On the corner of Dzirnavu and Baznīcas Street is a unit of a café franchise. Floor-to-ceiling windows with warm-toned plastic fairy lights draping down, Picasso and Matisse rejects hung on insipid sage walls, a haphazard bookshelf, various artificial plants in equally plastic pots, plywood tables and chairs scattered about, and the crown jewel – a sticker on the bathroom mirror misquoting Charles Bukowski. Every interior element has been chosen to manufacture an air of taste, authenticity, and intellectualism, paying lax homage to the historical role of coffeehouses and attracting wannabe-hipster-types, such as myself.

Since the earliest credible evidence of its consumption (dating back to the 15th century), coffee has been synonymous with socialization. From Sufi monasteries, which used it for alertness during nighttime devotions, to Ottoman empire “kahveh kane” that doubled as culture, art, and trade centers, what is now the most widely used psychoactive stimulant provided vigor to community activities. In fact, it was one of the catalysts of the Enlightenment. In 17th century England, the coffeehouse (dubbed the “Penny University”) served to curb rampant alcoholism and moral decay, letting people from all walks of life hold democratic discussions for the affordable price of a cuppa, and the story was not dissimilar in the rest of Europe.

However, within recent years, coffee has developed unpalatable ties to corporate culture and the perpetual work week (to which the delaying of adenosine – the molecule responsible for our sleep drive – is of utmost importance). The additional pressures of Western individualism have further halted interactions between strangers. Consequently, the atmosphere of the modern café is a diluted version of its predecessor, and, due to price inflation, financial accessibility is also plummeting. Compared to their forerunners, coffee shops barely fit Oldenburg and Christensen's definition of a “third place”, no longer an approachable locale of public relaxation distinct from work or home.

Thus I quench my thirst for connection with the lost art of eavesdropping. Through the roaring of the espresso machine (the steam from its wand tumbling up into the air, thick as a cumulonimbus cloud), the eager keyboard clattering of up-and-coming professionals, and the muddled verses of Hozier’s “Take Me To Church”, a conversation emerges. Two young men, presumably international students. One left- and one right-leaning, both arguing with a zeal usually reserved for films. And before I drift off again, having tired of their antics, I mentally note that democracy has a lot of stamina, even in adverse habitats.