In April, on our first morning in Cambridge, we woke up and walked to a coffee shop a few blocks down the street. I had read about it, but the glowing review had given curiously little information or pictures. It coyly explained one needed to “go in blind.”
The shop’s storefront was entirely windows, but the view inside was obscured by a mess of plants. We cracked the door open. Against the left wall was a bar, but besides a lone wooden bench, the rest of the room was weirdly absent of tables and chairs. The owner, Dom, introduced himself, motioned us to a bar stool, and asked what we were in the mood for. Sighing, I sheepishly revealed I drank decaf, anticipating it being an issue. It always is at fancier coffee shops. He didn’t give the normal response which ranges from the diplomatic “we don’t have decaf” to eye-rolling disdain. Instead, he presented two decaf options and then narrowed down the methods and milk. I settled on a cappuccino with cow’s milk, apparently a rarity these days in a university town.
Dom headed to the espresso machine to start my drink without consulting with Michiel about his order. He moved around the shop deliberately but not in a rush. More people started to file in, but he didn’t acknowledge them. His attention was solely given to me. This struck me as peculiar. Doesn’t everyone need their coffee ASAP? It’s 8 a.m. and aren’t they due to work or class?
He presented me with a sleek wooden tray with a cappuccino on one side and an espresso shot on the other. I was encouraged to taste them separately and combine them later if I wanted to. This, along with every detail of the visit, was a surprise and delight. Dom does things his way and this intrigued me.
The next morning we shuffled in deflated after a truly terrible restaurant experience the night before. I didn’t want to speak negatively about our first night in their town, but Dom got it out of me. Within moments all the patrons were gathered around us, intent on reversing our course, listing off their favorite neighborhood haunts. Their recommendations that day guided our entire stay. In the visits that followed, I reliably had meaningful, deep exchanges with Dom and whoever was having coffee next to me at the bar.
Being there was so… distantly familiar. It transported me back to 1998, when I had my first coffee shop experience at college, in Tallahassee, FL. Epitome was the “alternative” coffee shop for the students who were not going to rush a sorority or join a fraternity. I’d sit in a grimy, obviously thrifted chair, reading and working on papers. Too shy to strike up a conversation with my neighbors, I’d pretend to study but instead eavesdrop. Everyone was flirting or debating politics. There was chatter about who played at Cow Haus or got wasted at Waterworks the night before. It was its own community, and I could belong by sitting there, silent or otherwise.
I started to wonder what were the pieces that made this unassuming Cambridge coffee shop so special. People were quietly reading books or eager to chat with whoever shared the stool next to them. It was refreshing and novel. When I’d leave the shop to start my day, I’d feel optimistic.
The answer probably starts with the shop’s ground rules which revolve around a lack of technology. Photos and computers aren’t allowed, which is why the review I read had so little information. These rules weren’t posted or decreed, but brought up casually, in a way that felt more like a considerate suggestion. But often Dom wouldn’t mention it at all. I’d watch people take out their phones, feel out of place, and pick up on the unspoken cues. There was something about the atmosphere that had them putting their phone back into their pocket.
What a bold decision for a tiny, independent shop. I wondered what exactly Dom was up to.
Being in a public space without technology was strange at first. I kept getting the urge to take out my phone to google something. Repeatedly I’d have the impulse to take a picture because his coffee presentations are quite beautiful. But I’d catch myself, and begin to notice just how deep my addiction ran.
What did it feel like without phones?
The word that comes to mind is healthy. Aware. Curious. Instead of opening my phone and pummeling my brain with inboxes and to-do lists, these mornings developed slowly and naturally. Without their phones distracting them, people’s attention wasn’t fragmented. Our conversations were more focused, and as a result, engaging. They went down rabbit holes and into unexpected places. I wondered how many couples initially met here and started dating. It felt like the best neighborhood bar, without the alcohol.
It was a revelation.
Down the block was another fixture of my past, a hostel. I noticed a girl in her early 20s, presumably heading to the train station with her overstuffed backpack strapped on tight. It gave me flashbacks of myself in London at 19, heading to Madrid for a month of travel with two girlfriends. She was staring hard at her phone, irritated with whoever was on speaker. But something, visually, was a mismatch. After a moment, I realized during my days as a backpacker, I didn’t have a cell phone.
What would backpacking across Europe, for a 19-year-old, be like now with a phone? No more navigation with a paper or laminated map and no heavily highlighted guidebooks either. You’d just consult Google Maps and the internet. After meeting a new friend in a hostel, you wouldn’t pick a future time and place to meet again, not knowing if either of you would still be in the hostel, or even in town. You’d just follow each other on Instagram or WhatsApp and reach out whenever you felt like it.
Now, so little is left to chance. Our little computers in our pockets tell us everything. How much. Which one. Translate: I want that piece of cheesecake.
We’re now all know-it-alls. And what does this endless supply of knowledge do for us?
