So I should be in bed already. I'm tired, even, and would quite possibly fall asleep soon based on this week's sleeping patterns. But there's the matter of the undone laundry, and if I go to bed now I won't have any socks tomorrow. So the washer's going and I'm here. When I can throw the whites in the dryer I'll go to bed.

Anyway, I was thinking more about this coffee thing. I wasn't always a coffee drinker. I can actually name the date I started drinking coffee: 26 December 1991.

I had taken a class in German at Tulsa Junior College that previous summer taught by a mulatto whose mother was German, and whose father was a black soldier who had been stationed in Germany. Due to the color of his skin he was often persecuted in and around school, and as a result throughout his childhood he moved back and forth from his mother's hometown in Germany (Selb, on the border with what was then Czechoslovakia) to his father's hometown in the states (Tulsa). He maintained strong ties to both cities and while he lived in Tulsa and worked in a brokerage, he flew back to Germany whenever time and money allowed.

It turned out that one of his travel tricks was to start watching airfaires around September, as the airlines would deeply discount fares at that time for certain holiday dates that hadn't filled up yet. He was persuaded to see about arranging a trip for those of us in the class who might be able to go, and when the tickets became available ($340 r/t from Tulsa to Frankfurt) several of us jumped at the opportunity. The catch, of course, was that we flew out at noon on Christmas and flew back the second of January.

So the group of us made our arrangements, and Herr Richardson (for that was his name) got several families in Selb to volunteer to host some of us as their guests for the week. The trip involved flying to Frankfurt (an overnighter), picking up rental cars there, and then driving across the width of southern Germany to get to Selb. There was a combination of snow, rain, freezing rain, and sleet the entire day, and it took us about 6 hours of driving to get to our final destination.

Our host family (several of us stayed in one house, which had three guest bedrooms in the basement) had prepared a table full of cakes and pastries (much as you'd see for afternoon tea) and offered us coffee as soon as we'd gotten our coats removed.

I couldn't say no. I can see it now, "no thanks, I've traveled all this way to spend the week in your house, and I'd like to take this opportunity to start off on the wrong foot by turning down your hospitality." That would have gone over really well. So regardless of the fact that I didn't like coffee up to that point, I was in for it.

So I took the proffered mug, added a dollop of milk and a spoon or two of sugar, and drank. The rest, as they say, is history.

Once I discovered that coffee elsewhere tasted something like it smelled (I'd always thought coffee was a cruel joke, smelling so good and then tasting so brackish) I set out on a mission back in the states to find a source for good coffee. Luckily I didn't have to look too far, as my friend Ben worked for a coffee roaster and he kept me in good supply of freshly roasted beans.

Of course, that was three cities ago and Ben hasn't worked for the coffee roaster in probably 8 years now. I've been through several other sources for beans (I'm sure my coffee club member card at Mecca (you can find anything on the web) is still in their little file box with all my pounds of Kenya AA, Viennese Roast, and the oddly described Danish Breakfast recorded, and damn Roasters on the Hill for going out of business) but I'm still as fussy about my coffee as I was when I started drinking the stuff in the first place.

Washer's done. I'm gonna dry my socks and go to bed.

(2000-03-02)