Unless, of course, it was a rare book that you had recently purchased from one of the many -- now extinct -- rare book shops that lined the streets of Harvard Square!
In the late 'sixties and early ' seventies, the coffee shops of Harvard square were a moveable feast. Each had its own personality and clock. Some were fit for am only, others for the afternoon, and a very few for the evening. Back then I smoked cigarettes, European cigarettes only, purchased from leavitt and Pearce. I can thank the redoubtable Clive Foss for introducing me to the finest blond tobacco in the world wrapped in paper, oval shaped, but flatter, Pappastratos Hellas #1. They were to be smoked in daytime, and preferably at the nexus of Bow and Arrow street, the cafe Pamplona. That cafe was the nearest I ever got to Ernest Hemingway, as the cafe was owned and operated by a basque woman, josephena. She, of black eyes, black hair, aquiline face, and all of five feet. That crow black appearance gave the lie to her fac when it broke into a smile. She made the finest gazpacho, media Moche, and pastries that surpassed any I had eaten in Paris or Munich or Vienna. Cafe Pamplona was a below street affair which enhanced the sense of being away, and 'over there'. What Isabella stuart achieved in her magnificent and richly appointed museum, Josephine achieved in a walk down under of a flight of stairs. Her walls, as well as the supporting pillars were blessed with a white wash, a heavenly touch. There was a sketch on one of the walls drawn by one of josephena's devotees, of characters from 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'. Ensconced in that corner was a composer, confessed and professed, sheet music laid out before him, pen in hand, smile mightier than the pen, married to a nurse who was a true believer in Jim's craft, and talent, no doubt bequeathed to him by a turban wreathed Sikh, his Indian guru, picture of which hung heavily in the crammed Arlington apartment, and which stared down at me and my friend Ara while we strove mightily to suppress giggles that threatened to erupt and shake the tectonic plates of our lives. We were there because I had been invited by the composer to attend one of his Friday night soirree's, less soirée and more philosophical and searching and soulful. I had taken the second violinist of my quartet, as my bodyguard, all 5'4" of him, he the double for Oma r sharif. This has at least another ten pages of legs left in it, but, I will leave the rest to the imagination.
And if coffee were spilled onto a book, usually not a big deal.
ReplyDeleteUnless, of course, it was a rare book that you had recently purchased from one of the many -- now extinct -- rare book shops that lined the streets of Harvard Square!
DeleteIn the late 'sixties and early ' seventies, the coffee shops of Harvard square were a moveable feast. Each had its own personality and clock. Some were fit for am only, others for the afternoon, and a very few for the evening. Back then I smoked cigarettes, European cigarettes only, purchased from leavitt and Pearce. I can thank the redoubtable Clive Foss for introducing me to the finest blond tobacco in the world wrapped in paper, oval shaped, but flatter, Pappastratos Hellas #1. They were to be smoked in daytime, and preferably at the nexus of Bow and Arrow street, the cafe Pamplona. That cafe was the nearest I ever got to Ernest Hemingway, as the cafe was owned and operated by a basque woman, josephena. She, of black eyes, black hair, aquiline face, and all of five feet. That crow black appearance gave the lie to her fac when it broke into a smile. She made the finest gazpacho, media Moche, and pastries that surpassed any I had eaten in Paris or Munich or Vienna. Cafe Pamplona was a below street affair which enhanced the sense of being away, and 'over there'. What Isabella stuart achieved in her magnificent and richly appointed museum, Josephine achieved in a walk down under of a flight of stairs. Her walls, as well as the supporting pillars were blessed with a white wash, a heavenly touch. There was a sketch on one of the walls drawn by one of josephena's devotees, of characters from 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'. Ensconced in that corner was a composer, confessed and professed, sheet music laid out before him, pen in hand, smile mightier than the pen, married to a nurse who was a true believer in Jim's craft, and talent, no doubt bequeathed to him by a turban wreathed Sikh, his Indian guru, picture of which hung heavily in the crammed Arlington apartment, and which stared down at me and my friend Ara while we strove mightily to suppress giggles that threatened to erupt and shake the tectonic plates of our lives. We were there because I had been invited by the composer to attend one of his Friday night soirree's, less soirée and more philosophical and searching and soulful. I had taken the second violinist of my quartet, as my bodyguard, all 5'4" of him, he the double for Oma r sharif. This has at least another ten pages of legs left in it, but, I will leave the rest to the imagination.
ReplyDelete