A Third Space

The Thin Line Between Nostalgia and Evolution

The sun hasn't risen yet, but I've been awake for about twenty minutes, contemplating whether to return to sleep or enjoy the stillness before the songbirds start their chorus. It's 5 am, and though early mornings are not unfamiliar to me, being awake at this hour feels unusual, even for my routine.

Recently, I've noticed I only need six hours of sleep instead of my usual eight—a paradox considering the demanding workload and the stifling humidity of the current season, which would normally leave me feeling exhausted.

Most evenings, I find myself drifting off while reading around 11. Lately, though, I've traded novels for newsletters like ‘Come In for Tea’ by Shivani Kumar and articles on fashion and lifestyle from Portuguese publications, as my newfound obsession with learning the language deepens. I usually pair this with a small cup of chamomile tea and a slice of toasted pound cake—my recent morning ritual as well. However, it's always just a sentence or two before the end of my reading that I surrender to sleep, lulled into an almost comatose state.

Morning Glory by Danielle McKinney

Last night's quiet seems to linger even now, as the only audible presence is the occasional passing of cars on the nearby highway, each one on its own course. Among them, commuters are on their early morning journeys to distant jobs, their hands occupied with a cold bagel topped with cream cheese and jelly, and a steaming cup of coffee, navigating the dawn's quietude. Meanwhile, the radio likely broadcasts the local news, covering New York’s weather shifts, the latest contentious debates igniting national disbelief, and callers voicing diverse perspectives on current affairs.

In the car just behind, however, a different scene unfolds. Perhaps children peacefully doze in the back seat, despite earlier promises to stay awake for the entire journey. The driver, whether a parent or guardian, might softly hum to an early 2000s pop song by Colbie Caillat or the radio's morning pop tunes. I’d imagine they’re savoring a chilled coffee or tea procured from several states back, right?

With summer officially here, everyone is on the move, searching for their next third place—their home away from home, whether in another town, city, or country. Luckily, I live in a neighborhood rich with these spots: the local garden, several parks, bicycle paths, a local library, five community centers, numerous diners and cafes, plus a baseball field, basketball courts, and outdoor gyms. It's a community where most of us rise by 7 am and settle down by 10 pm.

Occasionally, a nameless figure I've yet to identify serenades us with 1960s jazz, stirring the neighborhood awake. It’s poignant because for about two decades, that figure was my grandfather—a man far from anonymous. Sometimes, I cherish the fact that someone has taken up his tradition, yet other times, it weighs on me. I wake up to his favorite tune and half-expect to see him outside, ready to wave good morning and scold me for working so far from home, despite it being just a few stops on the bus. There are days when I feel I might encounter him as soon as I step out my front door or walk into our former favorite cafe for breakfast. Passing by 'his' bench (named so because the townspeople want to engrave his name on it), I imagine him noticing my outfits—lately, a light turtleneck, satin pants, and a sweater draped over my shoulders—and I envision his approving smile.

I find myself thinking about him more often now than ever, especially during the transition from spring to summer, his favorite season, and during presidential years, which he always had strong opinions about. I wonder, if he were still here, would I still have a third place?

Growing up, it was the local cafe where the walls carried the lingering scent of burnt hazel and maple syrup by 8 am. This cafe held most of my childhood memories, especially with my grandparents. The broken radio often played soft rock or indie pop, loud enough to fill the space with music, but never drowning out the local gossip that, in hindsight, revolved around the elders in our community.

Between the ages of 5 and 12, I was steadfastly convinced that "Ms. Shirley" (not an actual person in my town—just a name used to depict a certain type) was the neighborhood "hoochie," confidently strutting in tight polyester dresses and red pumps, drawing everyone's attention and unapologetic about it. The stories I overheard painted her as the epitome of scandal: "I heard she slept with so-and-so’s husband, and the wife found out in the laundry," or "Well, I heard that’s how she got her new car, and I think she’s pregnant too." To my young self, Ms. Shirley was controversial, yet she added an element of excitement and fresh drama to my world.

I would often sit in our favorite booth, sipping on my grandma's orange juice and nibbling on the remnants of my grandad’s breakfast—toast, eggs, french fries, and bacon—secretly left for me despite his protests. As I listened to tales of people whose faces I never quite matched to the stories—Shirley’s, Robert’s, and John’s (all fictional names, I’m googling 1930-40s names as we speak, since my grandparents are from that era)— and this experience continued until about two years ago. This cafe bore witness to my grandparents nurturing me, imprinting their personalities upon mine. It heard me confide in them about my first crush, my high school acceptance, my university graduation dress, and even that random dispute at my first adult job.

