In Search of Something Charming.

And a slower, sweeter approach to life.

Like many writers, I often practice my craft while out and about.

There is something reassuring about the bustle of a cafe: cheerful voices babbling away in the background, dishes clanking, the man behind the counter calling out names for drink orders, the sound of the coffee grinder and the occasional bang as the espresso grounds are emptied. It’s a warm and pleasantly distractive. The music drifts barely audible through the human soundtrack a soft voice, drumbeat, and guitar being strummed. I can’t even make out the words now, but it’s still soothing.

Outside it’s a blustery, gray, Montana day. This part of the country is known for the wind. There is a stretch of I-90 that runs through Livingston that frequently detours high profile vehicles, lest they be toppled by the gusts that sweep down out of the mountains. Just today, while traversing the pass between Bozeman and Livingston, I saw a Jeep that had slid into the freeway’s meridian. I’m guessing he was traveling westbound, as that was the direction the emergency vehicles were coming from, and it’s likely that no one was hurt; they just slid off the road. Happens all the time.

It’s funny to be a bit blasé about someone going off the road, but it quite, literally, happens all the time out here. Come this time of year, I keep a jacket, blanket, and extra fuel in my car because if you slip in the ditch when no one’s around it could be a big problem. These are the things that we “just accept” living out here and if you’ve been here a while then you come prepared.

Being prepared, for me, also means that I travel with my laptop, a bikini, a towel, and few toiletries. The latter items come in handy in case I want to pop into one of the many hot springs that litter the 3 counties I tend to frequent. The first item, my laptop, is my primary tool for my trade and if anything our motto out here in this part of the world is (or should be): Be prepared!

So I am prepared—weapon in hand—as I hustle up the sidewalk and through the door to grab a coffee and sit and be bougie.

Trû North Cafe claims to be “A French Inspired, Mountain Café Born in a Global Pandemic”. So I guess they haven’t been around all that long, and the owners are most likely implants from somewhere else. That’s okay. They make great coffee, have a tasty eclectic menu, and when I walked in, the place was packed. A large coffee-colored leather chair tucked in the corner called to me once I’d ordered my breve and blueberry-sausage-sandwich from the counter and now I’m settled in and writing. The crowd has dwindled and there is a cute little tow-headed girl playing with an enormous monkey (it’s about the same size as her) and bouncing on the couch across from me.

This kind of stuff doesn’t happen in Starbucks and (aside from the fact that they burn their beans and use petroleum by products in their pumpkin spice) that’s why I don’t go there. Those big chain coffee places and restaurants are better described as “sterile” than charming and my soul craves charm.

Charm is also why I drove the thirty-or-so miles over the (sometimes) treacherous pass to get my studded tires put on over here (in Livingston), instead of Bozeman. As I waited, I struck up a conversation with a total cutie who caught my attention with a lovely compliment. “You have the most stunning blue eyes!” I didn’t hear him at first as my attention was fastened to my book, “The Screwtape Letters” by C.S. Lewis, so he had to repeat himself. Then before you know it we’re chatting up the other guy who’s waiting for his car, too. We’re all regaling each other with tales of “what it takes to live in Montana in the winter”. This could be a book and probably already is. It’s all about “winterizing”: pipes, cars, bodies…everything.

These conversations with real people are charming! And it’s part of the small-town sweetness that cannot be replaced by cookie-cutter corporatism and is most often threatened by “suburban sprawl”.

The walls in this place are covered in art of all different styles. Straight across from me is a Georgia O’ Keefe-esque painting of a wide, swirling, pink, yellow, and white bloom. Next to that is a print of Livingston’s main street. And now in the quieted cafe “Ripple” is playing; it’s my mom’s favorite Grateful Dead song.

I inhale and exhale a little shiver. There is a slight draft coming through the door that is clearly never used, but cold to the touch, nonetheless, and I pull my furry vest around me and tuck my red boot-clad feet under me.

If I gaze down the street most of the business’s signs are the same ones I remember seeing as a child. My dad owned a house here in the 90’s into the early 2000’s. No telling what it would be worth now as even the smallest cottages (built in the 40’s) go for around $300,000 or more. It’ the gentrification of America and Montana is far from immune. We—who were raised out here or who have lived here more than a while—all lament how “nothing is affordable anymore”. And it’s true. It’s the out-of towner’s with money who can afford the prices that their presence are driving up. It’s the people who don’t know how to ranch that are grabbing up all the old family ranches.

I get the “old timer’s” nostalgia for slowness and simplicity; the older I get the more I feel it, and the more “out of time” I feel. Don’t get me wrong: I love wi-fi, I love my cel phone, Netflix, and even Amazon; I love lots of conveniences of the modern world. I don’t love online dating (though I did meet someone I love on a dating app). I don’t love how fast everything is, it triggers this underlying urgency in me that feels like residual trauma from living a life that was happening too fast for me to process for too long.

I wonder how many people are being traumatized by our modern pace of life? Is that not what burnout is? Too much, too fast, for too long? Not only is it a drain on our bodies—it’s a drain on our psyches.

Our ancestors lived slower lives. Not necessarily easier, but much slower. It has been said that our bodies process life at the pace of walking and we are all moving much faster than that. Planes, trains, and automobiles have changed the way that we move about the earth. This is of great convenience and allows us to have a broader access to the world and each other. However, there is a cost and often the cost of expediency is quality.

Slow can be lovely and often much more fulfilling.

Lingering over cocktails and conversations. Slow dancing. Slowly kissing, slowly undressing, slowly making love. Slowly walking, taking in the scenery and moving our bodies for enjoyment, not just for the sake of “getting in shape”. Slowly cooking things from scratch, and eating them just as slowly, savoring each bite. Savoring the flavors, the textures, the sensations—everything.

In place of what has become an almost compulsive desire to consume, I crave slow. I crave charm. And I want to savor it all.

Written on the chalkboard of the Trû North Cafe it says:

Welcome! We make amazing food—all fresh, homemade to order. We are NOT fast food. If we are slammed we are slow food! However, it’s worth the wait. McDonald’s 1.6 miles (arrow points that’a way).

It was well worth the wait, not only for the food (which was delicious), but also for the cafe to run its course through the “rush” and now into the “slow”. Someone even played the piano for a while, which is clearly not just for decoration, and she was good; I applauded.

And this is what I want to see more people saying: “If you want it fast and cheap, go where fast and cheap is the expectation and (frankly) enjoy the belly-ache that comes with it. If you want sweet, savory, and satisfying, then seek out something real, something slow, something charming.

~Justice Bartlett

Photo: Author’s own.