Granted

One of the things that life has taught me in the past five years, especially, is that I can't allow myself to take things for granted; people die, places go away, and relationships change or end. After having all those things knock me over the head repeatedly with a strong cudgel-like dose of reality, reverberating more heavily each time, I'm fascinated that I took Cafe Gutenberg for granted.
It was the night of Valentine's Day, 2004, and I was working at the pen store with Barry, an old hippy turned college professor, who was a part time pen collector and historian (truth that there is something more odd than a comics historian, but I digress...). I was 26, a few years more foolish than I am now, newly seperated, healing my wounds with a slack retail job at a new mall...and lonely. It was Barry, his tweed blazer with patches on the elbows, and rounded wire rim glasses, who recommended this new joint called Cafe Gutenberg.
That night, by 10:00, I found myself with Moleskine and fountain pen in hand, sitting at a corner table, round and marble-topped, as I scribbled the thoughts of a confused young man. Then, I found myself going back a few times more. Eventually, when I started dating again, Gutenberg was my favorite spot.
The owners of Gutenberg had it patterned after the German cafes they would frequent when doing engineering work in Germany: there were a few permutations of the menu and set-up over the years, but the hardwood floors stayed the same, and the coffee was Illy served in big white ceramic mugs. The Cafe survived and thrived, even getting trashed by the flood of '04, destroying the bottom floor. They simply opened up the upstairs only, while fixing the down.
I remember trying to make it back the first night they reopened, but just the upstairs. I didn't get there until closing time, maybe 10:00, and it was joyfully crowded.
Flash forward to 2006, and I was going back to school, having just lost a grandmother, a job, and a girlfriend (all in one long, dreadful month); I found myself sitting on a barstool, waiting to interview with the manager, Stephanie, for a job. I got the gig, and worked there for about five months, leaving when I left for that fateful year in Raleigh. While I was there, I started to get over a few things, licked my wounds, made new friends, and learned how to make a kick-ass cappucino.
Everytime I'd come up to Richmond to visit, Gutenberg was my first stop, the ceiling fans whirring, the hardwood floors making a nice sound as my army boots clicked upon them, heading to a spot at the bar with another Moleskine and the same fountain pen.
And, likewise, everytime I'd sit there and miss being behind the bar, miss the fun of a tip jar at the end of a shift, miss the regular customers, miss seeing Richmond wake up through the French doors at 7:00 every morning.
Now, sitting there eating brunch this morning, I knew it would be for the last time. One of Gutenberg's investors dropped out and, without someone to take over, they can't afford to stay in business. They close in a week, on a day I'll be in New York.
We can't plan for life: we have to hope for things to go the way we want them to and, when they don't, we're forced to find something to take its place as we find something new. Much of my belated coming of age happened in that Cafe (or because of it); having it close is losing out on one of the best things about Richmond.