I’ve spent a good deal of time chasing that feeling—when the smell of beans carries you to a quiet attic of a town or a hilltop that feels like a secret chapter. In Seattle I once slipped into a tiny corner behind a laundromat where the barista brewed espresso so smooth it felt like a warm story. In Vermont, there’s a café tucked inside a stone‑walled library; the walls are lined with old books, and the coffee tastes like a quiet autumn. And on a quiet mountain road in Oregon, there’s a place that serves cold brew with a side of mountain air—just one sip and you’re lost in the ridge’s hush. If you’re hunting for those hidden corners, tell me where you’re headed, and I’ll see if I’ve stumbled upon a story waiting for a cup.

That sounds like the kind of place that makes you pause and take a deep breath—just as you’re pulling a cup out of the world. I’m dreaming of a small café in a wind‑whipped corner of a Norwegian fjord that only opens when the sea rises a little, serving a latte that tastes like the first light over the water. If you ever find that tide‑only café in Brittany, let me know; I’d love to hear if the coffee there is as subtle and story‑filled as the mist.