I haphazardly typed in “cafe near me” as I walked out of my International Issues class. I was the only American student and had just been out-politicked by a German classmate who knew more about U.S. presidential succession than I did. I needed a pick-me-up, and while I was ashamed to succumb to such an American cliché, what I really needed was an iced coffee.
In Ireland, and Europe generally, that request can be hard to fulfill. But luckily, there was a coffee shop, the Bald Barista, boasting just what I needed.
Across the way, Google beckoned me toward the café with 4.6 stars and promising reviews — “good energy in here,” someone had typed. On the outside, you couldn’t miss the bright orange exterior with a silhouette of a bald man in the upper lefthand corner. A chalkboard sign read, “We got iced coffee!” while another promised upstairs seating. As I crossed the street, it felt less like good marketing and more like fate pulling me out of the grey clouds.
I was 20 years old and living in Dublin for four months. Studying abroad in Ireland had been my dream since eighth grade, but now that I was here, I was lonelier than I anticipated. I had made a few friends, but I was navigating a heavy class schedule, trying to learn the city’s social norms around public transportation and crossing the street (which way do I look??), and figuring out how to drown out the seagull screeches outside my window every morning at 6 a.m.
But across from my university sat that quaint, orange café that would become my anchor in a semester defined by constant change.
I quickly learned the shop was owned by a tall, skinny man named Buzz, who sported a bald and completely tattooed head. He was, as the name suggests, the Bald Barista. I can’t remember now if he was there that first day I walked in, but in my memory, he was — standing tall and lanky, laughing lightly with his arms crossed as he watched the employees decorate cappuccinos with their signature swirls.
The café served rich oatmeal with buttery toast and stretchy bacon for breakfast, sandwiches stuffed with turkey and lettuce for lunch, and an ongoing array of freshly baked treats that would scent my wool sweaters for weeks after. They also had the best hot chocolate around, which was velvety and sweet, the perfect remedy for pruney hands from the constant Irish rain. But it was the upstairs that I loved most.
It was nothing fancy — just a few mismatched tables and chairs, some wooden, some plastic. The back wall was painted a vibrant red, and the others, made of stone, were decorated with abstract paintings. My favorite part, though, was the glistening fairy lights lining the space where the ceiling met the walls, casting a warm glow over everything. It instantly comforted me and, for some reason, made me think of my childhood bedroom.
For three months, I went there two to three times a week (to my wallet’s dismay). I did homework. I finished books and submitted midterms. I even slowly became a hot coffee lover. I brought visiting friends and introduced them to the fluffiest scrambled eggs they’d ever eaten or a perfectly melty croque madame. I basked in the awe of realizing that I was living in a new city — in a new country — and had found a café where I could proudly call myself a local.
Their staff of baristas, line cooks, and, of course, Buzz, felt like a family. By becoming a regular, I felt like I had become a little extension of that world, reaping the benefits of their love and laughter, even if they didn’t know it. Maybe to them I was just another American walking through the doors asking for an iced vanilla latte. But to me, that little café was proof that I have the power to seek out the places where I belong.
The week before I boarded a six-hour flight home, my best friend visited me in Dublin. I made sure to ask her to take a picture of me sitting at my favorite table in the Bald Barista. But walking out the doors that day with the bell chiming behind me, I had a deep feeling that I didn’t know when — or if — I would ever return. The mismatched tables and raspberry shortbreads felt like a friend I had to say goodbye to, one that’s seen me in moments of joy and loneliness.
As the streets of Dublin flood with tourists this spring, the Bald Barista may not be one of the city’s most obvious stops. But if they take a moment to glance twice at the bright orange café, they’ll be embraced by fairy lights and overflowing mugs. And for one semester abroad, it was a place that let me be myself.