The Aesthetic Appeal of Kiva Han

Somebody in my fiction class last year referred to it as "not the one on Meyran--the weird one." Others, many others, have given it the moniker of "the hipster coffee shop." Whatever you call it, the Kiva Han on the corner of Forbes and Craig is, in my opinion, one of the most interesting cafes on campus.

Even though a mere hop and a skip across the street is an oh-so-familiar Starbucks, college students flock to Kiva Han's artsy-fartsy aura. But the aura is just part of the package--there are also the above-par food (the veggie hummus sandwich and the Thai tofu salad are especially baller) and the smooth and mellow coffee that's not so much of a kick in the pants as, say, that of the joint across the street.

After going to Kiva Han pretty regularly for the past few years, I decided last April to stop in one day not just for the coffee, but to write a fly-on-the-wall story about the place for a nonfiction class. As I stepped through the glass doors and out of the rain, I saw that it was packed with blood-shot eyes hidden behind heavy textbooks, a sign that finals were indeed upon us. I ordered a medium coffee and clutched my cup, scanning the three separate dining areas for a spot to sit.

I chose the rather dilapidated faded-brown couch up in the loft--a low-rider that pulls you in and refuses to let go, like a bear hug. I sipped my coffee and let my chin sink into my chest as I gazed through the window at the Starbucks, thinking about the dichotomy between these two establishments, how they exist side by side, each still attracting loads of customers. How does one choose where to go?

Personally, if I'm near Craig Street, I go to Kiva Han. But I have to admit that elsewhere I occasionally cave in to the comfort implicit in a name brand like Starbucks. Yet every time I do, I find myself in a horde of suited businessmen, trying to ignore the pained hurried expression of the barista and thinking, "I'm not even a big fan of their strapping-man coffee, yet here I am. Why?"

Well, perhaps it's something about the familiarity and efficiency of the place. Even the decor is comforting, similar to a rich aunt's varying-shades-of-beige family room. Every employee wears black visors and black aprons and every cup is emblazoned with that odd mermaid logo. There are no surprises, no distractions. You go because you've got other more important things to do, places to be.

Kiva Han, on the other hand, is a visual and auditory experience that requires immersion. Indie music coos from a little boom box and abstract art and political or music-related flyers adorn the walls. The floor in the entrance is dull grey cement, broken up by colorful inlaid glass designs of women and ducks. Employees don too-tight jeans and big beaded jewelry and relaxed, half-closed eyes. There are a lot of beards and lumberjack shirts and big plastic-rimmed glasses (prescription and not). Footwear consists of top-siders and cowboy boots and fancy wing-tipped dress shoes. Nothing is cookie-cutter.

After scribbling in a notebook for a while, trying to soak up all that I could, I tossed my empty paper cup into a trash bin covered with stickers encouraging recycling (and, thus, guilt). As I stood by the front door and struggled with my umbrella, I glanced up and saw a man wearing what appeared to be an over-sized wizard hat that half-concealed his face. I smiled as an open-mouthed girl with large brown eyes, freckles, and a knitted flower in her hair leaned over and adjusted it dreamily.