I long for Leipers Fork—a scattering of homespun businesses on a Tennessee knoll next to nowhere. It’s a setting where a tune can grab your soul before your soul grabs you.

Where the original Puckett’s with its worn wooden sign and chipped enameled tables is dependable for an oversized under-priced lunch. Where the beef isn’t from Balco, and the cashier’s forearms reveal farm heritage.

When pressures mount or thoughts flow slowly, there’s a place where people move slowly and thoughts form freely. Where ranchers, musicians, and assorted hill folk all converge. Where Marty will forego selling her antiques to listen to an unannounced celebrity practice in her shop’s corner.

With occasional fantasy, my thoughts rush from a piled desk in Indiana to Tennessee back country. From the hustle bustle of the city to the hush of highway 46. From pixels and USB add-ons to plain pancakes and Back Alley coffee. To a place where both dented pickups and mint Cadillacs sport drivers in Carharts. And where the orange “General” is parked with pride.

There’s a lure to write from an unattainable perch on a pristine hillside. A dream to occupy the stately burnt orange building likely bound for another antique shop. In a different world perhaps, where such simple settings aren’t beyond the wallets of mid-range authors—a reality at tension with everything of dreams. But the longing hits me all the same.

I’m from the backwaters of Buck Creek, Indiana. Unlike Leipers Fork, the majesty is all but gone. I long for the life-filled days of youth, running the neighboring creek, tipping cows, and mushrooming in the spring. But Buck Creek is more a place to write about than to write from. It’s in my memories more than in reality. The businesses have all but gone. The fading elevator still speaks of a glorious past. A lone Methodist church still presents its stained glass and sustained class. And across from the nearly forgotten cemetery is a Little League diamond that dots the same spot once overshadowed by the bulky Buck Creek School.

But the red bricks, maypole, stately steps and flagpole are no more. The blacksmith shop has long since cooled its fires. No barbershop pole. No store. No electric rail car. No mystic lure. In my Buck Creek columns I describe nonexistent scenes, rare Norman Rockwell places remain visible. Places like the hint of a village just a few turns from Franklin, Tennessee. (www.indwes.edu/buckcreek )

Yes, Leipers Fork is simple and rustic, yet somehow real. A place that is pleasant for tourists, though not inviting them to establish camp. A hidden place, though everyone’s secret.

I long for Leipers Fork on this busiest of days—not to write about, but from.

My favorite farm is the not the majestic palatial estate of Alan Jackson, the hidden lodge of Michael W. Smith, or Tobymac's stately piece of national heritage. It’s not even the pristine yellow quasi-Victorian Tanya Tucker place en route to the big city. I’d love to sit and sip stiff coffee in any of these and write my days away. But just a stout hound dog run from Leipers is the smaller Judd ranch. Though divorce has changed the occupants a bit—the setting still exudes a simple serene slowdown pace.

Yes, it’s beyond my means, but it remains a picture of serenity. An image this blogg-crazed, caffeine juiced, fast paced millennial student world desperately needs. The sign still hangs—“Keep off the grass.” For me, the lure isn’t the celebrity connection but the sight of a quaint manageable house, tidy out buildings and dark fences, just enough land to languish a bit in the saddle but not saddled with chores.

I noticed a “For Sale” sign in the opposing field. Just the place perhaps for a simple shack for a country author of simple means. Perhaps, some day. Whatever I could build would always be second fiddle to its front-porch view—and that’s okay. But no hopes of a platinum CD for this musically challenged boy. Little chance of huge royalty windfalls—I write about values. But dreams come with no interest and allow intense introspection all the same.

On the other side of Leipers Fork is a convergence of humanity—a remote Shell station. It’s just down the hill near a clean clapboard fire station at the intersection for the winding path to Oscar Green Road. While mud-covered baha machines sit at the pumps, and another patron spits her chew before entering, the cosmopolitan flavor of the place is evident on a rough rushed hand-painted sign on the door—“We serve Starbucks!” And yes, amidst the overstuffed shelves and crowded counter are two nondescript grease stained thermoses and generic cups for a scaled-down version of the city brand.

Ah, it’s all there near Leipers Fork. And just off the main drag, beyond Puckett's, the music fest stage, and the Dumpster Divers store is a Little League diamond overlooking a cemetery. Like my once picturesque town, here again the youth play unaware of the grave stares. The running, the laughing, the strides toward the rest of life—all couched against life’s bookends. (see: http://www.leipersfork.com/ )

Yes, Leipers Fork reminds me of the golden thread of life. Where kids play while ancestors smile from the shadows. Where life stops long enough for some of us to get on for a bit. It’s a place to write from alright. It’s next to nowhere yet defines everywhere.

