The place was narrow, like four or five hallways side by side. They called it a 'coffee shop' mainly because that's what the sign outside said it was, but really it exists by renting computer time and providing a forum for hackers, militant atheists, anarchists and libertarians/'statists'/lost republicans harried for not being 'logically consistent.' Before you get to any of that though, there was the small matter of a moat like art gallery that claimed the first 150 sq feet or so followed by a moat of an anarchocapitalist library/book store. Every night the stage and chairs in back were filled with some manner of amateur noise: improv comedy, jazz, or intellectuals/geeks pontificating on this or that or the other thing. And for the most part, he loved it.
He sat there, waiting for his writing partner... extremely grateful that he didn't bother calling himself a libertarian anymore.