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The class was purely just theories, but it was still significant. I always appreciated the chance to learn something new.
Taking note of my homework at the end of class, I was looking forward to the rest of my day as I had already made plans for the night. I tried to keep myself busy here in the States so that I didn’t have to go back home to Norway with my tail between my legs.
I wasn’t certain about my bold and cunning plan to move here, despite the brave front I put up for my parents. All I really had to do was point out how well my big brother Theo had done, going to America for a great opportunity, and they really couldn’t argue.
The only things they might have been able to say were that I wasn’t Theo and that there was no guarantee it would work out as well for me as it had for him. And it was a good thing they didn’t say either of those things. One would have been a backhanded insult, implying I wasn’t as good as him. The other would have been an obvious insult to my intellectual capacity.
Of course there was no guarantee! It was much like the rest of life— less a matter of getting what you give, than trying your best and doing what you could.
With no effective way to stop me, the parental figures had given their blessing for me to go stateside in pursuit of my dreams. I’d always been interested in music, raised with it at Theo’s knee. Since he was the oldest of the two of us by quite a bit, I couldn’t help but look up to him. My brother became like a mentor to me as I grew up.
Sometimes it seemed he had even become like a dad to me. The one we had was more than satisfactory, if a bit strict. It was mostly our mom who was the boss of the house, though, and whatever she said, went.
So, if she said I could go, it was as good as a royal decree. After all, I’d done what they wanted me to do and had obtained my undergraduate degree in Amsterdam. Where to do my masters was left up to me. Though, she did rather over-emphasize the fact that my room would still be waiting for me should I decide to come back.
I didn’t plan on going back, but stranger things had happened. Like my brother’s miraculous matrimony and bouncing bundle of joy. While not begrudging he or his wife Becca a second of their well-deserved bliss, I did feel a pang, almost like longing, when I thought about his transformation from single and carefree musician to committed husband and father.
Finally, the end of class was upon us, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Recitals are in two months,” the professor reminded us on our way out the door. “It is never too early to prepare.”
His words whistled through my ears like ghosts in a train tunnel. Or more like phantoms of potential failure haunting me from an unknown future.
Coffee— that was the thing I needed right now and, it seemed, always. It was a cure for all that failed, aside from anxiety and heart-murmurs, neither of which I’d developed, even after drinking the stuff since I was fifteen.
Theo told me early and clearly which cafés were best to frequent and what to ask for when I was there, to ensure I only ever got the very best coffee. Soon, I was as addicted to the stuff as he was!
Joining a line that seemed far too long for the middle of the day, I basked in the sweet scent of the coffeeshop. The nefarious bastards behind the counter were clearly making the beautiful aroma waft on purpose, to draw in customers off the street.
Sadly, though, there was nothing in America to hold up to true Dutch coffee, not even Van Houtte. It was a bit like how the Guinness tastes better in Ireland— a theory I confirmed for myself as soon as I was old enough to drink and travel.
As I trudged along in the line for my basic necessity of life as if I was in a Soviet bread-line, sweet relief grew closer, teasing and testing me with every step I took along the tile floor. My mouth barely worked due to all the anticipation by the time I finally made it to the front.
Finally, I was able to place my order and be rung up. A second, mercifully shorter wait was ahead of me, while they made my coffee. The art deco décor of the café did little to assuage my devouring need.
“Petra,” the barista called, and I hurried to pick up the coffee I’d waited so long for.
Chugging it down like a maniac, I powered out to my car, a second cup wedged safely in a takeout tray, my name scrawled across the front of it just as it was on the one I was drinking. Once I’d gotten my precious cargo into the front seat, it was down to the Sanctuary on an emergency call.