Have you visited this place? Or, where is your ideal spot?

“Is this your first time going to a nudist beach?” The mullet-headed German’s question froze me. Perhaps I looked like the rest of the bus passengers—long shabby hair indicative of 1977. A faded Tie-dyed T-shirt, small backpack, worn Stan Smith Adidas shoes. . . . “Nudist beach?” I asked, as the Israeli charter bus passed a sign that said “Last stop before . . .” I only caught the “last stop” portion and a picture of a beach and someone snorkeling. “Yeah, of course, he replied.” I looked past him to the crowded bus and he continued, “We’re all from the same Kibbutz and this is our vacation.”

The old converted school bus rattled along the Red Sea carrying cargo that appeared to be transplanted from a Welcome Back Cotter ten-year reunion. Although my 19-year old curious side would have loved to have caught a glimpse of a couple of the gum-smacking girls naked, my 19-year old moral side likely would have stuck my head in the sand the entire time. And, having become a Christian just a couple years earlier, scenes from Dante’s Inferno would have plagued me for decades. In one quick movement that I’ve replayed many times I reached and pulled the makeshift emergency cord. The bus driver looked at me in the mirror in disbelief as I named the “last stop” spot, and he pulled over. The German blurted, “I don’t understand—man are you an idiot?” And while he shook his head with his mullet waving at me, he noted, “There are no other busses passing through here on the weekend. What are you going to do, catch a ride with those Bedouins?”

I looked out and saw a few camels and about a dozen slow-moving itinerant Arabs. The bus booed me as I exited, though I was a spindly homely near albino boy from Buck Creek that certainly was not destined to win any nudist colony awards. I’d have blended in about like a lemming with a life jacket. The snorkeling resort proved to be a lone shack with a hand-painted sign. I thought I was entering five port-a-potties nailed together. The snorkeling was fantastic, but I was constantly looking toward the place where I had buried my passport, and then an eel the size of Orca startled me—and I swallowed enough water to irrigate a garden. As the day grew long I still had not seen any busses or cars, and the Bedouins had seemed to wait for me to ask for a ride back to Jericho. My mind raced with all the stories of the slave trade, of naïve Americans disappearing—even though the Bedouins I knew were rather nice people.
About a half-hour before sunset a Mercedes Benz was approaching, and ironically, it’s the car used by most cabbies. After flagging him down, I realized he was simply a wealthy merchant, Syrian descent, and he proved hospitable—until I was in. He power-locked the doors, accelerated to around 110 mph, and began telling me that I was attractive. And, for the ride he’d like me to stay at his place after dinner. Sometimes I might be a few shields short of re-entry, but I realized I was in a predicament. My options weren’t many. Except for Jim Nabors on TV, this was the first homosexual I had actually met. Fear likely clouded all judgment, but the thirty-year age difference and speed seemed to be reasonable factors of concern, even if he had been a she. Perhaps my response was incorrect, but it worked. I played along, acted interested and shared that at the least I needed to stop by and report in with friends so they didn’t call police. We planned to meet at a nightclub after Sabbath ended. As soon as he let me off at the only Jericho address I could remember, I caught the first cab to Jerusalem and was glad to pay. It was, indeed, among the most eventful days of my young life.
Have you ever found yourself stranded in what seemed to be a strange land? What did you do? What gave away that you were a visitor? Perhaps the more significant question is, Have you ever reached up and pulled the bus cord? That is, Have you found yourself refusing to go to a place because of your beliefs?

When you’re decked out in your best business suit, you really don’t want to hit the deck of the Florence train station, especially during rush hour.

Like super woman, a beautiful brunette Italian flew off the train’s step when she mistimed her jump. The train hit the end stop and jolted, and she went horizontally airborne for many yards. Her briefcase spun on the cement. She went from the Type-A executive, looking at her watch, maximizing her day, trying to get a jump on everyone else to Swiiiiishhhhhhh --- WHAM!!!!!!!! Her pinstriped dress suit turned inside out. Silky dark hose had a new perforated look. The Rachel Welch look gave way to a dyed Phyllis Diller. And, the heel of her shoe remained wedged in the train’s platform.

