A friend’s restless mind
ripples in a Basel café—
the cup never cools
I remember the autumns in Basel as a kind of golden gray. The city always seemed half-awake, its medieval stone bridges draped in the slow mist that rose from the Rhine. The old city was a tangle of tight alleys and secret gardens, places I’d disappear into after a long day in the biology building. Back then, my life was simple: a scholarship, a room overlooking a noisy courtyard, lectures and lab work, and the steady company of books and too much black coffee.
But it wasn’t the quiet of those days that sticks with me—it’s the noise of other people’s questions. Especially Lucas. He was the kind of friend who never really belonged anywhere, who filled a room with a different idea every week and the nervous energy of someone searching for a door that fit any key.
We met, as so many friendships begin, by accident. A seminar on stem cells, a shared cigarette in the rain, a joke about biochemistry that somehow survived translation. He wore the same faded brown jacket all autumn, and his notebook was a chaos of business plans, sketches, passwords, grocery lists, and bits of song lyrics he insisted were fragments of genius.
Our meetings followed no pattern. Sometimes I’d spot him in the library after midnight, eyes red, grinning with that look that meant he’d had a breakthrough or a breakdown—often both. Sometimes we’d end up on the banks of the Rhine, feet dangling above the slow current, watching the lights of Kleinbasel flicker like patient stars.
But the moment I remember most clearly happened in late October, at a café hidden behind the Marktplatz. The place was always half-empty, with cracked tile floors and tables crowded with chess players and Turkish pensioners. It smelled of burnt sugar and spent espresso grounds.
Lucas was already there when I arrived, hunched over his laptop, surrounded by scraps of paper and a single, untouched croissant.
“Let me guess,” I said, setting down my bag. “You’ve started a new thing.”
He smiled, sheepish. “Three things, actually. But only one’s any good.”
I looked at the croissant, then at him. “You ever finish a croissant, Lucas?”
He laughed. “I get distracted.”
I ordered us coffees. For a while, we sat in companionable silence, listening to the hum of the espresso machine and the soft clack of chess pieces at the next table. Outside, the leaves dragged in the gutter, a slow, swirling dance.
We talked, as we always did, about everything and nothing. He wanted to build an app for student discounts, launch an online magazine, open a science-themed pop-up bar. He wanted to write a book about the philosophy of the mitochondria, but also maybe just drop out and become a full-time street musician. “I’ve got too many ideas and not enough time,” he confessed.
I sipped my coffee. “Or maybe you’ve just got too many ideas that aren’t really yours.”
He blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Look,” I said, “there’s this thing people don’t talk about enough. Marketing isn’t a puzzle you solve once. It’s not about finding the magic thing that makes everyone pay attention. Marketing is an open problem. The trick isn’t finding the right answer—it’s finding the right answer for you.”
He shook his head, but there was a pause in his breathing. I pressed on, gently. “Think about it. Some people are born to talk, to make podcasts, to host live events, to fill rooms with stories and jokes. Others are writers—they’d rather disappear into words for days. Some people want to build communities from scratch. Some people want to be left alone with a whiteboard. If you’re going to succeed at anything—if you’re going to build something that lasts—you have to be a little crazy about it. You have to want to do it even when nobody’s watching.”
Lucas picked at the croissant, finally taking a bite. “So you’re saying I should only start something if I’d do it even if it failed?”
“Something like that. You have to enjoy the grind. The boring bits, the repetition, the weird moments where you’re alone with your idea and there’s nobody cheering. If you don’t love the work, you won’t last long enough for anyone else to love it either.”
He nodded, looking out at the drizzle. “I wish someone had told me that sooner.”
I shrugged. “Maybe someone did. You just weren’t ready to hear it.”
I told him about my own failures—the blog I’d launched and abandoned, the science communication club that fizzled after three awkward meetings, the talks I gave that left me hollow and self-conscious. I told him about the day I realized I could spend my life chasing the next big thing, or I could just dig deep into what I already loved: biology, the small details of life, the puzzle of how things fit together.
“You want to be a marketer?” I said. “Market what you can’t help but talk about. If you love writing, write. If you love teaching, teach. If you love arguing, argue. But don’t try to force yourself into someone else’s shoes. They’ll never fit.”
We finished our coffees, and the sky cleared just enough for a square of light to fall on the chessboard. For a long time, we watched the old men play, neither of us needing to fill the silence.
That conversation didn’t transform Lucas overnight. He still bounced from idea to idea, but I noticed he began to look for fit rather than novelty. A few weeks later, he found work at the Natural History Museum, designing workshops for kids and families. He wrote me an email: “It’s not glamorous, but I could do this for a decade and not get bored.” I believed him.
Years passed, but we stayed in touch—short notes, photos of the Rhine in winter, a new business card every other year. Each time, I saw a little more patience in him, a little less of that hungry, nervous energy.
Looking back, I know the real act of kindness wasn’t advice, but attention. I listened, and in listening I held up a mirror. I reminded him that the world isn’t looking for another copy of what already works; it’s waiting for the thing only you can do. I offered him permission—not to chase what was popular, but to chase what was real for him.
But there’s another truth that I only realized later: Sometimes, the advice you give others is the lesson you most need for yourself.
For a long time, I thought I needed to be more than I was—smarter, bolder, more ambitious, less anxious. I thought the world wanted grand gestures. It took years, and a hundred quiet moments like that café afternoon, to see that what matters isn’t how big your idea is, but how honestly you can live inside it.
I learned, slowly, to choose the path that felt most like home: the steady, curious work of science, the patient act of explaining, the quiet rhythm of writing. Sometimes I still get distracted, chasing someone else’s definition of success. But when I catch myself, I remember that rainy day in Basel, the chess players, the cold croissant, and the kindness of attention.
The world is full of open problems, endless ways to market, sell, persuade. The only real mistake is to forget that the solution starts with you: what you love, what you’d do if no one paid you, what you’d wake up wanting to do even if every last person had stopped watching.
Lucas taught me that. Or maybe, together, we taught each other.
If you ever find yourself bouncing from project to project, uncertain where to dig in, pause. Ask yourself: Where do I lose track of time? What work feels like play? Where does effort become joy? That’s your sign. That’s where you belong.
And if this story finds you, subscribe. I’ll keep writing—about friends, failures, half-finished croissants, and the small, quiet ways we help each other find the work that’s ours alone.
life 