THE EDGE OF AWAKE

sprudge dropped an article the other day about global espresso pioneers illy caffe, and more specifically regarding illy's recent marketing of single-origins components of their signature espresso blend.

we're going to come back to that, though. for the time being i have a story.

so, last summer i went to italy. you may peruse my exploits in that nation here. i spent a month studying small- to medium-sized corporations in rome, torino and milan. you may read about these travels here. late in the trip, i took a train to trieste because, as you may also know, i'm something of a coffee nerd and trieste is home to the corporate headquarters and main roastworks of illy caffe, one of the worlds' exclusive coffee brands.

illy caffe is what is referred to as a lifestyle brand. their product is meant to create a sense of belonging in the consumer to a social contract or a memory, or even a desire. their product, which happens to a high-quality espresso blend available in a variety of grinds and roast profiles, is simple the most elite espresso blend in the world, produced with the finest-grade arabica coffees that can be found.

that's what their marketing materials say, anyways. but it's not really about the coffee at all. not really. it's about the ambiance.

seriously. try this out. go to the swankest italian joint you can and you can bet they're serving illy, lavazza or segafredo. you'll know the culprit by spotting various metallic packaging pieces, illuminated plexiglass plates, logos on everything from cupware to sugar packets to napkins to menu items. the motif of the brand is stamped on everything and, in being so accessible and repetitive, becomes background noise that lives the very air of the business. these brands lend authenticity to the experience, whether it's dining, sipping, clubbing, what have you.

i'm getting detracted, though. the point is that i took a day exploring the roastworks and i picked an ear or two about illy intentions for the growth of their brand. one question i asked was,

"hey guys, with all the beans you have moving through your roastworks, why haven't you capitalized on global barista trends and released single-origin versions of your coffees?"

logistically, it only made sense. they had the beans in inventory, they manufactured their own packaging, created their own marketing materials... it seemed at the time to be a huge point of neglect on the part of the legacy italian espresso companies.

moreso, it seemed a grievous oversite in their global marketing efforts that they couldn't see the untapped market potential in single-origin, specialty coffees. with their close relationships with origin growing partners and vertical integration of all marketing activities, from production to manufacture to sales, the company seemed capable of exploiting the specialty market... but just didn't.

since then a lot has happened for that company. they've seen a lot of growth in the united states with a number of forward-thinking marketing endeavors. they introduced a ready-to-drink coffee product, reaching the ever-growing energy drink market. they converted home users with consumer-friendly, pod-based espresso systems that produced drinks just like they got at that cafe in italy that one time. they partnered with local restaurants and coffeeshops, lending certifications and prestige to those that hailed illy's name and kept their bright red umbrellas outside on their patios.

i guess you guys see where this thing is going. they've decided to revisit the idea of single-origin offerings. and this is really cool news. only, they have plenty more coffees to offer, so one hopes they continue the campaign and extend their offerings. and really, let us americans get this stuff in our grinders.

So, it's becoming something of a yearly ritual where I log onto this blog, cry profusely for somewhere around 45 seconds over the general, shabby state of affairs plaguing the thing, and then resolutely promise myself and you, my readership, that I will do my darnedest to revive the dying menagerie of overwrought three-dollar vocabulasm that is "The Edge of Awake."

Now, I'll bet you're thinking,

"Good lord, here it comes. More quasi-empty promises followed by theoretical coffee-centric nonsense that's completely inapplicable to my everyday life. Where's my Cosmopolitan magazine..."

And, to an extent, you'd be right. Because I am here today to make bombastic claims that may well never come to fruition, and they are predominately coffee-centric. But now I'm adding a novel new twist to the experience...

Jet-Powered Air Travel!

Yes, you heard me correctly. The blog is once more getting the Auto Elec Defib treatment, but if I ever get a pulse back, the first thing this blog is doing is printing out it's electronically confirmed boarding pass, hopping on the closest single-engine Cessna and taking to the region airways to bring you the very best in Southeastern coffee!

I recently took a trip down to Brazil to experience coffee at origin. No, not the mystical lands of East Africa where most believe coffee got its humble beginnings, but rather to the coffee farm owned and operated by the company that I work for. It was once of those experiences that opened my eyes in a good many ways, but left me yearning for more of what the coffee lifestyle is.

Okay, that's cryptic. What does it all mean, I hope you're asking yourselves. It means that not once in Brazil did I sleep on a well-worn straw mattress, fight off large, predatory jungle arachnids, or even go one night without the option of conditioning my hair the next morning. One day, I will get that experience, I'm sure. And I long for that day.

Until then, I've come to realize as I have a few times in my past, that I have been blessed with the gift of a middle-class upbringing and a job that allows me to travel about our great country in search of the best the coffee industry has to offer. To turn my back on that gift would be something of a tragedy.

With that I will leave you all with this. I will be working closely with a blog based out of New York, The Daily Meal, to bring you all the best of coffee in the Southeast, and beyond. Starting sometime very soon, you shall see a monthly editorial about my escapades across this lovely region of the states chronicaling the 5 best cafes and coffeeshops to visit when you're in town.

This is something I believe I was born to do, and something I should have dived into years ago. Alas, I've always been something of a late bloomer. It's cool though. You guys and gals out there have some great stuff to look forward to, and as I go along on my travels, I invite you to comment on my posts and recommend your favorite spots in cities I have not yet visited.

Who knows. Perhaps your favorite shop will make the cut.

For now, look forward to a post on Atlanta coffee, followed by... WHO KNOWS?! I don't want to ruin the surprise.

As always, enjoy and feel free to comment!

-Dan

I've been AWOL from the blog for a minute, but here goes!

I've been cupping a lot of coffees lately, honing my skills and whatnot. Here are some notes of coffees I have cuppoed lately.

