Long Live Life

Every time I hear Viva la Vida, I like it a little more. I heard it yesterday again, sitting in a cozy corner booth of a breakfast diner mid-afternoon. Autumn has been settling in, here in New England. Outside, a brisk wind blew and the sky was obscured by thin puffs of clouds. Inside, it was warm and the food was hot.

A senior member of the solar electric vehicle team had brought three others and me to this diner. An older teammate had also brought him here for his first time, he said. This afternoon I was one of three freshmen being introduced to the omelets, homemade jam, and eclectic art that hung on the walls.

Situated on a side street to Mass Ave, the diner is a hole in the wall. Its size and outward decor is overwhelmed by the colorful muraled walls of the Middle Eastern restaurant across from it. On any other day by myself I would probably walk by and never notice it; or notice it, and never go in.

It wasn't rush hour for dining and most of the booths were empty. I went to the bathroom to wash the work dust off my hands and nearly tripped over a two-year-old going back to the table. I hadn't seen young children up close in a while. The boy tottered across my path and turned his head up to survey my face curiously. His mother yelled at him to get out of my way. I slid back into my seat. Music was playing in the background, and the first song that caught my ear was Chasing Cars.

We ordered; it was a while before the food came, so we talked. Mostly I listened. I had little of use to say, but there was much to learn from listening. I don't mean specs of the car or how to program the electronics, but rather where the team is and where it would like to go. I learned about these people I was working with by watching and listening to them talk. I liked them.

The art on the walls changes every week or so, and this week the theme was a bit unsettling, though interesting. To my right there was a ghastly-looking face, bleeding.

Fifteen, twenty minutes passed before the food arrived. First the two guys in front of me were served large steaming oval plates heaped with food, potatoes piled high on one side, toast on the other, eggs heaped in the center. Facing the window, I could see the steam rising against the backdrop of the grayish sky outside. A minute later my salmon-egg-and-cheese English muffin arrived with the same pile of hot potatoes. I could smell the starchy potatoes, and I dug into them first. They were soft but still solid, and crunchy on the sides browned at the bottom of the pan. The waitress returned to set a plate of jam on the table. It's homemade, remarked the guy who'd suggested the diner. I tried some. I'd tasted many jams, since my mom had a period of going nuts over blueberry jam, and this was better than anything I'd tasted before.

We were hungry, I think, having lunch at three-thirty. It was a heavy load of food for me, certainly not my usual fare, but I ate most of it. This must be what they call comfort food, I thought. I ate steadily, but even then I was the slowest to finish. I saw clean plates all around me. We worked out the bill, left a generous tip, and got up.


This story doesn't really have an ending, and in a way I'm glad it doesn't. It was an ordinary day. I just remember hearing Viva la Vida that afternoon in the diner, and in that moment the sounds and the way they made me feel, combined with the people and the place and the food, were in such harmony that the moment became a sensory snapshot. I felt grounded, warm, and content. I don't think I'll be able to hear that song now without recalling that place, and those people.