Located in the basement of Penn’s library, Mark’s Cafe beckons like a seductive footnote. For years I have sought such a marriage—cafe and library—the way the mythologized, Arthurian knight sought the metaphorical Grail. I have long meditated upon the harmony of these fantasied scenes: sipping a dark, earthy brew while scrolling through a reel of microfilm; or, pausing after the fifteenth photocopied page, in order to request a refill from the carefully coiffed, demure barista, whose nose, as well, is too often buried in a book.
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