Weaving around the edge of the musician's circle, clumps of coffee drinkers, and an upright bass gig bag, I join the customers at the counter. The line moves slowly, so I count: musicians: 25 and customers: 15 - all stuffed into a midget storefront. Coffee finally in hand, I scan for a seat. The hammer dulcimer player has set up in the snug conversation corner I consider mine. But a littered table by the front windows, apparently the repository of the musicians' half-drunk coffee cups, is free. I claim it, and soon Bob, a Cajun music lover, hunkers down and launches into an account of his latest trip to Louisiana.

High above us, ceiling fans on long stems bat a fiddle tune from table to table. My foot takes up the beat. My hand joins in, tapping on the blue and white checkered tablecloth. Watching it, I am nostalgic. Gone with the previous owner is my favorite table, one where silver and gold stars and spirals danced across a lacquered indigo surface - a surface on which I would trace the cryptic 'John's Violet Eyes Made Mary Stay Up Nights, Probably' written inside a purple cloud. Probably what? I'd liked to wonder. Gone too is the five-foot high, orange Dala horse that used to greet patrons outside the door, now only occasionally in residence after its sojourn with pranksters.

On non-Saturdays, it's the Star's unlikely brew of homeyness and exotic color that's captivating. There, local artists check to see if their friends have survived another month. On its bulletin board they post photos, political manifestos and For Sale notices. As I spoon up spicy black bean and tomato soup, I can watch trucks growl down University Avenue, terrorizing neophyte street crossers. I can inspect white pajamaed students darting into the Kuan Do studio, admire Somali women in gauzy garments wafting into the African Marketplace or try to spot a Wicca practitioner whisking into the shop next door. I, amateur painter, would-be writer, am at-home.