I stood there wanting to help and laugh simultaneously. Our crowd of strangers suddenly seemed united as we had this moment in common. But it wasn’t over. She put her hand up to indicate no need for help, and in stride she snagged her briefcase and resumed walking immediately away as if nothing happened.

But it did. She had been body slammed in public. The bone-crushing impact had to hurt. However, she continued in the same Type A resolve, but her hair told a different result. The last I saw her she was strutting way unevenly away in heels with a skirt on sideways. All the while, not making eye contact with the amused crowd, before or after the event.

Have you ever witnessed such a thing? Someone trying to get ahead, or acting as if nothing happened? Or, ever been in a different state or country and an unusual event suddenly gives you something in common with the crowd?

Chicago is a wonderful place, especially if you have money. A recent engagement landed me at the Talbott Hotel, usually around $400 per night. Parking—another $40. A sandwich and juice, another $30. Our family van with a hunk of the grill expended on a giant raccoon looked a bit out of place for the valets. While the host editorial group arranged rates for its writers at a fraction of the usual, it was, indeed, a pricey place. Quaint and cozy, but costly. The irony is that it bills itself as a “European style oasis” at “20 E. Delaware Place,” but an oasis from what? The hustle bustle of business? The rush of tourists? Beggars with Starbuck’s cups?

The stark contrast between the privileged (myself included, and likely all readers) and the destitute came on Sunday morning at the nearby Fourth Presbyterian Church. After a wonderful lively evangelical service at a church known for its inner city missions, the huge crowd poured from the stately cathedral-type naïve. We all had our parking passes stamped to save half of the $14 parking pass at the John Hancock garage. And, just as shocking as a golden cup of water at a dessert oasis sat a dirty but polite homeless man shaking a Starbuck’s cup. There along the beautiful wrought iron fence with the monastic-type cloisters as a backdrop. There beneath the breathtaking stained glass rivaling the quality of Yorkish glaziers. There, in front of hundreds dressed in apparel whose individual rack value would feed him for a month. While the church has wonderful institutional repsonses to the needy, its noble commitments didn't seem to take feet that day. An institution is a systematic response to a recurring need -- and its programs are likely helpful on a scale much larger than I can imagine from afar. But the Starbuck's cup shook all the same at the doorstep.

The night prior, my son, Ted Gerring and I were approached by numerous homeless (or politically correct—“transitional”) men and women. I gave the only cash I had left, and none of them took American Express. I observed Ted with fascination; he’s a recent Indiana Wesleyan University graduate who works with extremely needy children on the north side. He stopped and chatted with beggars, trying to get a feel for their plight. Some, he seemed to know. He fostered their dignity, and it was his practice to give them food coupons. Yes, with some he was firm when they didn’t seem to be forthright. Although he has little means, his approach seemed to mean something.

There, outside the church, not a single person even paused en route to their epicurean Sunday meals. His cup was empty. We literally had nothing to give, except our parking pass far removed from his world. The irony was rather pronounced—a beggar a few steps from the Christian oasis, sitting on its fringe, not receiving eye contact let alone help. He remained hungry, tired, and clutching the stark reminder of our lives’ contrasts--that worn Starbuck’s cup, venti at that.

If you’d like to encourage Ted, send him an email at theodoregerring@hotmail.com , and follow up with food coupons for himself and those he helps. Tell him Jason’s dad sent you. When I asked to treat him to a meal, he didn’t select the nicest restaurant, but a mom and pop place near his apartment (shared with seven others working with needy families) and we had burritos. And, he seemed to be in heaven. BTW, Ted survives by working at Starbuck's in addition to his full-time ministry to the children. Also, you might be interested to know that i told Ted if he wants to make a wider impact, to join an institution with a mission he respects and a way to the means to realize sustained results --ironically, like that of the Fourth Prez.

What are your thoughts on helping the “homeless” or “transitional?” Are you confronted with this in your hometown? Any stories or insights?

My friend Rod has a laugh that swallows Arkansas. He tilts back and twists that long body while sucking in part of the ozone layer. Nothing calms and excites him more than fishing stories—especially true ones that involve his friends. In fact, he’s become internationally recognized for his paintings of fishing scenes. Well, I doubt he’ll ever paint the following story—but might tilt and twist a bit.

Just north of Marion is the serene Blue Heron pond once hidden from the world except for those of us granted fishing rights. Today, it’s flanked by a few gorgeous palatial homes—but I’ll always remember it for one of the most eventful fishing nights among hundreds.

