Encounter Culture: Terminally Online, Performatively Offline

The window of a café is a certain kind of magnifying glass; a lens that exaggerates all of the small imperceptible behaviors of the patrons who frequent for a shot of espresso or a sip of wine.

This Fall, Samantha Cole turns a historic New York café into a cultural observatory. In "Encounter Culture," she examines how our transactions—from hurried morning coffee to leisurely afternoon tea—transmit our values, aspirations, and the zeitgeist of our times.

Every Thursday afternoon at around 1:00 pm, the same tall, 40-something-year-old man arrives at the cafe with nothing but a piece of paper in his hand. He settles at the least popular table in the back, legs crossed, head down, orders a chicken sandwich and sparkling water, and proceeds to do the crossword.

Is Puzzle Man more disciplined than me, or just performatively offline? As I watch him from behind the counter, I can't help but wonder: Do the many "no laptops" signs adorning cafés like ours actually ward off the unsavory very-online types, or do they attract a breed of patrons whose analog exploits are merely time-shifted content for later posts? Are these people truly more offline, or just more adept at curating their disconnected mome—

Oh sorry, the check? Coming!

Four co-workers from a local pop-up drink wine and smoke cigarettes outside, enjoying each other’s company so much that they can barely pull themselves away from the table.

We’re a paradoxical society. We gorge ourselves on content while quietly longing for freedom from the very devices we can't seem to put down.

I do admire the way these people spend their time as they stop in for food or drink; the pace at which they eat and the leisurely moments that follow. I’m especially struck when I witness people around my age, who had an impressive Instagram following by the age of 12, successfully socializing without occasionally burying their heads in their phones or the usual rush to move on once their meal is finished. 

But this ritual is under attack.

Being neck-deep in a technology addiction of my own, I am one of the many culprits. During lulls in conversation, my hand instinctively reaches for my phone. At home, I've perfected the art of simultaneous consumption: watching videos of wombats jumping into lakes on my iPad while Desperate Housewives plays ambiently on the TV—because apparently, one screen's worth of distraction isn't enough.

We're a paradoxical society; we gorge ourselves on content while quietly longing for freedom from the very devices we can't seem to put down. Many of us are beginning to question this constant connectivity, yearning for moments undiluted by the buzz of notifications or the lure of endless scrolling.

This yearning has given rise to a trend that embraces an offline, minimalist aesthetic that values being present and seeks to evoke a simpler time. A time when people weren’t merely behaving like the man with his crossword— they were him. Sitting outside of the café for hours; laughing, reading, writing. Without screens. Coffee shops lined with large potted plants and vintage photos, simple wooden furniture surrounding a communal table, and couches at the center—not mere aesthetics, but storytelling devices meant to be worthy of your gaze. A deliberate contrast to our technology-saturated, performative, attention-driven economy.

They say capitalism has a solution for everything—device-free zones are one of those solutions. What better way for a world-weary human to escape the bustling streets than a quaint café, where the music is pleasant, the air is cool, and of course, where no laptops are allowed?

But now, people go out of their way to sit outside at these cafes, once havens from the digital world, only to take photographs of the “no laptops allowed” sign and post about it later. 

As “being offline” trends up, places and spaces designed to anchor us and provide respite from the relentless pace and urgency of urban life are increasingly endangered by the dominance of social media. The desire for genuine experiences clashes with the pressures of virtual validation. 

A recent satirical TikTok depicts a group of young men “reading” outside of one of New York’s staple, old-school cafes. “Quotes” because they most certainly are not reading, some of their books being upside down. My TikTok feed is populated with women having a “wholesome” meal with a friend, oftentimes at coffee shops. But with their phone a few feet away and the knowledge of its existence, how wholesome is it really? While these individuals likely have good intentions, whether it is to promote a certain lifestyle or create engaging content, social media has skewed what it means to live authentically. 

Last week I sat at the bar and journaled for a bit after my shift. Next to me, a couple staged each other for photos, making me entirely aware of how I might appear in the background of their shot. It dawned on me that even those successfully living in a bubble without social media are vulnerable to the inadvertent intrusions of those more consumed by their digital lives. 

When authenticity becomes a trend, is it still authentic? 

On my recent trip to CDMX, a current travel hotspot, I was a bit off-put by the long lines and chaos at the city's attractions, well known for their beauty and authenticity. Frankly, it was challenging to appreciate what made these places so charming in the first place, now that tourism has become so overwhelming. Social media is great for highlighting lesser-known restaurants and finding new spots, and it can also threaten these spaces with overconcentration and commercialization.

Take Michel Foucault's concept of "aesthetics of existence," where individuals craft themselves as living works of art, mindful of how they present themselves. Or New York Times Journalist Pete Wells’ concept of “camera cuisine,” where dishes are crafted not just for taste but for visual appeal, catering to a culture obsessed with documenting everything. This shift has significantly influenced the types of foods served in restaurants, much like the authenticity trend might reshape the aesthetics of spaces or the offerings of brands. 

Some brands have seized on this anti-screenager movement and leveraged it to promote social capital in their products. Soho House, for instance—a community space blending aesthetics, social media, and exclusivity. Or the light phone, a device that only allows for cell phone essentials: call, text, and music. No social media. 

Yet, despite the initial appeal of this return to basics, there may be a darker reality. When authenticity becomes a trend, is it still authentic? The pursuit of genuine connection and meaningful experience risks becoming commodified and diluted in our rapidly digitalizing society.