At Foster Street Coffee in downtown Durham, the coffee machine whirs as snow begins to pepper the grey pavement outside.
It’s 1:06 p.m. on Saturday afternoon, and nearly all of the seven wooden tables at the front of the cafe are full. Visitors huddle over cups of coffee and laptops, taking refuge in the warmth amid the quiet chatter and clacking of laptop keys. It’s one of the few cafes still open as a rare Durham snowstorm closes in.
Now that the snowfall’s begun, the cafe may close at any minute. And while many across the city are thrilled by the snowstorm, the customers gathered here seem more focused on filling up with caffeine, warmth, and company, while they still can.
The wind whistles as the door opens. A woman bundled in a knee-length puffer enters, exhaling in relief. She glances up at golden lanterns hanging from white ceiling tiles shaped as clouds — her temporary cove. She orders a warm cup of coffee while she still can.
A few minutes later, a man in a black coat and light grey sweatpants opens the door, letting in another gust of wind. His ears still a little pink from the cold, he orders a drink and heads towards the seats next to the window, where he spots a friend. “Hey, Tucker!”
His friend looks up. He’s wearing a Duke Law sweatshirt and sitting with a thick, hardcover book, his laptop plastered in stickers. A heap of highlighters and a paper cup sit next to his book. He’s been here for a while.
“It’s snowin’!” Tucker says. He throws his hands up, beaming.
“Yeah! Cocoa Cinnamon’s already closed.”
“It’s always poppin’ in here! Been doing my readings.”
Hands wrapped around their cups, they chat about election candidates, Spanish government reforms, police body cameras, and Tucker’s fiancée while white flakes accumulate on the sidewalk outside. A man scurries past the window, hands pinning his beanie to his bowed head.
With the snow thickening, an exodus begins.
An older woman with short-cropped hair leaves first, donning a magenta helmet, a small nylon backpack slung behind her back. She scans the street, shakes her head matter-of-factly, dusts some snow off her bike seat, then climbs onto her bike and pedals into the flurry.
A few minutes later, another woman departs, gulping as icy air slaps her face. She shudders and clutches her arms to her chest. Another pair of customers follows suit, shoulders slumped, huddling to resist the cold.
By 1:22 p.m., only four tables at the front of the shop are occupied.
Tucker’s conversation with his friend trails to a close.
“Stay warm!” he says, waving goodbye.
“See you maybe on Monday over Zoom,” his friend says as he heads to the door, “Or on Tuesday, if we have class.”
As they speak, a family of three walks by the cafe’s windows: a father piggybacking his giggling daughter, encased in a pink puffer, their footsteps leaving faint imprints in the snow.
At 1:26 p.m., the door opens, and a lone young couple enters, hoping to grab some coffee before the shop closes. The boy unbuttons his checkered coat in relief — it’s warm inside. They scan the menu, order, and tread to a pair of armchairs in the corner. The girl’s platform UGGs thud softly on the wooden floor as they glance at each other, smiling.
A barista swiftly circles the tables, cloth and yellow spritz bottle in hand, as three more customers enter the store, grab drinks, and leave. A second barista picks up the phone, murmuring, “The snow’s here. We’ll wrap up soon.” Her eyes dart around the store as she surveys the remaining customers.
At 1:35 p.m., the barista retrieves a broom from the kitchen, strides up to the door, and flips a wooden sign: “Closed.”
The pavement outside is now cloaked in white. A streak of snow swirls off the hood of a car, blown into a vortex as another car, a grey Ford, passes by, also dotted in white.
At 1:41 p.m., a man in a black hoodie and a grey beanie opens the cafe door. Another barista, now wiping the marble counter, ruefully points to the “Closed” sign. The man loiters for a moment, eyes lingering on the few people still scattered at the tables, then checks his watch. He sighs, then retreats, leaving two snowy footprints on the doormat.
The cafe will close soon, at 2 p.m. But for now, it is still a warm haven. Tucker underlines his pages in yellow. The couple in the armchairs sip their drinks, leaning toward each other as they scroll on their phones. For a few more minutes, the round globes that hang from the ceiling still cast a warm light over the room, bathing the scene in a yellow glow.
Above: Customers cradle their cups of java at Foster Street Coffee as snow begins to swirl outside. Photo by Angela Chen — The 9th Street Journal
Angela Chen