Remember, I was born in Buck Creek, Indiana and walked creek beds daily, selling soft crawls for 2 cents and hard shells for a penny. I’ve “noodled” with uncles on the Tippy and Wabash Rivers, dam fished with huge weights, ganged up on Wallie for a few years on Lake Eire, and caught two buckets of catfish on a can and string pole at Ken Heer’s Lake Webster Cottage. Even took subways of New York with teens to go crabbing at Cony Island. At Camp Tecumseh in Brookston, Indiana, I caught a couple 16” large mouth bass on the opposite ends of the same lure—I wouldn’t kid you about such things. As a teen, I once followed a national fisherman (from the magazines) back Sugar Creek to a hidden nook where a huge bass got away. I returned later to catch the monster—an 18” small mouth bass on a night crawler and a Zebco 202.

But those stories are for bragging sessions among friends. The one that follows is different; it’s for you to read while settling in with your coffee. And keep in mind, it’s true.

I took a dozen high school guys on a camping trip from our newly formed youth program, the J.C. Body Shop. A couple of the teens had never been fishing. Todd was especially vulnerable even though he had just aced the SAT as a sophomore. He was and remains brilliant. However, though blessed with well-connected dendrites, he was rather gullible. He once shot a 36 on one golf hole because his “friends,” Jeff and Greg, told him he had “to play it where it lied.” Yep, “lied” was about right. He said, “Mr. Pattengale, I thought I’d never get out of that pond.”

There at Blue Heron Lake, which we called Phillipee’s Place in those days, Todd’s vulnerability didn’t go unnoticed by his friends. As the night wore on I noticed that most of them were catching frogs on the south side of the pond, while across the way sat Todd, alone, and determined to catch the big one. As I approached his pole was completely bent. “Todd, I think you have something! Pull it! Hurry, yank it!” He remained calm and said, “Oh, no, Mr. Pattengale, that’s just the special bait I’m using.” It was as if I had a lobotomy scar and fishing was new—and he was dead serious. “Well, Todd, let me see that special bait you have on your hook.” And then I couldn’t believe my eyes. He reeled in one of the largest river weights I’ve ever seen, pole bending all the while, and then he held it up and shared. “Oh, no, Mr. Pattengale. You don’t need a hook with this special bait. You see, the fish come along and smell this, then swallow it. Then, you just reel them in.”

I was so shocked at this explanation, simultaneously amused at his naivety and furious at his colleagues, I could hardly respond without over reacting. “Todd, about how long have you been using this special bait?” “Oh, Mr. Pattengale, only about an hour.” I asked him, “And how many bites have you had?” With the emotion of a rock he responded in full belief, “Oh, none—but Jeff and Greg told me it takes about an hour and then they just can’t stand it any more and a lot will come.”

At this, I was furious at his buddies and went over to interrupt their frog expedition. And what did I find there?—they had some novice froggers cooking frog legs on top of lanterns! One even offered me a bite while I was still trying to process what type of poisoning they were likely consuming from the Coleman paint. After canceling their pseudo-Epicurean snack, I sent Jeff and Greg over to inform Todd of the real way fish are caught. I explicitly noted that they needed to explain the necessity of using a hook and a worm, and with smirks on their faces they sheepishly followed their flashlights back to Todd and his bent pole.

After making smores with a few guys I went back over to Todd, who was casting in quite often. As I shared the need to have some patience, he responded, “Oh, I let the worm have time to get the fish’s attention, then bring him back in to make sure the knot is tight.” Once I again, I asked for an explanation. And, once again he reeled in and showed me. This time it wasn’t a heavy weight but a bare hook. He reached in to a nearly empty worm carton, grabbed a night crawler, and proceeded to put in on the hook. “You know, Mr. Pattengale, it’s very difficult to tie some of these smaller ones in a square knot. They squirm quite a bit.” Once again, I scratched my head and asked him why he didn’t put the hook through it. “Oh, no, Mr. Pattengale, that would kill the worm. Jeff and Greg told me never to do that, but to tie them tight so they’d stay on and wiggle for the fish to see.”

Needless to say, Todd never caught a fish that night, and to my knowledge, any night. But he did manage to catch a few lessons. And, I’m happy to say that all of these boys turned out fine—though likely won’t be appearing with Bill Dance or Bill Rock anytime soon. And for you anglers who want a slice of heaven, which Rod Crossman calls fly fishing, you might check out his award-winning paintings: http://www.rodcrossman.com/Site%205/Home.html. I've had one hanging in my entryway for nearly thirty years, and purchased it not long after a few worms slipped their square knots.

