It was mid morning, and the patrons of The Sunflower Diner had already made themselves comfortable.
They chattered over the soft jazz from the vintage jukebox, voices lifted by the rising steam of hot coffee. Eggs and bacon sizzled in the kitchen. The owner, a cheery middle-aged man with a receding hairline, stood behind the counter engrossed in conversation. An infant at a corner table laughed as it spilled a bowl of scrambled eggs onto the floor.
And a woman sat alone at a booth, smiling to herself she sipped the last of her coffee.
A large backpack sat across of her, poised upright as if another patron of the establishment. A digital camera, film camera, notebook, pens, and a few plates lay scattered on the wooden table. She absentmindedly swiped at a crumb on her lips, dabbed her hand on a napkin, and resumed thumbing the arrow buttons on her Nikon. Photos which she’d taken in the past couple months flashed in quick succession: old, young, middle aged people of various genders, race, political alignment—some in their homes, the streets, in cafes—any space they chose and felt that they could be intimate in. She paused at a photo of two women sitting side by side, loving gazes fixed on each other, made soft and unearthly by candlelight outside the frame.
“Hi, ma’m," A voice chimed to her right, "anything else for you? More coffee?”
After a beat, the woman at the table smiled and said with a indistinguishable lilt, ”Yes, that'd be lovely. And the check, please.”
“Sure thing.”
She placed the camera on the tabletop and leaned back, peeking out the window. Northampton was a lively city known for its counterculture, youth, and politically liberal leanings. Its personality announced itself the moment she arrived; she had been invited to a concert by the same lesbian couple that had helped her fix her car on the way here. She’d later interviewed them, delightfully surprised to find that they were the co-founders of an queer artist commune in the city.
The woman absentmindedly smoothed out the fabric of her longyi, a traditional Burmese wrap. It was adorned with an orange floral pattern with velvet blue lining that muted with the years, but retained a grace that her mother oft likened to “the spirit of our tiny, resilient country.”
She glanced up with a gentle thank you when the waitress dropped the tab and more coffee. Traveling had been easy on this side of the states. For the past couple months, she'd stayed with friends and family up and down the east coast, but the rest of America was a friend waiting to be made. She had never witnessed the deserts of Central US, the wild coasts and crags of California, the towering redwoods and graceful pines and grand mountains—this must have been how the first American pioneers felt, she mused, beyond their inhumane treatment of millions of Native Americans.
She stared out the window and thought of the past weeks; of the people that had welcomed her into their homes, of the all-too-human suffering and happiness she was privy to, and of future friends that would inevitably humble her.
The west was calling, and it was time to go.
They chattered over the soft jazz from the vintage jukebox, voices lifted by the rising steam of hot coffee. Eggs and bacon sizzled in the kitchen. The owner, a cheery middle-aged man with a receding hairline, stood behind the counter engrossed in conversation. An infant at a corner table laughed as it spilled a bowl of scrambled eggs onto the floor.
And a woman sat alone at a booth, smiling to herself she sipped the last of her coffee.
A large backpack sat across of her, poised upright as if another patron of the establishment. A digital camera, film camera, notebook, pens, and a few plates lay scattered on the wooden table. She absentmindedly swiped at a crumb on her lips, dabbed her hand on a napkin, and resumed thumbing the arrow buttons on her Nikon. Photos which she’d taken in the past couple months flashed in quick succession: old, young, middle aged people of various genders, race, political alignment—some in their homes, the streets, in cafes—any space they chose and felt that they could be intimate in. She paused at a photo of two women sitting side by side, loving gazes fixed on each other, made soft and unearthly by candlelight outside the frame.
“Hi, ma’m," A voice chimed to her right, "anything else for you? More coffee?”
After a beat, the woman at the table smiled and said with a indistinguishable lilt, ”Yes, that'd be lovely. And the check, please.”
“Sure thing.”
She placed the camera on the tabletop and leaned back, peeking out the window. Northampton was a lively city known for its counterculture, youth, and politically liberal leanings. Its personality announced itself the moment she arrived; she had been invited to a concert by the same lesbian couple that had helped her fix her car on the way here. She’d later interviewed them, delightfully surprised to find that they were the co-founders of an queer artist commune in the city.
The woman absentmindedly smoothed out the fabric of her longyi, a traditional Burmese wrap. It was adorned with an orange floral pattern with velvet blue lining that muted with the years, but retained a grace that her mother oft likened to “the spirit of our tiny, resilient country.”
She glanced up with a gentle thank you when the waitress dropped the tab and more coffee. Traveling had been easy on this side of the states. For the past couple months, she'd stayed with friends and family up and down the east coast, but the rest of America was a friend waiting to be made. She had never witnessed the deserts of Central US, the wild coasts and crags of California, the towering redwoods and graceful pines and grand mountains—this must have been how the first American pioneers felt, she mused, beyond their inhumane treatment of millions of Native Americans.
She stared out the window and thought of the past weeks; of the people that had welcomed her into their homes, of the all-too-human suffering and happiness she was privy to, and of future friends that would inevitably humble her.
The west was calling, and it was time to go.
