God Bless Public Restrooms
At 6 a.m. I realized mistakes had been made. Curse Google Maps for showing me the hippest of the hippest coffee shops when all I had searched for was “coffee.” On any other occasion I imagine I would be delighted to find myself in such a hip place, but my needs were far more utilitarian than aesthetic that morning. My needs? Coffee. And a bathroom.
The reason for my dismay? Not the delicious smell of coffee, although perhaps the price of an 8 oz pour-over may have been a contributing factor. While Katy asked the barista (against my counsel) if they had syrups for her latte, (the answer was an amused but not quite snooty no) I had cased out the bathroom situation.
Naturally, a normal bathroom wouldn’t do for a world-class roastery like this. Instead of a normal room with a bathroom and sink they had opted for a giant apron-style multi-faucet sink outside the bathrooms, in plain view of everyone.
Well that backfired.
But so what, right? You can’t wash your face or brush your teeth. Suck it up.
But you see, at this point in the day I had been awake for 23 hours. The last food I had eaten was In-N-Out in Oregon. I had begun my day in Portland and driven through the night and now I was here, in cold San Fransisco, wearing athletic shorts and sandals. I felt like a scrub. I certainly looked like a scrub compared to everyone else there.
And at that point in the day, the washing of the face (and maybe teeth) had taken on an almost mythic power in my mind, where the simple act of splashing water and soap on the face had become synonymous with washing not only the dirt and oil away, but also the miles of driving, the fitful hour of rest in the car, the heavy morning air from the bay. Once I washed my face, I seemed to have convinced myself, I could really start the day.
But something told me whipping out my toothbrush or face wash in that communal apron sink was not going to fly. I carried my coffee upstairs while the other two took turns changing in the bathroom. I combed my hair while I waited for my turn. Emma did her makeup with the front facing phone camera as a mirror. Behind her, Katy laced on her shoes and pulled on a jacket. Piles of clothes and phone chargers lay on the giant reclaimed wood table next to our artful coffees. Around us, solitary hipsters pulled laptops from their backpacks and began working. I could feel their eyes sneaking glances at our hot mess of a table, but I didn’t really care. We were so far from fitting in it was liberating.
Of course, I had forgotten half of my clothes in the car, so I would just have to change in the car anyways.
And this is how I came to be spitting my toothpaste into a shrub on 7th Street, barefoot, as the throngs of San Fransisco morning commuters walked and drove past.
I got to wash my face at 11 p.m. It was almost as transcendent an experience as I had imagined it would be.
