How I accidentally became a regular 5,000 miles from home.
I spent twelve years running from being seen. Then a breakfast diner changed my mind.
About two thirds of the way down my pitcher of Woo Woo, I started to notice the environment I was handing my pocket money over to.
I was freshly 18 at the time, in the sleepy English town I grew up in, soaking in the novel experience of my local pub. On a school night, of course.
The carpets were rich maroon red, faded and scuffed, with the light colours reflecting an awful creamy brown. The kind of colour white fabric goes after decades of shoe wear. The bar sits low, the pool table wobbles, and there is just enough light to see what you were doing.
Around the edges are small groups of older men, and single blokes, sipping on their third pint of Carling lager. It was only 8pm.
Through my tipsy goggles the haze of novelty quickly began to wear off.
This was my first observation of what it was like to be a "regular".
Worn out souls peeling themselves out of one couch to another, their lives slowly melting into the liquid in front of them. Harassing anyone who would give them an ear to tug on. Followed with sporadic outbursts of drunken joy when the fourth pint pierced through the depression on their faces.
A particularly sorry state to witness.
My friends and I would frequent this pub a couple of times a week. It was still new, and there was still time for me to "make something of myself". I didn't have the money yet to leave completely but, I knew it was the thing I was destined to do.
I've never loved the idea of staying in my hometown. I was buying train tickets and traveling to new cities the moment I could afford to.
So, looking around the bar and seeing the same old faces week in week out really started to grate on me. I didn't want to get stuck here. I didn't want the highlight of my week to be whether or not April behind the bar had changed the Stella barrel before or after my arrival.
The same conversations, the same, "did you see the match?" topics.
Even the concept of the bar maids knowing my name filled me with dread. As if by them being able to invoke my name they were binding my soul to this wretched place.
Being a regular meant stagnation.
People who had never really left their hometown, never traveled abroad, maybe never even owned a passport. Sacrificing their life before it had even begun, to hedge against the "danger" of the outside world. Trading in what I believed real life could offer, for three cold pints and a discounted curry on a Thursday night.
Yet, deep down, I've always wanted to feel like a regular.
To feel a deep sense of community you can only achieve by consistent presence. Being seen in a place that is completely filled with strangers. But, for most of my life I ran from this feeling.
Years spent repeating the same pattern. Running from even the tiniest possibility of being noticed. With every new country or city I visited I intentionally made myself a ghost.
Because why would I want to be in the same place for more than a moment?
Then one morning last year the smell of hot coffee drifted into my nose on the corner of India and Beech Street in San Diego, California.
I was staying with my friends Jake and VB in their apartment I jokingly nicknamed "The Barracks".
A gorgeous but, admittedly cramped space, housing a number of my close friends for a few weeks. The comfy couch, and the view from the balcony more than made up for the sense of claustrophobia that permeated the entire space. You had to escape for a cigarette occasionally but, it was also the best couch I've ever slept on.
One morning the apartment air was exceedingly thin and my social battery entirely drained. The itchiness was starting to set in. I had to get out. Feeling cooped up and needing sunlight we headed out to a breakfast spot one of the guys had mentioned the previous day. A short wander, three blocks from the apartment.
Harbor Breakfast was the name.
A relatively small place in San Diego's Little Italy. The outdoor plywood benches were painted sky blue, tucked under striped parasols, with hints of orange juice and ketchup sprinkled across the tabletops. The kind of colour palette that exudes joy and a tart but pleasing freshness.
Inside the diner they have seating that goes right up to the counter. Those swivelling seats you can spin around on as the waitress pours filter coffee into your mug for the fourth time that morning.
A quintessential American breakfast spot.
Something I yearned to experience on this trip and found right on our doorstep.
We were greeted by one of the managers. A lovely middle-aged lady with voluminous curly hair and a pearly smile. She seemed initially quite confused by the mismatched cast of 20-30 year olds lined up outside her diner. A Brit, an East Coast-er, a Utah mountain boy, and a Canadian (in a Union Jack beanie for some reason), chatting about strange philosophy, media buying, and esoteric health topics at 9:30am.
I'm sure we made quite an impression at first glance.
The place quickly became our morning ritual however. Rocking up about 2-3 times per week for nearly a month.
I would wake up, grab whichever boys were awake and hungry, dragging us all down to Harbor Breakfast. The sun was glorious, the pink blossom was out, and it started our days with a short walk and a communal sense of brotherhood.
My credit card disapproved but, my heart longed for the yap.
Within the first couple of visits we learned multiple staff members names, they learned our opening orders, and (it seemed) they'd bump us up in the line to get a table faster if they were busy. A little British charm may also have earned me some bonus points here.
Maple syrup in the coffee for the Canadian, the corn beef hash with the English muffins for the Brit, and a Blood Mary for the Utah boy. I still don't understand why CJ loves that drink so much. Our empty stomachs were filled, and nervous systems caffeinated before we had even really sat down.
The manager with her fantastic smile and bold glasses would greet us with, "Good morning boys, how many of you today?".
It reached the point where we had waitresses jokingly flirt with us, "Wow you did so good today!" in a gold star giving manner after a comically large meal. We blushed, rubbing our stomachs in a circular manner typically reserved for Winnie The Pooh.
One morning in particular stands out.
As we approached the open patio doors, I requested our table and the manager opened with, "Are you guys ok? You come here a lot." Which to this day I'm not sure whether was genuine concern for our lack of tourist-style exploration, or a subtle hint at the joy of seeing familiar faces - even if it was unusual.
I felt blessed. For the first time in my life, returning to a place actually felt good.
Our consistent presence turned this diner from a transactional fuelling station into a ritualistic place of worship. There were plenty of great places to get breakfast but, we felt magnetically pulled back here time and time again.
By the time my final week there rolled around we could waltz in, and with a wave, take whichever table we pleased.
By accident I had become a regular, over 5,000 miles away from home.
And I was loving every second of it.
I began to realise that being a regular does not always symbolise the stagnation I saw in my village pub.
You could be anywhere in the world and you chose Harbor Breakfast for the second time in a week. Not because you had to, not because you believed there were no other options, but because it brought you so much joy you wanted to get another tiny taste before leaving.
A conscious choice not a loop you were doomed to repeat forever.
With each visit I could feel myself warming up to the place, the people, the culture, and to the connection our shared meal brought us.
This spot became our spot.
A grounding place where we could be present with each other and the staff around us. I'd never really felt this before. A year ago I would rather have been invisible than have a member of staff know my order. Heaven forbid they know my name as well.
But, for some reason, there's less pressure when it's not your hometown, more excitement in carving a new identity, and saying to yourself,
"Actually, this is fun. I do like it here."
Yes, it's strange that a waitress halfway around the world knows my order but, it's also magical to be recognised and feel seen purely by taking one step beyond being transactional.
By being present, consistent, and confident instead.
Becoming a regular transforms even the simplest of experiences, like ordering breakfast, into something memorable.
Those mornings were some of my favourites the entire trip.
5,000 miles of travel for approximately 10 breakfasts with my boys, and a sweet smile from a waitress who knows your order. Sitting at the sky blue benches, shoulder to shoulder, the copious smell of nearly burnt filter coffee, and pink blossom softly gliding its way down from the surrounding trees.
When I next return to San Diego, it will be a required stop.
Not because I expect to be known there but, because I know I can be myself.
Until next time.
Connor x
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