There I was, in Hingham, examining a just arrived cargo of green coffee beans, when it struck me: coffee beans do not grow in bags! Suddenly, I was seized with the compulsion to see these wonderful marvels of nature en vivo. I had to travel. I packed my bags. Renewed my passport. And I was off, the first-ever (perhaps) Wakefield-native to find himself en route to the jungles of South and Central America. I had no idea what I would find (other than coffee). And, hermano, was I surprised. For behind every bean, behind every coffee plant, there’s a human being. A man or woman who puts his blood, sweat, and tears into growing this product so that we can ultimately have something to enjoy each morning with our cheese Danish. I met these people. They opened their hearts and their homes to this crazy Americano. We talked coffee over endless cups of coffee. And, all of a sudden, terms like floral, sweet, delicate, sour, or metallic were not just attributes of a bean, but an open line of communication with another soul. Every bean, I came to understand, is not just brought to us by nature, but by Pedro. By Manuel. By Carlos. By Jacinta. By Graciano. And, I am sure, in other coasts, by Ashenafi, Ephrem, Mkda, and Eyob.

Sip accordingly.