As I hang up my phone upon my entrance into Panache (“Abigail I’m going to have to let you go. I have to do this damn English assignment in peace.”), I hold the door for a young couple exiting the building. I step off of the sunny street side and into the dimly lit café, gently shoving my hands in my sundress’ deep cotton pockets to look a bit more nonchalant. There’s something about coffee houses that make me feel so insecure; I step up to the register to order, explaining that “I’m not quite sure what I want yet,” and asking “do you have any sandwiches?” The clerk laughs, nods, and points me in the direction of the small sandwich selection. I opt for a roast beef, veggie, and provolone, and slide the cool glass door to retrieve it and a granny smith apple. I place it on the counter and order a 20 oz. non-fat iced chai latte (the only order I’ve gotten down pat like a true café connoisseur).

As I reach into my bag to grab my wallet, the clerk walks to the other end of the counter to ring up my total. No wonder, there is no cash register in front of the spot I’m standing. Great, Alex—coolness-strike number one. I smile awkwardly, pay for my items, take my plate, and settle down at a table against the far wall. As I squeeze between chairs, a fairly attractive college boy looks up at me. Perhaps he was just admiring the plaid pattern of my dress, but a small part of me felt my coolness may have been momentarily redeemed.

Feeling a bit more confident, I sit, butt on the hard wooden frame of my chair, with my pencil and composition book in hand and begin to spy. Now, I don’t know if this would be an up in cool-factor or not. On one hand, I was doing something slightly stealthy and secretive. On the other, it was kind of creepy. But really, how does a person write an observational response to a coffee house visit without taking note of the fellow coffee-house-goers around her?

Of these people, the most attention-grabbing is a chatty girl with pretty hair sitting a few tables over from me. She wears a Hollister polo and is speaking to an older woman with kicky blonde hair and those kind of thick, I-am-a-big-deal glasses that are in style right now. She talks (loudly) about something with an urgency that falls somewhere between passionately explaining a problem at work to your boss and sharing friendship frustrations with your mother. Next to her is a young man—the stereotypical scruffy, studious college student type—reading a book about Islam. He is either very absorbed or very annoyed. Sitting at the table next to him is another scruffy-type, glancing over the top of his MacBook Pro at me every few minutes. Of course, the aforementioned “fairly attractive college boy” and his friend are seated right across from me, studying some sort of mathematics course that comes complete with huge textbooks and wrinkled brows. Several customers filter in an out as well, including an androgynous bicyclist, the owner of Rialto (who is bundled up in a fabulous military-style coat), three Technicolor hippie girls, a balding man strolling a bald baby, and a woman who bobbed along with the café’s music so much I wondered if she was dancing or had a twitch.

I sit like that in my wooden chair at my checkerboard-printed table—taking a bite of sandwich, glancing around, taking notes, taking a bite of apple, sipping my chai—for an hour. For that whole hour I am not distracted once, save the occasional glance at “fairly attractive college boy.” That’s the magic of independent coffee houses. You manage to feel like you are a part of this shared, hip experience—drinking coffee at this specific locale—but yet you are completely in your own world. You are vaguely aware of the worldly, genre-less playlist, the varied chatter, and even the fresh-roast aroma that gently flood the bistro, but yet are free to chat candidly with a friend, immerse yourself in world-religion, or dive face-first into complicated integrals.

Once only oat-speckled crusts and a fleshy white apple core are left on my plate, I gather my things and attempt to discretely scan the room for a trash can. I see one, silently thank God I didn’t have to ask anybody and risk the loss of my veneer, and throw out my garbage. In one last small fit of bravery, I purchase an Izze Sparkling Blackberry Juice for the road.

I step out onto the pavement and the sun hits my back, feeling a fraction warmer than it did when I entered. That strange kind of September breeze ripples the waves in my hair and makes my dress dance around my knees. With a delicate hand, I lift the glass lip to my own and swig. The blackberry juice sweetly stings my tongue, and as I lower the bottle, I feel cooler than ever.