the best espresso I’ve tasted in the city. Only a short walk away stands the famous Bread 41, where croissants are second to none. (You won’t regret visiting both in the same go.)

I spent hours writing at Trinity that afternoon, blending into a room of tired students on their laptops, trying not to feel like an imposter of myself. I later pace through shops on Grafton Street, St. Stephen’s Green, and across the campus that I’ll be able to call my alma mater. I might’ve felt like I was floating if heavy luggage wasn’t strapped to my back.

On the bus to breakfast the next morning, I notice the apartment that planted the seed of my dreams pass by in a red brick wave. Years earlier, I was driving a rented car through my first time in the city and was stunned by the overwhelming desire to have my own Dublin apartment of the same caliber: it’s one of several brick apartments in a row, uniquely accented with a bright red door. This desire motivated me to apply to Trinity months later.

The bus soon passes the main road I lived on a year ago, so close to this fantasy catalyst apartment. I briefly debate getting off the bus and walking to my old flat for old time’s sake. While dingy and makeshift, it was also the last installment of several tall brick apartments; the only one with a red front door.

Rather than loiter in front of memories, I exit the bus at Blessington Street so I could eat in one: Lovinspoon. It’s my favorite breakfast place in the world: you pay 11.50 for a fried egg with baked beans, toast, sausages and rashers. Plus, of course, a latte to wash it down.

The restaurant’s owner looks like Ewan McGregor, and he’s always busy working behind the counter. He makes earnest conversation with everyone who enters. When I mention my reason for coming while paying, he says the weather should hold up nicely for the ceremony.

His premonition was right, but sunshine broke into hard rain only 15 minutes after we all threw our caps into the air.

The breakfasts keep me coming back, but this time he brought me a latte that tasted like the first I ever ordered there, landing in Dublin for the first time and with no idea what to expect from the visit. It made me feel so nostalgic, I couldn’t finish it.

Until Edinburgh,

Constanze