The Bread Line

some agitprop to start the week

Yesterday, Kona and I set off on our usual weekend morning long walk to Pier Park. It was brisk, not yet chilly. The sky was overcast but a few days without rain left the streets dry. We headed to the park and Kona, full of morning energy, sniffed every patch of grass on the way.

Like any long walk, it was a chance to let my mind wander. These days, I usually don’t listen to music on our walks, but instead endeavour to notice, a luxury that most days lack the time for—or seem to, at least. I pondered what writing I wanted to do. We made it to the park, the air dark as the colossal pine trees surrounded us, and I thought of how I too often fall into an easy rhythm: Monday is this, Tuesday is that, etc, etc. Repeat by week. I joked to coworkers a few months ago that my schedule is extremely regimented to the point where I fall apart if I deviate at all. This walk was another one of those routines. Instinctual, habitual. Kona and I do it most weekends and it’s hardly different than the route Kona and I run in the dark before work most weekdays.

So I took the next left out of the park. Anything to make the day different. We wound through only semi-familiar streets until we hit downtown Saint Johns, a vague idea in my head to pick up coffee. Kona picked up speed, as though excited to see more people.

the goods

Then I remembered that Starter Bread, the neighborhood bakery with a cult following, was open. They primarily operate through a subscription service and partnerships with CSAs, but for two hours a week, on Sunday morning, they make an exception and open their doors. Even before open, a line forms and runs the length of the block. It often lasts up to the Cricket Bar on the corner. Kona and I headed straight there, Kona more than happy to move with urgency toward an unknown destination.

We made it before the line was untenable, just a few minutes past open, with only a dozen people stretched from the door. Kona sniffed at the grass around the familiar chainlink fence.

Starter is not part of my routine. Some Sundays, the idea of standing in a patient line, maybe sipping coffee from a nearby cafe, sounds lovely. Other times, it sounds tedious and time-consuming. Most weeks though, I just forget about it.

I’ve had a lot of good interactions just standing there. It’s a Third Place, albeit a temporal one. Excited for bread, people often chat. About a year ago, Amelia and I were standing behind a mother and two little kids. Antisocially, I was watching a soccer game on my phone. Still a ways from the door, the boy grew bored and tugged on his mom’s sleeve.

“What’s the score?” he asked.

Then she told him the exact score of the game I was watching. I laughed and showed them my phone and we started chatting about soccer.

previous menu

This time, I chatted with an old man. He was maybe eighty years old and dressed exactly like you’d expect: a faintly British outfit, he wore a tan flat cap and a matching windbreaker, layered on top of a sweater and a flannel button up. When Kona went to sniff him, he produced a treat from his pocket and fed it to her as he patted her head. He gave her a few more. We chatted. He talked about walking his neighbor’s dogs and his home on Sauvie Island and his clandestine strolls through Bailey Nurseries’ flowers. He mentioned seeing sandhill cranes that morning, which winter in the area.

The line moved quickly and as we approached the door, the old man offered to watch Kona so I didn’t have to bring her inside and risk the bakers’ scolding. As I handed him the leash, Kona looked uncomfortable but sat attentively as the man produced more treats.

With two loaves and a potato flatbread in hand, I took the leash back, thanked the man, and headed home. We passed the new crepe place down the block—I recognized some friends inside and gave them a wave. Kona sniffed the streets. I ran into a neighbor who was walking her dog and she complimented Amelia’s Christmas cookies and wished me a happy new year. In just an hour, I had gone from the numbness of routine to feeling like I lived in a snowglobe, connected to the many social threads around me.

about a year ago or so

I’ve heard a lot of talk about how this is the year of going analog and embracing friction. To forgo Doordash and instead sit at the bar to talk to the bartender. To refuse ChatGPT in favor of discovering the desired information slowly and thoughtfully. To seek problems rather than cheap solutions. While I’m skeptical of trendy declarations such as these, I think it’s the natural outcome of addictive smartphones and a decade of tech companies trying to address every single problem in life.

To me, it sounds worthwhile, but raises the question: what’s the ideal way to pursue a more analog lifestyle? Waiting in line for quality baked goods is one good option. Though often a conservative point of fearmongering, maybe the bread line has a lot to offer.

xoxo,

Steve