So, what do you think? Any fishing story come to mind? Any special place to share, unique outing, or simply a lesson learned from watching other anglers?

I pushed the Allis Chalmers’ brake pedal only to realize it locked and sent me in circles amongst hundreds of hogs just north of Idyville, Indiana. It was more like Amittyville.

In a muddy yard on a heavy work day, laughter left in a hurry. Expensive sows were in peril. The lone giant bore stood stunned and distraught. The tractor kept turning while his harem squirmed.

When you’re on a borrowed tractor running down a farmer’s income, it’s not a pretty picture. Huge scared sows squealed as this terrified twelve-year old bounced alone in the tractor seat.

Mud flew. Tempers grew.

Random rampant squealing frightened me. Although I was from Buck Creek and familiar with some tractors, nothing prepared for pig pandemonium. The farmer friend came running. While my cousin climbed the gate and laughed, others raised their hands and cursed. Cigarettes dropped and pigs flopped. My head was spinning faster than the red machine. When I bumped the round metal pig feeder a sense of urgency supplanted cautious optimism.

Woody Allen subscripts beneath those pigs would have read – “Can someone just tell the kid to turn off the key?” And, “Something’s wrong about the whole bacon thing.”

“Look out!” came just as I baha’d a trough.

A sweaty smoking farm hand finally mounted the possessed tractor, unlocked the pedal and restored order. A simple move saved a few sows – but it was basic knowledge I had not.

Have you ever watched as someone lacked basic knowledge of a simple task? Or, can you relate to the story--of tackling something beyond your abilities?

My wife once told our friend Bayard that “You could eat your way across America.” He seemed to know the special places around every major city, and often recommended driving to some small community—like where I’m at as I write, Brookston, Indiana. Tucked in this sleepy borough is “The Klein Brot Haus,” a great deli with rich foods, wireless, and the old storefront glass with full view. There’s an oak pillared mantel that’s three and half steps long (I guess it’s around 15 feet long and six feet high with an old mercury mirror between the pillars). It’s easy to drive by such a place and miss the ambience, let alone the wide assortment of entres, and desserts that embarrass Starbuck’s. My guess is this used to be a bank, and it certainly holds treasures now. It’s not every day you can eat European foods for reasonable prices while sending emails and overhearing guys in Carharts discuss bean prices and the two refurbished Farm-all tractors for sale down the way. But let me not leave this blog without sharing that it’s my second time here. The last was after my niece Casey’s funeral—held in the local high school after a cell phone user hit her head on. At the end of the wonderful ceremony in the Frontier H.S. gymnasium, I stopped here to reflect and collect myself before the hour drive home. When the owner, Angela, discovered my reason for being in town, she showed a deep compassion that pierced my soul. This slight stately woman had not met Casey, but she, like you, are part of this thing we call the human experience. She reached across the counter, held my hand gently and said, “Sir, this is on me. I insist.” And when I left she handed me even more treats not knowing that I’d be back this way ever again. My brother, Vince, helps direct the nearby Camp Tecumseh. Though the Klein Brot Haus is six or so miles the opposite direction from home, it was on my mind before the trip began. It’s places like this where the human experience seems to find threads the weave us all together. Where extra miles are statements not sacrifice. Yes, the Klein Brot Haus is where a sandwich, applesauce, brownie and Tazo peach tea cost only $7.40 and where a gregarious cook, Ryan, comes from Paris (Tennessee), and elsewhere, and sports a striking tattoo of a panther surfing is robust left forearm. It's where you come to get a full course meal on many fronts.

Is there a little deli, cafe or special place in your world?

