The Wi-Fi Password is 'heartcenter' - Robert Simoes

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Robert Simoes

I’m sitting on a worn-out, low, crimson couch cushion. Around me are multi-dimensional prisms, astrology books, tarot cards, and metaphysical conjectures by philosophers and lunatics alike. Ahead, the corner holds a crew of three: a young man and two women volunteering to serve tea. Pure volunteerism runs this teahouse, an unassuming backyard basement. I do not know who owns it or pulls a profit (or loss) from it.

Sitting up straight, the genteel volunteer, dressed in a loose makeshift skirt, delivered an elderberry hibiscus tea to my post. Grateful, I thank her as she smiles with a look I can only describe as joyful, pleasant emptiness, in a good way. The tea swirls in the cool clay mug, teapot beside — its dark red saturation promises a trademark juicy tartness for my pleasure. From the entryway to the left, almost invisible to the unfamiliar, a few charming faces come in. They are attending the yoga activity in the main room. Scribbling in an open journal, sipping my tea, and watching with a brief smile on my face. Avoiding drawing attention, content to observe—at least that’s what the voice in my head is saying—I take a second to just be.

I come here often, more than once a week, sometimes on a Friday night during open-mic when I don’t feel like dancing over at PublicWorks. But I never bring my laptop here—or work at all for that matter—it’s far too special a place for that. A place where reality suspends, and time holds in the walls and atmosphere; today you might call it nervous system stabilizing, back then I just called it a cool spot where I felt right.

Approaching the till to pay, I see a familiar short aluminum stand holding a ruffled strip of paper, easy to overlook; it explains everything.

The Wi-Fi Password is ‘heartcenter’

The Center SF, sadly closed now, was a central fixture of belonging to me during my time in San Francisco. As a transplant—a temporary worker from the North—I walked the psychedelic streets of Haight-Ashbury, pounded kilometres through Marina District morning runs, rippled through the green-space in Golden Gate Park, and touched the grass of communal joy of Mission Dolores Park on a Saturday. Regrettably, however, I still felt like an outsider in the city for much of my time there—the hostile work of “making it” held me captive to that — never quite knowing where I fit in. Despite four years later, I left with little in the way of a community, outside of this small teahouse frequented two blocks from Hayes Street.

Throughout my life and travels, the experience of belonging, or not belonging, has been a recurring element. Some projects I’ve seen have attempted to close that gap, both in Toronto and elsewhere. But those Wi-Fi credentials at The Center SF, the rootedness I felt there, not to mention the simplicity of its ambition—tea, movement, community—have always lingered in me.

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