I didn’t want another “Saturdays are for laundry & Sundays are for lamenting” kind of weekend. So, I grabbed my bag, my gimbal, and set out to shoot something in Hoboken. For me, it’s like Manhattan—just with fewer skyscrapers and significantly less traffic. The air was cold, and my gloves? Absolutely useless.

My only plan was to walk straight to Pier 13. A 30-minute non-stop march. But plans are like background characters in my life, always getting overshadowed by distractions. You know how, when you’re rushing to work, something in your periphery catches your eye? Usually, it’s a beautiful woman crossing the street. In Manhattan, this happens… often. But today, it wasn’t about Manhattan’s beauties. It was about something even rarer, an interesting coffee place.

I wouldn’t ask you to guess it because, let’s be honest, nobody could. “Koocheh Coffee.” My brain, programmed for immediate Google searches, did what it does best. Turns out, Koocheh means “alley” in Persian. A poetic name for a tiny café tucked into a quiet corner.

The place had a quiet charm—not the kind that screams for attention on Instagram, but the kind that makes you appreciate simplicity. It had the aesthetics of a small dive bar—warm-colored bulbs, a few metal stools facing the street. Tiny, but in a good way. Maybe I’ve always been drawn to cozy spaces because I never had a big room growing up. Or maybe I just like places that feel personal.

Flat white. That’s my default when trying a new coffee spot. No profound reason. Just one of those things.

Now, here’s where my natural clumsiness took center stage. Holding my half-finished coffee and my beanie in one hand, gimbal in the other, I managed to spill coffee on my brand-new cream fleece jacket. If there’s anything more depressing than losing my keys, it’s staining my clothes. I had no tissues, no quick fix. Just silent suffering.

I kept walking, found a bench, and in a moment of rare wisdom, used my water bottle to dab at the stain. It worked somewhat. Crisis semi-averted. I started recording clips of me sipping coffee, my jacket unzipped for a better shot. But soon, the cold started biting.

Then came another battle. The zipper. It refused to budge. All this was being recorded, me, coffee in hand, fumbling with a stuck zipper. That’s when a homeless man appeared, seemingly in conversation with someone… or himself. I wasn’t sure. Either way, I took it as my cue to leave.

Reaching Pier 13, I saw joggers in shorts, defying the cold like they had some secret immunity. Meanwhile, I was buried under layers and still contemplating frostbite. My hands were numb despite the so-called gloves. And that’s when I did what we all do in moments of pure desperation, remember God. It’s always at the worst times that we tend to remember Him. “Please work… please work…” I muttered, like a man making a divine bargain with a jacket zipper.

After multiple attempts, the zipper finally slid up to my neck. A small victory.

Feeling like I had just survived an arctic expedition, I headed home, ready to spill coffee on something else.