Precisely because they are small they emphasize the need for quality since they do not offer quantity. That is why ordering a double espresso or a Turkish is an antinomy. These coffees have their rhythm and their sounds. They each combine with their own noises. The crystalline echoes of the orthodox Italian bar for the espresso and the rolling of the backgammon dice or the rhythmic rattling of the rosary for the Turkish. They each have their own time. The speed of the espresso integrates it into the flow of everyday life. The Turkish’s leisurely time matches with a cigarette and refers to the fringes of everyday life. Espresso is swallowed standing up. The Turk sucks usually with an oblique seat in the chair. It is interesting but also strange that these two small coffees require more than any other special knowhow and many conditions that need to coincide for their excellent preparation.

The nervous and unattractive mixing with the straw

My friends complain about the thousands of espressos I order every day only to abandon them after one sip. But I don’t ask for coffee at all costs. I hunt with a usually unsatisfied passion a really good espresso. Basque fate wanted me to live in a transitional age. The good Turkish is rare. Young people don’t drink it and therefore have no demands. Thus the hunt for the good Turkish away from the houses Banner Design and not all turned out to be in vain. Espresso seems to dominate. But without yet having given rise to demands. It didn’t create a culture. One seems to have been lost and the other took root badly. And the worst thing is that the coffee game in our country won it for the time and this like so many others the easy and bad taste. That is the instant one. Its monotonous ease of preparation and consumption. He has made a culture except that it is nothing more than the aesthetically colorless tube glass and the fake foam.

Banner Design

The sample of all our cultural embarrassment

The ones that I boldly call artistic and that for a while made me feel contented. Happy and the others that mischievously fill the drawer of memories. The first ones probably to emphasize with a little vanity and a lot of anxiety that in a life that flows almost in my absence I have also achieved Bold Data something personal. And the second ones which were made by others more innocent and which depict me in moments of life to make the mosaic of my story. A collection of photographic moments that through fractions of frozen seconds do not exceed a few minutes. Traces of life imprints of a disordered flow of time time shrinking to a moment. All this memory through successive abstractions can fit into a photograph. My father’s memory may lie in his smile in front of the Christmas tree. My childhood fits into that photo of me playing in the family garden. The girl I loved as a child will forever pose in this snowy landscape.

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