Meeting of the Minds

Of all the places to hold the coveted title of ‘best third places,’ San Francisco has to be at the top of the heap. While London has its pubs, Paris, its sidewalk cafes, and Beijing, its teahouses, I haven’t found a spot that carries such a coveted history.

Down through the decades, the ‘old lady by the bay’ has attracted a wide swarth of the talented, troubled, possessed, dispossessed, and marginally-coherent individuals who gave the city its unique brand of literacy.

The Montgomery block, when constructed in 1852 on the bay shore survived earthquake and fire long enough to become San Francisco’s most illustrious literary landmark. More than two thousand creatives are reputed to have lived in the building over the years. Among the writers, Stoddard and Joaquin Miller had rooms and affairs there. Ambrose Bierce wrote his blistering ‘Prattler’ newspaper column there. Jack London stayed there near his friend George Sterling who had a room for his many secret amours.

Long before North Beach and the infamous Barbary Coast brought San Francisco to America’s attention, the disenfranchised creatives were gathered on the Montgomery block. South of the city, Monterey Bay, also became a literary hot spot.

Much like Carmel before it, the area attracted a wide swath of brilliant, troubled, talented, drugged out writers, artists, actors, anarchists, alchemists, and socialists.

Many years later, my mother lived and worked as a maid in the same fog-draped, wind-swept enclave known as 17-mile drive after the bohemians moved back to San Francisco. The Black Cat Café, located next to the Montgomery Block, was the most famous of bohemian hangouts during the 1930s right up until the Berkeley Renaissance of the late 1940s.

My brief exposure to the sights and sounds and aroma of post-beatnik, pre-hippie culture came from several jaunts to an old working-class neighborhood not far from the base. Haight Ashbury was just beginning to attract a younger crowd of Berkeley intellectuals, folkie drop outs, drug dealers and young people looking for the next big thing. I was just a lonely GI accompanying a seasoned veteran looking for weed and hippie chicks.

As a young enlisted man, the closest I got to those mid-Sixties social and cultural changes was working at the Larkin Theater in the Art District and watching a ton of foreign films. Barracks life exposed me, for the first time, to a wide swath of other life styles captured as we all were by two or more years in Uncle Sam’s Army.

Life in the barracks was but a brief moment in time when we were all young and stupid and far from home. Asinine antics, weed-smoking on the window sills and stupid horsing around were daily occurrences. It was a non-stop party we all knew would end all too soon.

As a motley collection of draftees, we all knew there were eventual transfers for all of us to other army bases far less permissive than the Presidio. So, while we were there, the collective mantra seemed to be ‘let’s be stupid now for who knows what our future holds?’

After the service, it was the Triangle Bar on the West Bank that gave me the same comfortable ambiance to continue my search for direction and a glimpse into my future. It wasn’t the Chelsea Hotel in the Village where my folk idols gathered but it was better than nothing.

Third places take many shapes and forms but all serve as a collective gathering spot for like-minded souls. Mine have come and gone, based on current writing projects, Sharon’s art classes and lucky accidental meetings.

The one coveted ‘third place’ I’ve only visited once was the Henry Miller Library in Big Sur. It played prominently in my last novel ‘Playground for the Devil.’ The kids and I stopped there on our tour of the West Coast a couple of years ago.

The place reeks of moldy paperbacks, old rag sheets, new literature, cook-out and sing-alongs on the back porch and a gathering spot for the eccentrics of the area.

Unfortunately, there are no third places in Palm Springs, at least not for me. A patio chair and coffee will have to suffice. Minnesota does better with my mulch garden hideaway, my ‘Coffee and Chat’ sessions and one coffeeshop in Norde East.

It’s not the same as other third places but it still provides an out-of-the-way place to collect my thoughts, jot down writing ideas and spend the quiet with other like-minded souls.

Palaces for the People

I’ve often rambled on about the ‘old men in the coffee shop.’ Unfortunately, or not, I have categorized them as a group of individuals who seldom listen, often interrupt and usually talk about their world in disparaging ways. This is not my kind of salon in any sense of the word. But if they’re happy with their verbal pursuits, all the more power to them.

