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.

The tagline for Valentine’s Day should be: “A day of celebration for couples and misery for singles.” It may in fact be the one holiday to claim the titles of ‘most hated’ and ‘most loved’ at the same time, with the only deciding factor being relationship status. Since I am sans boyfriend, I’m in the former category, except I wouldn’t describe it as ‘hate’ so much as ‘indifference laced with the overwhelming urge to call all my single friends.’

Because what exactly is a single girl to do in the city this weekend that won’t make her feel awful about herself? Well, after I texted my (single) friend Claudia to make sure she didn’t have plans Saturday night, she suggested we go check out a performance of Vagina Monologues on campus. I’d like to say that, since I am a woman and all that jazz, I immediately responded with a jubilant “Yeah! Woman empowerment! You dress up like Rosie the Riveter and I’ll be Betty Friedan!” But no, instead I hesitated to answer. Actually, I’m still hesitating, because the first word that entered my head when I heard ‘Vagina Monologues’ was ‘feminism,’ and I do not at all consider myself a feminist.

But I do, however, consider myself feminine/female, and why not check out a thespian event this Valentine’s Day that doesn’t involve gag-worthy performances by Hugh Grant and/or Julia Roberts? Plus, there’s gotta be more to it than just feminism. I decided that before I wrote it off, I needed to get a better grasp of what exactly V-Mon is all about, since my tiny knowledge base consisted of two experiences: 1.) a snippet of an HBO special I came across as a teen in which a woman talked about a man who loved to study her vagina (freaked out, thought it was porn) and 2.) my friend Sheida doing a monologue in an Ohio State production that necessitated the use of a whip.

The first few paragraphs of V-Mon’s Wikipedia page made me realize that the title of the play pretty much explains the content: actresses tell different stories about the experiences that caused them to embrace (figuratively) their vaginas and sexuality. Okay, I thought, great, I’m all about embracement of female sexuality. I mean, this double standard in college in which men are heralded for sleeping around and women are shunned for it is absolute crap. The playing field should be level! So go, women, be sexual beings!

But then I found out that there are a lot of accusations against this production and its love-child, an organization called V-day, of being man- and heterosexual-haters and overemphasizing violent sexual encounters as opposed to consensual and positive ones. My rah-rah team spirit faded a bit, because even though I am of course against violence towards women, I’d prefer a performance with less hate and a more positive outlook on female sexuality.

So should I go? Well, just because what inspired Eve Ensler to write V-Mon was her obsession with rape and violence towards women doesn’t mean I, a potential viewer, have to be obsessed with those things. And even though I’d probably rename it Vagina Dialogues if given the chance, prompting reconciliation between men and women, I can still enjoy that sexuality embracement aspect I mentioned earlier. And who knows— maybe the performances aren’t as explicitly hostile toward the other gender as the critics make them sound.

So chances are I’m going to ditch the annual single-sob-fest this weekend for something a little more empowering. If you’re intrigued too--single or not--grab 5 bucks and head over to by 120/121 Lawrence tonight or tomorrow night. (The money goes towards New Voices Pittsburgh and the 2010 Spotlight: Women in the Congo.) Doors open at 7 and the vaginas start talking at 7:30.