Michalis Michaelides
In the coffee shops of the Cypriot countryside, the atmosphere is shaped by the conversation. Every time, in fact, it is different, depending on what people are talking about.
One of my strongest childhood memories is summer holidays in the village. Part of that memory is definitely the hours we used to spend every day at Stavroula’s coffee shop.
The village “coffee lady” was, without a doubt, a larger-than-life figure. At the same time, she could be wrapping sheftalies, making coffees, breaking change for the arcade machines, serving us ice cream in cones, stocking beers in the fridge, and welcoming every new customer who walked through the doors of the center known as “Dasaki.”
Shortly after she passed away, the coffee shop faded. The colorful hydrangeas dried up, and with them went the liveliness that defined the most central spot in the village. Despite occasional efforts over the years, no one managed to fully bring back that atmosphere or win over passers-by and locals again. I am someone who believes in collectiveness and teamwork, but I also strongly believe in human energy. One person is always enough to make a difference, whether we are talking about running an entire country or managing a small village coffee shop.
Coffee shops are vital for village life. In fact, they are not even just businesses. Like the cafés of Enlightenment-era Europe and the “literary cafés” of Athens, traditional cafés in villages and towns have always played an important role, as they are places where meaningful dialogue and interesting conversations emerge.
Most of the time they are simple spaces, with little decoration beyond faces stuck on the walls, heroes and politicians, saints, even well-known celebrities. But the atmosphere is created by the people through conversation. Whether it is social and political debate or football talk. “Atmosphere is created through conversation, and every time it is different depending on the content of that conversation,” Manos Hadjidakis once said in a video speaking about the “literary cafés” of Athens. And that, in many ways, also describes traditional Cypriot cafés.
I would say that if childhood is defined by what we felt, by accumulated sensations, as poet Titos Patrikios describes them, then the equation of my own childhood memories and my later relationship with the village definitely includes many hours in the coffee shop. Playing arcade games, table football, billiards, casual evening meals, relaxed Sunday mornings after church, zivania around the wood stove, music nights, festivals, long easy conversations, and short stops for coffee.
The news that the coffee shop is likely to reopen is, I believe, the most important development for the community in years. I am looking forward to having coffee again on a Sunday morning, eating souvlaki with a cold beer on a summer night, and buying ice cream cones for my children.
A coffee shop and a good taverna always act as magnets for rural villages and play a real role in promoting them, perhaps more than any other effort to put them on the map.
