This weekend, my family and I went on a photo tour of downtown, trying to match photos of street scenes from the turn of the century to the modern streetscape.

Hopping back out of traffic (It’s not my fault the original photo was taken from the middle of the street, and my OCD means I must match the perspective; please don’t hit me.), I caught my brother in the middle of an anti-student rant.

“Why do you think people write on their laptops in Starbucks?” he asked.

“Because there’s free wifi?” I said, which used to be true.

“No,” he replied, “so people can see them writing.”

Despite working for years in a Starbucks, I’ve never written in one. I write at home, usually in bed. If I read in public, I’m usually reading something I’m ashamed of reading and attempt to hide comic-book style behind a copy of The Kite Runner. It was funny to me that people would sit in a coffeehouse trying to be the next Kerouac—or at least, be mistaken for him.

My roommate similarly remarked on a bizarre display on the Diag a few days previous: two men were engaged in some half-Capoeira half-yogic stretching that, if they hadn’t been fully clothed, would have been much more newsworthy. I tilted my head to try to understand what was going on. My friend shook her head.

“Don’t encourage them,” she said, sipping her coffee.

“It’s probably good for your back,” I offered, catching up.

“Yeah, but I don’t see why they need to do it here,” she replied.

I pride myself on being a cynic, so it disturbed me that I hadn’t realized mohawks, public calisthenics and coffee shop intellectualism are less a personal freedom then they are a total cry for attention. I was going to have to open my eyes.

On the last picture stop, I was looking for a lost storefront along Main street when I noticed a family stopped in front of Peaceable Kingdom. The store was not yet open, but the two children were peering into the fairy door, trying to get a look behind the tiny pulled blind. I was walking away when the front door suddenly opened, and the proprietor poked his head out to inquire if the family would like to come in (this fairy door being one of the more industrious, with a dollhouse-sized recreation of the shop). The little girls hopped up and ran inside, as their parents thanked the man who stood in the doorway.

I checked the sign posted on the door: the store didn’t open for another hour. I don’t know who that guy is, but I happily mistook him for somebody important.

Photo: Ornaments hanging in Peaceable Kingdom front window

Sarah Smallwood has been living and working in Ann Arbor for five years. Her essays have been featured where the cool kids hang out, and she is currently rewriting her first novel. She keeps a daily blog at The Other Shoe and can be reached at heybeedoo at hotmail dot com.