These informal gathering spots are usually organic in nature. The shop opens, customers discover its relaxed atmosphere and friends are made and reinforced each week. It might be at a coffee shop, a bookstore, the Guitar Center, a nearby gym, or other gathering spots for like-minded individuals. Turns out, those old men at the coffee shop may be really into something. Their gathering around the coffee urn is a rather microscopic way of talking about social infrastructures.

A book called ‘Palaces for the People’ defines social Infrastructure’ as any place where civic engagement and social interaction take place. This includes public institutions like libraries, schools, playgrounds, parks and athletic fields. On a more personal level it could include coffee shops, street corners, courtyards, community gardens, and other green spaces.

Liquid refreshments are often at the core of other countries ‘third places and social infrastructure. The Germans have their beer halls. The French have their cafes. The Japanese have their izakaya’s and karaoke bars. Robust social infrastructure doesn’t just encourage social exchange, it can contribute to economic growth.

New York City has its High Line in lower Manhattan. The Beltline in Atlanta, Georgia is developing slowly but will ultimately repurpose a twenty-two-mile rail corridor circling the city into thirty-three miles of trails, as well as a string of parks, public artworks, and affordable housing projects.

Back in the 50s and 60s, the Twin Cities had its own version of social infrastructure around the University of Minnesota. Dinkytown and the West Bank were havens for the disenfranchised, disconnected and slumming students looking for a taste of ‘real life.’

Gathering spots around Dinkytown like the Ten O’Clock Scholar, the Purple Onion and The Extempore hosted a wide swath of students, Folkies and the mildly curious. The West Bank took it down a notch with dive bars, rooming houses and the holy grail of the bohemian mindset; the Triangle Bar.

My perch from which to explore this flip side of young adulthood was a rundown tired mansion on University Avenue. It had long since been turned into a rooming house / apartment building with dwelling units (if you could call them that) carved out of once posh showcase housing.

My history at the Triangle Bar was documented in one of my first novels ‘Love in the A Shau.’ The activities, discussions, schooner beer ventures and tokin' among friends all took place there for my protagonist Daniel and myself.

I was going through my ‘wanna be a hippie’ stage at that point in my life. Working two jobs, I found in the Triangle Bar, Art Theaters and writing poetry at night, a respite from the confusion still plaguing my wondering / wandering mindset. At this stage in my life, I no long have the Triangle Bar but I’ve got something just as good and more age-appropriate. My ‘third place’ has morphed into what I call my coffee and chat sessions.

The ‘third place’ is a setting beyond home and work; a place where people relax in good company and do so on a regular basis. Its origination is usually organic in nature, impromptu and unplanned. Folks start to talk to one another; thoughts and ideas are exchanged and those conversations morph into a pleasant experience for all the participants.

Now I’ve moved beyond that to my own third place and I’m loving it.  My third place began at Dunn Brothers but has now moved to my back porch, park settings, lake fronts, park shelters, etc. COVID-19 was the catalyst for this change. When meeting indoors was risky, I decided to test the outdoors instead. I’ve never looked back.

My Coffee and Chat sessions have grown over the last couple of years into something very special for me and my participants. My age group, especially among men, often times have limited resources for the kind of cerebral salon I find so inviting. There are just some subjects that men are more comfortable discussing among their peers even more so than with family and casual friends. The conversations can be deep, shallow, personal, impersonal, irrelevant, stupid, silly, crude, gross and ‘you were talking about what?..... but always engaging. And that’s the whole idea, an environment where folks can talk to intimates and never have to apologize for the subject matter.

Different folks, different backgrounds, different perspectives. We’ve managed to avoid talking about politics unless our views are in close alignment. Even then I’d rather talk about something fun, enjoyable, stimulating, thought-provoking or satisfying.

My friend, Bob, in California, loves to talk about his current writing projects and me about mine. We’ve found that our sharing critiques are really helpful in bringing a fresh perspective to any current project of ours. My friends back home bring a plethora of similar life experiences to our vernacular mix.

It may have taken me a lifetime to find pleasure and great value in cerebral discourse and exchange but I’ve got it now…and it’s a hoot.