I spilled my coffee on the pavement as I left the coffee shop. I tried my best to be cool, I swear. With my thrift store bandana and denim “Rescue the World” backpack, I balanced my overfilled latte and pushed the glass door. I thought I was safely out until my backpack strap — the one not pretenciously hanging from one shoulder but laying in wait for my demise — snagged on the door’s jutting handle. I panicked, naturally, and stradled my cup in one hand while reaching behind me with the other to release myself from the increasing embaraassment.

A family of five just walked by. Race unknown. One of the four little girls looked at me, her big toddler eyes framed by an innocent brown bob.Children always look at me. I always look back.

There’s a swiggly black hair in my mug. It could be from the antebellum-esqe beard of the barista who recommeneded the latte. He was nice enough. I drink his hair without complaint.

Clark Street runs mostly parallel to Ashland. Where they meet and conjoin is a little coffee shop called The Coffee Studio; it lies on the corner of Olive Avenue.

There’s an antique shop across Olive that I accidently took for a maker and seller of coffee. (Who knows with coffee places — it’s so easy to mistake any trendy/rustic establishment for a coffee place. Everyone knows half of a good cup is a good atmosphere.) My ignorance gave away my cover, my disguise as a young Chicagoan was destroyed.

A Palestinian man in the shop realized this; told me so as we drank our coffee. He approached me at my table outside the door and asked me if he could sit with me. I said yes. The next hour we talked about the formation of the State of Israel, American-Middle Eastern relations, and the solidarity of Chicagoans. All this I wrote down. Be prepared for a exposé.