I'm sitting in the Calistoga Village Bakery, sipping at a triple shot latte, watching the world go by. This is the second of what will eventually be three stops in which I begin my day this way. It's crazy busy for this early morning in a relatively small city. At least six other patrons sit, stand or wander around in a pre-caffeine daze trying to decide what to order. While I'm sipping at my coffee, seven more hit and run workers come in, get their coffee and leave, headed for their day. Starbuck's might consider this a good day, I don't know. I'm too wrapped up in the wonderful gentility of it all. Some people obviously know each other, while others are simply friendly.
As far as I can tell, I seem to be the only out of towner. A group of people at the table next to me clearly know each other, as do most of the folks who wander in.
The sun finally peeks over the Vaca Mountains east of town, lighting up Lincoln Ave in a new day. Almost all of the patrons have gone on to their lives, leaving the Village Bakery quiet again, save for the thrum of the refrigeration units and the music, which has now returned to the original gentle French ballads, again echoing the drop off the bakery's energy level. Tyra busies herself with tasks behind the counter, readying for what will be the next wave of guests in an hour or so.