The first glimpse inside Washington D.C.’s Old Post Office is a pleasant taste of awe. Today, I was welcomed there by the hospitable National Endowment of the Arts staff, and left with admiration for a new friend—the late Nancy Hanks. Her efforts saved this inspiring building in 1976. Its French Gothic dormers, granite veneer halls, 12-story clock tower, double-arched stone passage ways and eighth-story massive crown molding stun the first-time visitor. The eight tons of Congress bells, gifts from the English in 1976, provide more prestige for Nancy’s “old friend.” In her testimony before Congress she stated “Old buildings are like old friends, they reassure people in times of rapid change. They encourage people to dream about their cities—to think before they build, to consider alternatives before they tear down.” Like Wadsworth’s “Old Ironsides,” her articulate sentiments and tireless efforts saved a national treasure. The next time you’re in D.C., stop in and meet Bernard, the guard from Ghana at the iron elevators. Next to him you’ll find massive whitewashed pillars individually encircled by around 30 steam radiators, still functional after 120 years. They’re flanked by beveled oak inlays on dormers that accent pillared window openings into an expansive inner courtyard boasting Romanesque revivalism. Though not as roomy as Nashville's Gaylord, the elegance and cathedral feel of this historic site swells one's sense of being American, or desire to be so. The plastered walls with verticle ribbing takes your eyes upward--perhaps not to the heavens but at least to the clock/bell tower--a free vantage point to view the city. At the foot of this stalwart national treasure rests the functional but well-appointed food court boasting both exotic and mundane foods, with a well-staffed Ben & Jerry’s near the staged pianist. The Old Post Office, now renamed by Congress as the Nancy Hanks Center, isn’t simply a building to be studied, but one to be experienced. I stopped to thank the current NEA director for a great program reaching every congressional district--Mr. Gioia, the Challenge America: Reaching Every Community program is ingenious. I left wishing people from every district could also visit the Old Post Office--and thanks to the NEA, we still can.

Are there treasures in your town like this? Are there some that are in jeopardy of being razed, or some already lost to the misnomer of progress?

Friends, including new readers, I tried not to end up at another Starbucks. Last Wednesday, five hours before my flight from Reagan Airport, a torrential rain pinned me against an eighteenth-century stone wall in Old Town Alexandria. I hoped for a Tree of Life or Payne’s Café from home, where owners are better conversationalists than the long-haired mermaid goddess mystically living in a round green logo. At the corner of King and Union the choice came by default and I reluctantly turned and faced the store window where the mermaid's barista priests awaited in uniform green aprons. I entered the Abercrombie of coffee land, escorted by Willy Nelson ballads and Mac lap key stroking.

But something was different. It’s as if the Red Sea parted anew and left a sustained miracle. While the coffee, T-Mobile ads, pseudo-foreign drink titles and earth tone hues were as predictable as a Panera Bread counter, absent were the modern art veneers, false drop ceiling and art deco design. Instead the historic building is largely unchanged from its 1780 beginnings as a marine store. The exposed second-floor joists reveal two centuries of hewn marks and nail holes. The rough-cut local stone walls and fireplace are reminiscent of minutemen homes, and the view from the windows provides a Williamsburg look at red brick shops close to the street with glossed wooden signs.

Yes, this Starbucks gave me the feel of a shop locally owned and applauded—much like the company’s homepage notes: http://www.starbucks.com/aboutus/. As this brilliant company begins compromising its brew, digital natives continue to root for the no-name underdogs like Napoleon Dynamite, and other cafes realize the value in treating baristas with respect, I wonder if this local flavor becomes more commonplace. A Starbucks compromise? Have you noticed that you no longer hear to tapping sound of clearing grounds from the espresso machine? Back home, and at many local shops, they still tap manually to produce lattes and cappuccinos--and natural espresso foam still forms. According to a green-apron barista with great benefits, only the original Starbucks site, and the store near the owner’s home, the new machines bypass this process. In downtown Chicago, the mystic caffeine goddess recently lost a taste test to a local upstart where the banging of espresso still echoes through the store. All said—on the road a Starbucks is a known taste and experience, and the marketers will likely turn the next decade with the same humanitarian brilliance they started the century. Its “unusual human experience” remains a tangible experience we all pay a bit more for. And, we’ll continue to use the mystic goddess as a common reference for blogs and the market standard, and to laugh at our habits: www.buttafly.com/starbucks.

If you’re in the D.C. area and find yourself in Old Town Alexandria, often via Pricleline.com hotels, you’ll find a unique Starbucks, and this isn’t an oxymoron. And, you can grab lunch and dessert at Bugsy’s Pizza and Pop’s Ice Cream Shop a few doors down, and supper at Two Nineteen where Jumbo Crab Cakes might cost you $26.95, but the Big Easy feel next to the iron, lamp-lighted staircase with a brass rail is worth a peek. And, peeks are free, even at Starbucks, but T-Mobile is another story.

The Starbucks phenomenon is a trite matter, but your view of Starbucks is not. What are your thoughts?