A Stranger, A Journey, A Coffee, A Tale of Survival

That random morning, in an alley coffee shop, I walked away with more than just a taste of Tijuana's coffee culture. I walked away with one man’s story etched into my memory.

Tijuana. A city known for many things, but I had never pegged it as a beacon of coffee enlightenment. I ambled down one street and then another and then another with no destination in sight but with one singular purpose of coffee sitting on my morning foggy brain. I turned down a graffiti-laced alley and an intoxicating aroma of roasting beans cut through the usual olfactory cocktail of street food and car exhaust. I followed my nose, a keen sense of chocolate and hazelnut leading me further into the unknown and found myself standing in front of a worn, nondescript door with the only indication of its purpose being a humble, hand-painted sign that read "Café" etched deep into the weathered wood. I stepped into a dimly lit room where an ancient espresso machine sat like a grizzled veteran, scars of time and use adorning its rustic metallic body. This was a machine that worked for a living pumping out espresso drink after espresso drink year after year for countless, happily waiting patrons. The barista, a young woman with a tattoo of a coffee plant winding up her arm and a dragon winding down from her other shoulder welcomed me with a knowing smile and a tilt of her head. I'd found an oasis, an unexpected sanctuary in this chaotic city where the sacred ritual of coffee brewing was celebrated with reverence and the craft held to magnificent standards.

I stood waiting for my cappuccino, marveling at this old rustic coffee shop, its unfinished wooden shelves, uneven and unpainted, stacked with an eclectic array of coffee wares including pour over pots, filters and glassware. I inhaled deeply, the aroma of beans roasting in the backroom was intoxicating and the warm, comforting scent of fresh-brewed coffee tickled my senses. The small shop was a mosaic of stories, each patron carrying an unseen load, a tale of life that was as rich as the espresso that was being served. Among the patrons waiting their turn in line, one man standing behind me drew my attention, his face reflecting a kind of resilience that spoke volumes. His eyes were the “tell” carrying a weariness and a heaviness that was both unsettling and compelling, a testament to a journey that started far away in the violence-ridden landscape of his home. I turned around, smiled and greeted him warmly. He spoke no English, but we managed to pass greetings in Spanish and struck up a conversation to pass the time in line as we waited patiently for our beverages.

He accepted my offer of coffee with a gracious nod, his weathered hands wrapping around the steaming cup like it was a lifeline. We began to talk, and his story unfolded like a tragic novella. He was a Honduran migrant, stuck at this border town, a literal stone's throw and long glance from the promise of a new life. His homeland had become a playground for drug cartels and his family's life a daily gauntlet of fear and violence. The story that he told me was not one of choice, rather it was one of necessity. The threat of violence was a commonplace occurrence and the fear was as pervasive as the humid air. He spoke with a tremor in his voice, a haunting echo of the terror that had seeped into his bones and had propelled him to pack up and leave the familiarity of his homeland. The local barrio had been painted with blood too often and he had finally decided that the price of staying was too steep preferring instead to brave the trek into the unknown.

Escaping Honduras was not a journey for the faint of heart, and he told his tale with a stoic calm that belied the horrors of his experience. They fled under the cover of darkness grouped for safety with others who dared to take that chance elsewhere, a long line of hushed whispers and muffled tears. His wife and children clung to him, their hopes and dreams bundled into tattered backpacks taking only with them what they could easily carry and leaving everything else of value behind. The echoes of gunshots were their cruel send-off, an auditory reminder of the nightmare they were leaving behind. He didn't dwell on the details, but his narrative was punctuated by dark allusions of narrow escapes, nights spent under the open sky, the sacrifice of leaving behind all that was familiar for the promise of safety. He, his wife and two young children pressed northward with others around them in a similar circumstance running from the shadow of the cartels, hoping that each day would bring them closer to freedom, closer to security, sanctuary and refuge.