The City Writes Back
A travel journal through the “third places” that hit close to home
I often dream about a gathering spot called “The Great Good Place.” The concept evolves every day, but it’ll be named after the title of sociologist Ray Oldenberg’s book on “cafes, community centers, general stores, bars, hangouts & how they get you through the day.” He calls these the “third place.” If home is the “first place” and work is the “second place,” the third place are the informal and public gathering spaces that unite a neighborhood, “where community is most alive and people are most themselves.” He argues that we need these spaces for society and individual wellbeing to thrive, but not all are created equal…
I started the book in Marrakesh, holding it tightly as I made way for donkey crossings through the cobblestone streets of the Medina. I observed my whole body tense up from the chaos and unpredictability of turning a sharp, blind corner, not knowing if it’ll lead to a dark alleyway or a portal of colorful mosaics. The uncertainty’s a bit stressful, but it jolts you out of autopilot and requires an alertness that makes space for discovery and wonder. The labyrinth-like quality of the city center makes the rest of the world melt away. Third places in Marrakesh are often hidden, particularly the hammams and mosques, but any street corner becomes a third place with a tea kettle and fresh mint.
I read a few more chapters in Paris, where the cafe seats face outwards as if the streets are center stage and we’re all eating croissants like bags of popcorn. Every line of sight in the streets of Paris has something to marvel at — the brass door knockers, ornate limestone panels and street lamps with colorful glass. The spiraled city cries out for attention. It wants to be seen and savored. It drops marry-go-rounds in roundabouts and bakeries on every corner. Even the dog park in Le Marais has a rose garden surrounding a set of statues and tables with painted chess boards. If they could speak they’d say, “Hey you! Come sit and stay a while,” but in French.
I thought of the drinking fountains in Rome. The hospitable, interactive sculptures hook up to the city’s most coveted resource. They catch you right when you need them most, and become a kind of scavenger hunt amidst curved narrow streets that lead to large, expansive courtyards and ruins that are cleverly preserved with the utmost care and value for the city’s prehistoric origins.
It feels as if Rome was designed from the POV of a cheeky photographer. On the Aventine Hill, people line up to peep through a brass keyhole on an unassuming green door. Inside is a perfect view of St. Peter’s Basilica framed by a domed canopy of trees. If you have your eyes open, there’s an Aventine Keyhole at every corner. “Stand right here,” a local friend placed me in the exact spot where a statue lined up in perfect composition through angled buildings and archways. When you catch the view, it’s as if the city winks.
On my way to Morocco, I stopped in New York City, where neighbors chat over coffee on their brownstone stoops. I walked down the streets of the lower east side seeing how many people I could make eye contact with… not many, they all seemed to be in their own worlds. At least until they got to Washington Square Park, a third place if I’ve ever seen one. Dance squads film TikTok videos while seniors stroll through with their caretakers, poets write typewriter haikus and NYU students tan topless.
Late night, I stopped at the bodega to buy tampons while older men cut their cigars and drunk teenagers ordered bacon egg and cheeses. In the West Village, I noticed plaques on the buildings, telling the story of their significance as if the streets were a museum. Someone out there considered what it would be like to be me, walking down Bedford Street, learning about a building I would have overlooked and why it was significant during prohibition. Discovering the plaques strengthened my connection to the city, which in turn made me feel more connected to the people around me, and to myself too.
I brought the book with me to my most recent trip in New Orleans but I barely made it through a page. Every time I sat down to read, I’d start chatting with someone nearby. The book binds the third place in theory, but Nola is the third place in practice. When I took my morning walk, I didn’t even want to wear my headphones as I often do. The city is awake and tapped in to a present and shared humanity that looks you straight in the eye. I didn’t want to disconnect.
Their sense of public space is united through resilience and celebration, largely shaped by parade culture. The traditional Second Lines reclaim the streets through both somber and joyous expressions of African American ancestors-worship and the life-affirming rituals carried out by Social Aid & Pleasure Clubs for over 100 years. Social Aid “& Pleasure,” don’t you forget it. In Nola, a third place is anywhere with a brass band or pot big enough to boil a few pounds of crawfish. At jazz bars, where they often play, it’s not unusual to find self-serve rice and beans free flowing throughout the night. “This is free? You sure?” I asked, “Baby, if you’ve got a stomach, you’ll be fed,” they said.
I flew back home feeling a bit disillusioned. Experiencing public space through its capacity for connection makes LA feel so bleak. I tried smiling at passerby’s as they do in Nola and got a bunch of blank stares. At Canyon Coffee, I opened up the book once again, sitting on a hard wooden bench next to dozens of other young LA east siders who looked just like me. I felt like a puppet, nostalgic for the less contrived, cozier coffee shops like Petit Clouet in the Bywater where all kinds of worlds collide, and disdainful of the sterile minimalist architecture that inevitably segregates cultures and generations. It’s a pristine piece of avocado toast vs. a messy bowl of gumbo. A backless stool at Blue Bottle vs. the worn-in leather couches and velvet armchairs you might find at the Bourgeois Pig in Franklin Village (RIP).
Where are the coffee shops where the lights are low and warm and local art fills the walls? According to Dwell, “the shift in coffee shop aesthetic marks a shift in purpose: cafes are no longer physically set up to encourage conversation or get too cozy.” They want to get you in and out as quickly as possible.
After New Orleans, it became clear that the third place has less to do with its outward aesthetic and more to do with its ability to create neutral ground, to be a place inclusive enough by design that it attracts people who wouldn’t otherwise meet and expands the possibilities of who we can relate to. A place that values conversation and doesn’t reduce people to a mere customer, where “the charm and flavor of one’s personality, irrespective of his or her status in life, is what counts.” Think farmers markets, delis, skate parks, laundromats, candy stores, and cigar shops. Oldenberg argues that in order for a third place to be successful, it needs to facilitate people checking their duties and social status at the door. We need relief from the rolls we uphold within society and new perspectives to draw on— all of us, whether we’re executives, janitors, brothers or mothers.
From the eye of the LA food-world, it seems like we’ve got a lot of this twisted. By Oldenberg’s criteria, we’re too narrow minded and precious with our spaces. We think exclusivity and members clubs will cultivate more community but they also form social silos, surrounding ourselves with people closest to us in social rank. They narrow our perspective of the world rather than opening us up to the reality of life beyond ourselves. While it has its own merit, it feels like we’ve tipped too far towards “highly curated gatherings” for “like minded individuals.” If I had a penny for the amount of times I’ve heard that phrase in a sentence… While the third place aims to give people relief from their home and work life, these spaces we’re creating end up blending them together. When we go out after work, we hold our identities even tighter and wonder why we’re so burnt out.
I was on the phone when a friend on the way home from the airport who was back in LA after having moved to Mexico City. We were reflecting on this city as the ultimate mirror. Whereas cities like New York, Marrakesh, Paris or New Orleans catch you within their cultural fabric the minute you step outside the door, LA is a blank canvas, full of infinite possibility when things are going right and a black hole when things are not. There are so many decisions to make, because we’ve got everything’s at our fingertips, and that freedom is an equally beautiful and daunting thing.
Earlier today I was in my car at a red light and a woman next to me caught me singing at the top of my lungs. We laughed and she gave me the most sincere nod of recognition as if to say “I see you, sister.” It reminded me that connection is at our core, wherever we are, and just as LA is a mirror, so are we. When we embody warmth and presence, the city writes back.
