BLU — The Oasis That Smells Like Coffee

There’s a café near where I’m living called BLU. It’s not particularly big, or especially quirky, and there are no Turkish copper lamps hanging from the ceiling. But it’s an oasis. Or rather: my oasis. Because when you don’t feel like you belong somewhere, anything that reminds you you’re not alone can be worth more than a ticket home.

BLU is open every day. Except Mondays. And that — which might sound like a small thing — hits me like a splinter at the start of each week. Because Monday without BLU is just Monday. But Tuesday? That’s redemption: the smell of coffee, the sound of the grinder, the light coming through the window as if it, too, knows that the outside world isn’t always kind.

I’m not from here. Or better said, I am here, but I haven’t quite become. And in that subtle difference, discomfort seeps in — the senselessness, the uneasy feeling that I don’t quite fit, like I’m on pause, not art but draft. But then I walk into BLU, and something shifts. I settle into a table like someone settling their soul. They bring me a latte I no longer have to order — they already know. And if you’re someone reading this who lives far from home, you’ll understand that they know means more than a hundred you’re welcomes.

The people who work at BLU have that rare kind of magic: they make you feel like they’re working, that things run smoothly, that there’s a rhythm and precision to everything. But they also give off this vibe that, at any moment, they might just shut the register and go grab a beer with you. And it wouldn’t be weird. Because at BLU no one fakes a smile. If they’re tired, you’ll see it. If they’re happy, you’ll feel it. It’s a café where humanity doesn’t hide behind the bar — it gets poured into a medium cup with oat milk and a bit of cross-counter banter.

Over time, I started learning things. That BLU opened just a few days before the pandemic began. That in Buenos Aires, that’s like being born in the middle of a hurricane. That the first months were about surviving — opening when they could, holding on with sheer willpower and caffeine. But they didn’t fold. They built something stronger: a community. A café that’s a meeting point, sure, but also a space for ideas, for glances, for comfort. A place where you can write, or think, or talk, even cry — and no one flinches.

Sometimes I wonder if BLU saved me, or if I let myself be saved. If it was the latte or just knowing there was a door around the corner I could walk through to feel, if only for an hour, that things made a little more sense.

With a BLU coffee in hand, I stitched ideas together, erased others, invented futures, and let go of some pasts. It’s wild to think about, but sometimes you don’t need an epiphany — just a place where they call you by your name and ask if you want the usual.