There’s something unexpectedly beautiful about being tossed around in the back of a truck with your coworkers on a coffee farm in El Salvador.

We were packed together, bouncing uncontrollably along the mountainside. At one point I’m fairly certain Matt had four separate sets of feet touching him. It was chaotic and uncomfortable and joyful - the kind of laughter that comes when you surrender to the moment.

And in hindsight, it feels like the perfect metaphor for this trip.

Because for eight years, I’ve worked in coffee.

I understood - intellectually - what it takes to harvest coffee. I knew there were people involved at every step. Someone picks the coffee. Someone washes it. Someone dries it. Someone sorts it. I knew, in theory, the journey of a tiny seed becoming the cup I drink each morning in Fort Worth, Texas.

I knew people cared deeply about this craft.

In theory.

Then I met them.

Juan Carlos. Mario. Carla. And so many others whose names now live alongside the coffees we serve.

This trip turned theory into relationship.

We heard about the realities of building a life in coffee - the geopolitical pressures, the market fluctuations, the fragility of sustainability in a system that doesn’t always reward care. And yet, the conversations were never defined by struggle alone. They were threaded with joy. With pride. With humor.

We were invited not just to observe, but to participate.

Harvesting coffee is far harder than it looks. You stand on the slope of a mountain with a basket strapped around your neck, carefully selecting only the ripest cherries - precision matters, because every cherry you pick must also be carried back up the hill. We watched workers move with practiced ease, hauling 120 pounds as if it were second nature.

We turned coffee on drying beds by hand.

Naturals rolled easily beneath our fingers. Honey-process coffees lived up to their name — sticky, textured, alive. I’ve explained processing methods countless times before, but feeling the difference between them with my own hands created a connection no cupping table ever could.

Care became tangible.

And then there was the hospitality.

Rodrigo, owner of Café Cate and co-founder of Forest Flame, along with Mr. Carlos of Finca Milan, set aside four full days to welcome us into their world. They showed us the coffee process up close - but they also showed us El Salvador.

We shared pupusas — many of them. Explored Surf City. Wandered through an artisan market. And sat down to a meal of pulpo, carpaccio, and more desserts than any reasonable group should consume.

Time was given freely.
Knowledge was shared generously.
Hearts were opened fully.

At one point, I asked Mr. Carlos what he wanted our customers to know about him.

He didn’t talk about flavor notes.Or altitude. Or varietals.

He said simply: “We care about the people. We care about the coffee. We have a sustainable operation.”

And we saw what that care looked like first-hand.