For me, it hasn’t been that positive. I’m someone who doesn’t exactly thrive with predictability. Knowing outcomes feels suffocating. I need to believe that life’s unfolding. I want to feel momentum and promise. That’s why I was attracted to travel in the first place.
Yet… Eater and Google Maps choose where we eat, not our eyes, ears, and noses. Train tickets are purchased on our phones. No one walks down to the station, looks at a timetable, and tries out the foreign phrases they’ve been learning to buy a ticket. One can know a hotel’s square footage, bed size, and reserve an upper floor, farther away from the elevator. Travel should be one of the most spontaneous activities out there. But now, it simply isn’t. Trips are planned so thoroughly and itineraries are so robust—is there any mystery that remains?
I know it’s not all bad though. There are hundreds of advantages to traveling with technology, and they’ve had profound impacts on me. Airbnb has let me enter homes in charming neighborhoods far from the tourist center. It’s allowed me to shop in markets alongside everyone else, and go home and experiment with cooking unfamiliar veggies, fruits, and seasonings. It’s allowed my research to be filled with more voices and opinions. Instead of using a Lonely Planet or Rough Guide as the singular voice steering me, I consult 30 or 40 books, magazines, podcasts, and blogs to learn about a place and what I might do there. This progression marks my travel evolution—from being armed with a Eurorail pass and a backpack in my youth to a library of digital resources and Airtags now.
While I enjoy the research, I’m grateful I got to experience travel in the before-times. Before Airbnb, Instagram, Booking.com, Google Translate, and even my weather app. I feel lucky that my life has straddled both eras. In Cambridge, sitting at the coffee shop, I rediscovered exactly what I valued then. There’s a sincerity and spontaneity in the past, that current travel—even with all its technological advantages and trappings, can’t replicate.
These days I worry I’m not “discovering” a place, but instead, “viewing” it. I already know endless details about it, so what’s left to explore? Just because everything is available doesn’t mean I should consume it, and I’ve started to examine those habits. Inherent to travel is challenging yourself with some discomfort. Technology is reshaping travel, making the unfamiliar more accessible. Now with easier access, the act of traveling is less challenging, which could, ultimately, mean it’s less rewarding too.
However, perhaps all the blame can’t be heaped onto technology alone. I’m sure being middle-aged, not 19, is a relevant factor at play here. Middle-aged life inevitably means more responsibilities, and 19 is an age where there’s room for more curiosity. That said, I want to return to more uncertainty and mystery. I’m desperate to “go in blind” to new cities and countries like I did at the coffee shop. I want to burn my itineraries, all the Google Docs, and not know where I’ll eat or sleep next.
I never got to ask Dom why he made the rules, but I want to thank him for it. It stopped me in my tracks and made a lasting impression. By reminding me how it used to be, I noticed I was blindly making choices—unsatisfying ones. It made me realize that technology is beginning to threaten the very fundamentals of what it means to travel, and I’m seriously concerned about what lies ahead.
I’ve been obsessively thinking and writing about technology, for the last six months since sitting in Cambridge, but haven’t been ready to share it until now. This is the first of a few posts about my personal history and relationship with technology, and how I believe it’s changing travel.
Today is our last day in Phoenix, and tomorrow starts a vacation road trip!
It’s been so hot here our walks have been limited to before 9 a.m. or after 5 p.m. Counterintuitive to my typical early riser routine, I had to remember that sunset hikes are the way to go when you’re in the desert.
This was our first hike, in the Phoenix Mountains Preserve, which is incredibly right in the middle of town. We didn’t know it was a full moon until this guy popped out and ascended with alarming speed.
We’re staying next to Thunderbird Conservation Park and will do one last hike to catch tonight’s sunset as a grand farewell.
great read. I was thinking, since i'm thinking about moving to Spain, it reminded me of when I was in high school there. I had no idea how to do anything. My experience was difficult, enriching, and life changing, and I still think about it today. I had faced many hardships which made my brain think quicker. discovering vs viewing. That's true. glad to reAD THANKS ERIN. Sorry for mis spells i cut my pinky on a dull knife while cutting lemons to make a batch of warm scented cinnamon apple compote to hide the fish salmon smell from last nights dinner, after I read my sign, the hurrier i go the behinder i get. xo. B
Another resonant post. Love the idea that places like Dom's exist, where the experience centers on being there, in that unique spot, on giving your attention to the sensual and human surround of it all. I still recall favorite cafes in London and Paris and Japan, whole-body memories.
The poet Mary Oliver said that "attention is the beginning of devotion." Can we arrive at devotion when technology becomes not just a tool but a compulsion? Maybe, with discipline.
As for access, you write here of easier access to the unfamiliar. But technology also opens us up to being always accessible to others. I remember the old joy of being inaccessible when settled into my seat on an airplane or walking the street of a foreign city. When you were gone, you were gone.
And yet, technology certainly frees us to focus more on what's valuable. I took my 30-year-old pocket Plan of Paris with me this last time ... ha! Standing in the rain, juggling an umbrella and trying to read blindingly small print... The Google maps soon came out.
Look forward to your next take on travel!