I held the glass pitcher in a gentle circular motion, trying to look fancy but probably appearing more pretentious instead.
I poured the brew into the wooden espresso cup that felt almost like a shot glass—except I wasn’t pouring alcohol.
Today, I learned that there are many ways to tell coffee apart—from the way it is processed to even the kind of soil in which it was grown.
I tried to savor the aroma, as my friend had advised, but I couldn’t say anything specific about it—only that it smelled like coffee.
My friend, who had ordered the “pour-over,” had stepped away to the restroom while I tried to apply the lessons he had given me moments earlier.
I took a sip and flinched at the sudden bitterness. I hadn’t had pure black coffee in quite a while.
With a bit of effort, I detected a faint hint of sourness, and if I remembered my crash course correctly, that meant the beans we were served had undergone fermentation.
When my friend came back, I shared my guess, and, to my delight, he said I was right!
Apparently, sour coffee is a thing, and I need to tell my other friend Dani (who memorably served us sour coffee a few years ago) that her brew was completely normal! It became a running joke back then. We had assumed there was something odd about her method or her taste buds, but it turns out she likely used fermented beans. I owe her an apology and a share of the knowledge I’ve unlocked!
My barista-guitarist told me that learning to tell coffee apart takes time. Even he needed practice before he could properly distinguish the different aromas. It sounded like reassurance, though I’m not sure I’ll ever reach that level of discernment. My taste buds aren’t that sharp, and though I’ve gone café hopping as a hobby, I’m not planning to become a coffee expert anytime soon.
Still, it gave us something to talk about as we watched the contestants of the brewing competition at the municipal park. I loved learning a random piece of trivia that suddenly turned into a meaningful conversation. I had originally asked my friend out for a walk after discovering the 9th Coffee Festival in La Trinidad, Benguet, and thought it would be a fun way to spend the afternoon with someone from the area.
A little after the drizzle stopped, we left the municipal grounds, and he brought me to one of his favorite cafés. “Man-Apsol” is the name of the place. It means “to meet” or “to gather” in our mother tongue—a derivative of the more commonly used term, “man-aspol,” with only a slight difference in spelling. He discovered this variation after borrowing an Ibaloi dictionary from someone at the nearby university.
We talked for a while, and I asked for clarification about whether he was quitting music after seeing him sell his beloved guitar online. I was relieved to learn that he was only laying low for a bit. I felt somewhat responsible for encouraging him to pursue the stage, so it would have made me sad if he ended his music journey too soon.
He mentioned his plans of joining the upcoming acoustic band competition of the Strawberry Festival. He’s waiting on the final steps of approval and to also be able to join the battle of the bands on another date. 
Later on, I learned that he did manage to get into both competitions, and his photo was even used for one of the event posters. He’s the one in the middle, holding a telecaster.
We reminisced about the past—about how he ended up working with coffee while studying agriculture in college and still learning music on the side. He wasn’t the first person I knew from that area studying agriculture who was also into music; in fact, some of the people he invited to join our band came from the same circle. It felt like its own little community in La Trinidad, a blend of agricultural study, friendship, and rock music, where everyone somehow found a way to support each other’s passions.
We spoke about our childhood romances and laughed at the small secrets about former schoolmates.
At one point, he admitted he was surprised to find himself casually hanging out with one of the “smartest kids” in school—because that was how he saw me. Studious. An achiever. Decorated with awards. While he thought of himself as just a regular guy minding his own business with his friends, maybe even a bit of a delinquent.
I told him, on the other hand, that I wasn’t surprised at all. I’d like to think I had always been more flexible, able to hang out with different kinds of people.
I admitted that I didn’t always enjoy being put on a pedestal. Despite my competitive nature, there were days when the pressure felt like too much. There were times when I wanted to be like everyone else—a little more ordinary, unnoticed, and not constantly expected to excel.
I now see my old classmates who didn’t graduate with flying colors still getting what they wanted out of life. Many of them are married, with children. Some have gone abroad. Some seem to be living better, fuller lives than I am.
But I know that doesn’t mean they haven’t had their own struggles. At the end of the day, our achievements in school, or the lack of them, didn’t define our futures. We are all human, each of us trying to survive this insufferable world. Equally fragile. Equally mortal.
As the evening settled and our cups emptied, I thought about how, earlier that day, I couldn’t tell one aroma from another. Everything simply smelled like coffee—just bitterness, just sourness, just another cup.
Maybe some things are like that at first—flat, indistinguishable, easy to misjudge. But with time, you begin to notice the difference. The sourness that isn’t a mistake. The bitterness that has depth. The things that once felt so wrong but that you can now laugh about. Maybe it does take practice to tell coffee apart. And maybe it takes even more to understand people, yourself included, without rushing to judgment.
At least now, I know that sour doesn’t always mean wrong. And maybe that’s a good place to start.
This is an extended version of a post originally published on my blog during the 9th Coffee Festival in La Trinidad. If you enjoyed this piece, you can read more of my work at https://whitewavechronicles.wordpress.com/
—Nami~
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