Come gli italiani fanno
I’ve been having my coffee (well, espresso) like this ever since my trip to Italy. I think at first I was just trying to fit in, and would quietly sip my miniature frothy cappuccino at the bar; totally afraid to ask for it “to go” OR to add something to it, like more milk, or cream, and receive strange looks from other patrons.
I didn’t really want anyone to try and talk to me; I just wanted to watch. I would dust a bit of sugar onto the foam, like I saw another girl do, and observe. This particular coffee bar was in Florence, so the baristas were used to having English-speaking customers. I appreciated their patience with my broken-Italian and and hesitation when it was time to count out my euros.
It’s funny how things change. It could be that the espresso over there was just SO good that I no longer need my slow-drip brew (American coffee) as they call it, or I just miss the bold nutty taste of something a bit stronger that happens reminds me of those beautiful cobblestone streets.
Cento do questi giorni. – wish you a hundred of these days.