Like a shifting causeway between island and mainland, there’s a thin line between struggle and reward, between beauty and pain. And sometimes, when the wind is at your back and sweat stings your eyes and your lungs and your calves are screaming in a can’t-explain-it, feel-good way, that thin line between effort and elation, between awe and ouch, blurs together.
Walk in the doors of 11 Fulton Street and the aroma smacks you hard. A pungent perfume of burlap and coffee. Both sweet and bitter, nutty and sharp, earthy and alluring. Burlap bags stamped with names of Central and South American countries slump along the entryway walls.