There's something different about coffee equipment you actually hunt down compared to the gear that just shows up at your doorstep two days after clicking "add to cart." I'm looking at my neon mint-green April Brewer right now, and every time I use it, I'm reminded not just of the coffee it makes, but of the winding streets of Copenhagen, a dying phone battery, and the mounting frustration of wondering if I'd made a terrible mistake.

Let me take you back to 2021.

When Coffee Becomes a Quest

I was visiting my brother in Denmark, enjoying the usual tourist activities—biking through Copenhagen (which, by the way, is far more challenging than those effortless-looking Danish cyclists make it appear), trying local pastries, and generally soaking in the experience. But there was something specific calling to me: the April Coffee shop.

I'd heard about April before. Seen the videos, watched the content, understood their philosophy. But this wasn't about research or comparison shopping. This was about being there. About experiencing the space, the people, the community that created something I'd been curious about for a while.

The thing is, I could have easily ordered an April Brewer online. It would have been simple, convenient, predictable. But I was in Copenhagen. The shop was somewhere in the city. And I had a few hours to myself before meeting my brother.

So I decided to find it.

The Journey Nobody Warns You About

Armed with Google Maps, an iPhone 13 with what I thought was a decent charge, and the confidence of someone who walks 10,000+ steps on a regular day, I set out. How hard could it be?

Pretty hard, as it turned out.

The subway stations came and went. I'd check my phone, think I was getting closer, then realize the map had sent me on a slightly different path. I emerged from underground stops into neighborhoods where asking locals about a specialty coffee shop earned me blank stares. Nobody seemed to know what I was talking about.

Time was ticking. My brother was working and would be my ride home later. My phone battery, which had seemed fine at the start, was dropping faster than I'd anticipated. And I was starting to question the entire mission.

Was this really worth it? Should I just turn around and find a regular coffee spot? Was I being ridiculous, wandering around a foreign city for a coffee brewer I could technically order from anywhere?

The Reality Check About Coffee Culture

Here's something that surprised me during that walk: Copenhagen's actual coffee culture didn't quite match my expectations. I'd assumed that a country known for design, quality of life, and progressive values would be wall-to-wall specialty coffee enthusiasts. That everyone would be drinking meticulously prepared pour-overs and discussing coffee varietals.

Instead, I saw plenty of people drinking regular coffee with milk and sugar from the grocery store, not particularly concerned about whether it was third-wave specialty or mass-produced commodity coffee. Not that different from what you'd see in any American city, actually.

I wasn't finding my people on the streets. Which made finding that specific shop even more important.

Finding What You're Looking For (Eventually)

Eventually—phone nearly dead, time running short, legs tired from all the walking—I found it.

The April shop is smaller than you'd expect from the videos. It reminded me of a tiny Apple store: minimalist, clean, with products displayed when they're supposed to be displayed. I spotted Patrick talking with someone. There were other faces I recognized from YouTube videos and content. And there was this intern from Japan who was learning to roast, trying to figure out his path in specialty coffee, just as so many of us do.

It was exactly what I'd hoped for and nothing like the journey to get there had suggested it would be.

I looked at the different brewer colors they had available. Almost went with pink. Settled on the neon mint color instead. Grabbed some papers, picked up a couple bags of coffee, drank some more coffee while I was there (because of course), stuffed everything into my already-full bag, and headed out.

The whole experience at the shop itself? Maybe 20 minutes. Maybe less.

All that searching, frustration, dead phone battery, and wondering if I was making the right call—for what ended up being a relatively brief visit. But somehow, that made it more meaningful, not less.

Why the Story Matters More Than the Gear

Here's the thing about the April Brewer itself: It's good. I've made excellent coffee with it. It works well, rivals the V60 in capability, and has its own distinct flavor profile. Is it the absolute best brewer out there? Probably not. Are there limitations to what it can do? Sure. Would I recommend it over other options for every situation? Depends on what you're after.

But none of that is really the point.

When I look at the coffee equipment scattered around my space, I can tell you that probably 90% of it came from Amazon. Click, wait two days, open box, done. There's nothing wrong with that approach—it's efficient, and the gear works just fine.

But this one brewer? I searched for this one. Got lost finding it. Questioned the entire mission. Nearly ran out of battery. Had my back against the wall with time and navigation. And then finally, briefly, experienced what I'd been looking for before stuffing it in my bag and heading back into the Copenhagen streets.

I can tell that story forever. And that story is what makes this particular piece of equipment special to me.

The Invitation to Your Own Adventure

The broader lesson here isn't really about the April Brewer, or even about traveling to Denmark to buy coffee equipment. It's about the value of seeking experiences rather than just accumulating gear.

Most of us in the coffee world can fall into the trap of thinking the next piece of equipment will somehow make everything better. That if we just had that specific grinder, that particular brewer, that exact scale, then our coffee would finally be perfect.

But what if instead of adding to cart, you planned a trip? Not necessarily to Copenhagen—maybe just across your own city to a roaster you've heard about but never visited. Maybe to a coffee shop in a neighborhood you don't usually explore. Maybe to meet up with other coffee people who you've only ever interacted with online.

The journey—the actual physical or mental journey of seeking something out—adds layers of meaning that convenience can never provide. It creates connections between you and your tools that go beyond functionality. It gives you stories to remember when you're brewing your morning coffee three years later.

What Are You Willing to Search For?

I'm not saying everyone needs to wander around foreign cities with a dying phone to make their coffee equipment meaningful. But I am suggesting that there's value in being intentional about how you acquire things, about what you seek out versus what you simply order.

That coffee journey—whether it's finding a shop, visiting a roaster, attending a coffee event, or even just experimenting extensively with the equipment you already have—that journey keeps things interesting. It connects you to the community and culture of coffee in ways that product reviews and Amazon ratings never can.

So go on your own coffee adventures. Take the chance to be present in situations that aren't convenient or efficient. Meet people. Get lost. Question your decisions. And then, when you finally find what you're looking for, appreciate both the thing itself and everything it took to get there.

Because when I use my April Brewer now, I'm not just making coffee. I'm remembering Copenhagen streets, a dying phone, mounting frustration, and the satisfaction of finally walking into that minimalist shop. That's worth more than any piece of equipment specifications could ever quantify.