This cafe witnessed my growth, but it also saw my grandparents evolve. One day, it was me seeking their guidance, and the next, it witnessed me supporting them, holding their arms as age made them more fragile, picking up their breakfast home because it became too risky for them to visit during the pandemic; and it was also there when I quietly informed their favorite waiters of my grandfather’s passing, a moment that led them to close the restaurant for days out of respect.

Now, it’s a place I seldom visit, reserved for reunions with childhood friends—those who understand my deep-rooted connection to the cafe and who share their own ties to it. It's not just my cafe; it's our town's cafe—a place where nearly every original patron stayed, raised their children, and watched them grow into adults who also became regulars. Now, my generation of townies has taken up the mantle, continuing this legacy.

Outside of this cafe, I'm uncertain where my third place might be—perhaps my bedroom, a space often mentioned because it's exclusively mine. Its color scheme has evolved from cream and toffee to black and burnt orange since [armonia’s] inception, yet the fresh plants still bring a sense of vitality.

In the early years, these walls often carried the lingering scent of akwadu (only familiar to longtime readers, but this was my favorite breakfast for a long time. It’s an Equatorial Guinean dish of baked plantain, sprinkled with cinnamon, orange juice, and shredded coconut). It was here that my passion for writing blossomed, growing as speaking became more burdensome after inadvertently picking up my mother's English stutter and slight Spanish lisp due to working from home. This was also where I processed an injury I hadn’t realized I was nursing, the end of several decade-long friendships, and the beginning of a new career.

Lately, both this room and I have been pondering what lies ahead. It has been witness to my journey from late teens to early adulthood and now into full adulthood. I often find myself reflecting on our relationship, especially as the demands of city life occupy more of my time. Regardless of personal changes, my room (let’s call her she) greets me each day with the lingering scent of vanilla. She embraces whatever new version of myself emerges but sometimes struggles to fully accommodate this evolving persona.

As I glance around, I occasionally feel a pang of guilt for not maintaining her as meticulously as before. While I tidy up daily, there's a difference between mere cleaning and truly caring for her, if that makes sense. The bed is always made, the floor scrubbed with vanilla-scented cleaner, the walls wiped down, and the mirrors polished. Yet, the decor may show signs of age, the pillows not as plump, and the stuffed animal slightly askew.

In my last entry, I touched on this idea—how my writing still strives to capture an aura that no longer resonates with me. The same can be said for my room. It holds an essence of slight naivety and curiosity, as if there are countless topics to explore and lessons to absorb. It reflects the spirit of my early twenties, when life felt fresh and possibilities seemed endless. But I've moved beyond that phase, not due to any single event or change, but because life isn't just beginning anymore; it's simply unfolding.

I once wrote, 'The beauty of a writer who pens words from an emotional space, revealing layers of their own psyche. Always honest, yet tinged with a subtle distortion. Eerily vulnerable.' At the time, it was about a book or an author I admired. Strangely, these words now seem to echo my current state of being: deeply connected yet detached, a paradox that occasionally feels surreal.

This week, my aim was to explore this paradoxical nature sparked by a conversation with a growing confidante. We reminisced about the 'red fruit' from the Pellegrino incident, pondered the distinction between being fully present in a moment for its own sake and being present to later transform it into art, and even had a fleeting panic over handling the latest iPhone (well, I panicked) before their reminder that I needed to write this week brought us back to unravel these complexities. However, instead of delving deeper into those themes, I found myself unexpectedly awake at 5 am, drawn into writing about the concept of third places.

Whether that means I believe this phase of conflicting emotions will eventually pass, or I’m simply ignoring my confidante’s advice so I can claim today’s entry as my own, who really knows? But I will say that right now, things are okay, and I’ll reflect on these moments of open sharing with you all, just as you've privately shared with me.

It's nearly 6 o'clock now, and thankfully (or maybe not?), the songbirds are beginning to wake. I suppose it's time to open my blinds and welcome the sunrise. I'll toast my slice of pound cake and boil water for chamomile tea. I'll likely make some spiced honey too for the tea while listening to music—lately, it's been Raveena's 'Where the Butterflies Go in the Rain' album.

And so, I'll begin my day.

Best,

S