Starbucks

When I lived in Madrid, I felt guilty every time I wanted to do something "American": Speak English, use a clothes dryer, walk while eating a sandwich... and especially wanting to stop by Starbucks.  But anyone who has made a big move can tell you that homesickness kicks in a few months after the initial relocation.  When your friends back home have stopped revolving their schedule around your Skype dates, after the adrenaline of the adventure starts to drain, homesickness lurks in the darkness waiting for his debut.

When this happened to me in Madrid, I gave in and went to Starbucks.  There, I would drink out of a paper cup, hear English chatter, and have my grande skinny hazelnut latte that tasted exactly like home (even if my name wasn't spelled correctly on the side of it).  Maybe that was when Starbucks started to feel like home to me.  It was an inexplicable source of comfort, and I learned to seek it out when my Spanish bravado was wearing thin.

Today, when I sank into a leather couch at a downtown Anchorage Starbucks, I recalled the countless times I've done the same thing in so many cities around the world, taking joy in one token of familiarity while every other tangible thing in my life was slipping away.  I could close my eyes and imagine I was in any city I wanted to be in. I know that, as a good liberal girl, I'm not supposed to love Starbucks... but I do.  Maybe I walked away from warm sunny beaches and California burritos and the best friends a girl could ask for... but I'm keeping my hazelnut latte.