Jörg Schellmann, Munich (born in 1944), has executed a design from 2008, a Study that is both space and furniture at the same time. It can serve as a private work cell, or in greater numbers in an open-plan office it can define various workplaces and free areas.
We enter a little coffeehouse with a friend of mine and give our order. While we’re aproaching our table two people come in and they go to the counter:
‘Five coffees, please. Two of them for us and three suspended’ They pay for their order, take the two and leave.
I ask my friend: “What are those ‘suspended’ coffees?”
My friend: “Wait for it and you will see.”
Some more people enter. Two girls ask for one coffee each, pay and go. The next order was for seven coffees and it was made by three lawyers - three for them and four ‘suspended’. While I still wonder what’s the deal with those ‘suspended’ coffees I enjoy the sunny weather and the beautiful view towards the square infront of the café. Suddenly a man dressed in shabby clothes who looks like a beggar comes in throught the door and kindly asks
‘Do you have a suspended coffee ?’
It’s simple - people pay in advance for a coffee meant for someone who can not afford a warm bevarage. The tradition with the suspended coffees started in Naples, but it has spread all over the world and in some places you can order not only a suspended coffee, but also a sandwitch or a whole meal.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have such cafés or even grocery stores in every town where the less fortunate will find hope and support ? If you own a business why don’t you offer it to your clients… I am sure many of them will like it.
Source : [x]
Oh my. This is so good.
..isn’t really my thing. I need to find other ways to spend the (albeit little) time I waste on here. Goodbye!
I had a dream last night that I went back to Mexico and saw the El Porvenir kids.
I miss them.
I miss Emanuel, Gabriel, Michelle.
I miss walking them home after school and seeing the paths they took to come to El Porvenir each day.
I miss their sweet hugs and kisses each morning, and yelling “Tu amor es grande!” in the nursery.
I miss Emanuel’s mole AHAHA…
I can’t wait for Christmas break. <3
Camping put at 6am to sign up for laser cutting time. Charette has begun. #archi #tooearly #charrette #finalereview #thisisridiculous #whoneedslasercuttinganyways #naptime #icantspell #nosleep #lawls #hi #hungry (at Anderson Hall Rice University)
I bought a tub of whipped cream the other day. It’s been at least eight years since I’ve done such a thing. I finished it off for breakfast this morning (pardon my unscrupulous eating habits).
Last week Christena came into lab and announced what she thought of kids nowadays by relating what happened with the pretty little blondie-daughter-of-a-venture-capitalist she occasionally baby-sits, for lack of a more glamorous word. She was heading over to Coffee Bean, and offered to get the 12-year old something to drink. After coming back with am (alleged) six-dollar iced blended, the girl took one sip, decided that she was over it because, after all, she was about to go swimming, and that was that.
Christena was flabbergasted.
My mom has this guilt complex going on, where she feels like she was personally responsible for depriving me of all the pleasures any self-respecting child was entitled to by virtue of the simple fact that we were poor once, though for a while. She apologizes for this all the time. I try to reassure her that no, I do not feel deprived, and no, my childhood was not horrible because I had a lifetime total of one Barbie whose head used to fall off when I tried to give it baths.
Today, as I was enjoying my whipped topping breakfast, I remembered something and thought that I’d like to thank my folks for being poor, because:
It taught me what precious means.
When I was five and living in a shack whose one and only room housed my parents’ bed, my mattress, and a cardboard box that doubled as a TV stand—leaving just enough room for one person to walk, with a little maneuvering, between the kitchen and the bathroom—I discovered Cool Whip for the first time. I had just moved to Puerto Rico from China, where the Communists knew of no such thing. And so when I tried my first bite of the sumptuously white dollop of pure and creamy goodness, I was shocked and smitten. It tasted so much like ice-cream, I thought, but so soft! And only a dollar a bucket, which was a good buck fifty cheaper than buying the real thing.
After I finished off the Cool Whip, I washed the container and kept it as a prized possession. It was my first toy since coming to America. To my broke-ass five-year-old fresh-off-the-boat conception of the world, that opaque white plastic tub with the swirly red English letters and pale teal stripes was the coolest thing I owned. I thought it precious.
So precious, in fact, that a few days later, when I saw my 9-year old neighbor friend toting around the exact same container, I was furious. I ran up to her, pointed passionately at the plastic ware, then indignantly back at me, and proceeded to make a series of noises to attempt to convey the blatant and inconvenient truth that she had stole my Cool Whip tub. If I had known English I would’ve told her it was wrong to take things that aren’t yours, that the Cool Whip was mine; I had eaten it myself and washed it with my stubby Chinese girl hands and called it my own. Instead, I tried to tell her with the desperation in my slanty eyes and the frustrated rage gurgling from the bottom of my throat that she had taken something of mine that mattered, that meant something, whose loss I could not help but to fight and defend for.
Shockingly, she understood. (If some immigrant kid from a third world country came running up to me and furiously pointing at my whipped topping, I would think she needed more Ritalin. Thankfully, my neighbor knew better). Then she told me, with ample gesturing, that I made a mistake; she had her own Cool Whip, and it was not the same as mine.
For the next 17 years, I dismissed the incident as one of those embarrassing moments that I’d rather not have taking up space in my memory, forgot about Cool Whip entirely, and moved on to fancier creamed confections, like Frappacinos, and the occasional chocolate mouse cake. Today’s breakfast reminded me of my old flame, reminded me that I once was simple enough to behold of white plastic tubby and find myself absolutely smitten, that I once knew what precious meant, and was willing to fight for it.