Every other weekend, I pack a small bag and leave my apartment in Islamabad to spend time with my parents in Abbottabad. Depending on how tired I am from the day, I usually spend around 500 rupees on a coffee for the way from one of the cafes that litter the capital. Somewhere along the Hazara Motorway, my father would call me to ask where I have reached and express his surprise, yet again, on why I choose to spend my money on an overpriced coffee. It is beyond his comprehension why I would work so hard to be able to afford this cup when he knows I get much more fulfillment from my mom’s chai. But he doesn’t get it, does he? It’s not just the coffee, but what it has to come to symbolise for the urban elite across Pakistan.

In the F-sector of Islamabad, I often go to work with colleagues or meet friends over this overpriced cup of coffee. Financially, this purchase every other day doesn’t even make sense for my savings plan. But socially it does pay off because I run into some familiar faces, listen to their same old complaints about work and love lives, and maybe have a meaningful exchange with one in ten people who are passionate to make an impact in a Pakistan of their imagination. But that’s the problem with this Pakistan of F-sector: it isn’t representative enough of the chaos and dynamism of a country that you discover outside the gated communities of the capital.

In the weeks I spend in Islamabad, my conception of the country becomes confined to the life I see unfold around me. Despite attempts to withhold myself from rolling eyes every time someone brings up Mango sales or lack of Starbucks options in Pakistan, I often still give in to the conception that my quality of life in Pakistan would be so much better if I could sip a Starbucks latte while I looked for a good deal on a Mango jumpsuit. But then I remind myself of the utter hollowness and emptiness I have experienced from the 40th floor of a building in Dubai’s financial district while I had access to all the overpriced coffee in the world.

What is it about this coffee-culture in Islamabad that makes me so keen to partake in it while remaining uncomfortable with it at the same time? The answer is perhaps right in front of me while I write this article. From across the windows, I can see construction workers gather in a small group for a chai break. The amount they make for hours of – often undignified – labour might be equal to the amount I spend on this unnecessary purchase every day.

It feels inauthentic at times to partake in the coffee-culture of the tier-1 cities, but I also can’t fully relate to the conversations I have with some of my childhood friends and family in Abbottabad.

The security guard outside the cafe probably observes the country’s urban elite spending the amount of his weekly income on cups of frothy milk. Yet, within the cafe, I can relish the conversations about how great life can be in Pakistan (of our imagination) and forget about the inequality and disparity I observe outside the window. It is strange how much a cup of frothy milk with a shot of espresso can blur my view. The gap between the rich and the poor blurs into the background and connection with the rest of the country widens with every sip of this drink.

In the months since I moved back to Pakistan after college, I learned about the tiers of cities in Pakistan when I did some research work on a project. For me, the city that I’ve known as home in Pakistan has always been Abbottabad. It has been my number one safe place that I can run away to, a place that gives me that warm fuzzy feeling every time I enter it. But I’m now learning to call Islamabad home as well. Islamabad’s Margalla Road now invokes similar emotions as Abbottabad’s Club Road. Also, now, I also can’t help but feel like a stranger, or a temporary visitor, when I’m back in my hometown on weekend trips. What has changed is that the city has become tier-2 even in my own head.

It feels inauthentic at times to partake in the coffee-culture of the tier-1 cities, but I also can’t fully relate to the conversations I have with some of my childhood friends and family in Abbottabad. I’m stuck somewhere between fitting into the urban elite of this country while holding onto my roots in a city that I’ve loved for a long time.

I know that my connection with the rest of the country weakens further when I hold long (read: petty) conversations over an urban, millennial-style brunch of avocado toast, poached eggs, and cappuccinos (my father does not need to know how much I spend on eggs and toast at a random cafe). Am I trying to create a bubbled life for myself in Islamabad and losing touch from where I started in the process? Have I suppressed the frustration I felt from the urban elite who did not understand the challenges I encountered, or witnessed firsthand, in my schooling across what they call tier-2 cities?

All I know is that I am caught in a state of ambivalence about my incessant need to fit into the coffee-culture in the capital. But, every once in awhile, I have pakoras from Ilyasi Masjid with a childhood friend and remind myself of how much I have learned and still continue to learn from the people I grew up around. It’s around the Ilyasi pakora stands that I see the chaos and dynamism of this country unfold. It is the chaotic learning that I want to bring back to my work in the capital – as long as I do not allow the coffee to blur my vision.