Today I cupped a series of coffees roasted by Dallis Brothers Coffee Roasters. These were all winners in a multinational coffee certification competition held yearly in coffee-producing countries.

The coffees were:

NICARGUA - Las Flores (#8)

The heaviest of the four, i got deep wine notes in the nose, a buttery mouthfeel and citric flavors that were a bit savory. It finished liked a baked apple.

EL SALVADOR - La Pinera (#11)

Piney, with notes of curry in the nose. Sweet and creamy when blooming and almost tea-like when it brews. Some bright red flavors mingle with breadiness.

HONDURAS - Las Amazonas (#8)

Definitely the aromatic standout of the table. Deep, sweet fruity notes hit you as this coffee grinds. They are pungent, but pleasant. There are lemon-y flavors in the cup, but those red fruits from the nose develop and reel in the brightness of this one. Good stuff.

RWANDA - Kopakama Co-Op (#5)

This one really shines and speaks volumes about Rwandan coffees. The aromatic and flavor notes were all deep and rich, while also mellow. banana stood out in the nose, but gave way to floral and melon notes in the cup. the body was full, but not too much so.

Okay, that's what I've got so far. Look forward to a series involving coffees from more folks soon enough.

-Dan

All right everyone, this one is important.

http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1405419560/coffeeland-honduras-a-documentary

Help these dudes out. Go to this site and READ THE DAMN THING! These guys are attempting to do something truly historic. The renovation and subsequent return to grace of a coffee farm that got about the worst of it is the subject of their forthcoming documentary.

I know I talk a lot about my love for coffee, but no amount of latte art throwdowns or lackluster competition performances have the capacity for change that this project has.

The gentlemen of Safehouse Coffee in Griffin, GA are not unknown to the wild world of coffee bloggery, but I have the distinct pleasure of holding them as close, personal friends. Of the many and varied folk I've met in my yet-brief but life-altering journey into the industry, there are few that stand upon the principles of quality, transparency, progression and goodwill than the staff of that establishment.

Any amount donated is enough, but the clock is ticking. If you've ever felt an itch to do something bigger than yourself, bigger than your own world, scratch the itch now, in a moment poised to change the lives of a battered community and the history of an industry always capable of more than it ever accomplishes.

Help us do something good for this farm, and in doing so, do something good for the world.

-Dan

in the heart of florence there is a great bridge of stone that crosses the river arno. seven hundred years ago, at the height of the great italian renaissance, the bridge was home to the greatest culinary artists in the world, and their many and varied shops. here could be found the finest pastries, breads, fruits and vegetables, cured meats and cheeses, steaks and poultry in the world. also could be found the jewels of these great culinary minds, their restaurants which served the most delicious food of the age.

all was not well and good, however. though florence and all of tuscany was well fed by the market and the fine chefs, the bridge was the source of a great evil. you see, at the end of each night, when all the fruits and vegetables had wilted in the summer sun, or when the meats and cheeses had rotted and molded, or when stuffed patrons left scraps upon their plates, all was pitched over the bridge and into the mighty arno.

over time, these scraps from the bridge collected and rotted and created the most foul stench man has ever known, tarnishing the once-glorious bridge. soon the crowds dwindled from the market until none came. and soon the hungered throngs grew wary of the restaurants and diners, until all chairs were empty, and the great chefs of tuscany were forced to board up their windows and doors and leave the bridge. the market, having no one to provide produce, breads, meats and cheeses too was soon closed and boarded up.

the great tuscan minds gathered upon the bridge and gazed upon the ruins of a once-thriving community and wondered,

"what shall become of this place, that was once so glorious?"

all looked down in shame and their eyes landed on the arno, filled to the brim with rotting scrap. in disgust, most averted their eyes and their noses, but one man kept his gaze upon the filth. of a sudden, illumination came upon his visage, and with it a great smile.

"look men! the answer lies before us and you avert your eyes? the filth of the arno has felled this great market, but the war is not lost. heed me men, for i have a plan!"

with that, the man withdrew from the crowd, the others speculating in his absence. what was this man up to? what was he playing at?

the man stayed away for many weeks, locked in his home where he saw no one. however, every day correspondence came and went, came and went, came and went. the great minds of tuscany heard of his hermititude and gathered outside of his door, beckoning he come out and share his great illumination with them. they offered him power, women, great sums of money, and nothing enticed the man to leave his home and speak his mind. for two months hence they waited upon his doorstep, their numbers growing everyday and their pleas growing ever more desperate, but still he kept his silence, and still correspondence came and went, came and went.

then, one beautiful spring day his door opened and he walked out, clothing ragged, face unshaven and unwashed. he was deathly thin and used a cane to walk. but walk he did.

"sir, what have you been up to all this time? what say you of the market, and of the filthy arno?"

but he did not respond. he simply walked in silence, following by the maddened crowd. he walked down side streets into the very heart of florence, through the once-proud market and to the great stone bridge.

there, on the bridge, before all the great minds of tuscany, stood three mighty kings, each with 1000 carriages filled with the greatest treasures in all the world and the men to drive those carriages. upon a nod of his head, the three mighty kings signaled to their men to dump their vast riches into the arno! the gold and jewels plummeted over the bridge to the great dismay of the tuscans, but upon piling into the river dislodged the great damn of filth and rot that ha collected! the filth flowed freely down the arno and out of florence forever!

at once the great throngs of tuscans that had followed the man dove into the river and surfaced with handfuls and armfuls of jewels and golden chains and lockets and all manner of treasures, and dove and dove again until they could no longer move their arms and collapsed upon the shore in exhaustion.

when they awoke, those that dove into the water took their treasures into the old restaurants and began selling their riches to all of tuscany. to this day, if you should happen upon Ponte Vecchio you will find their descendants selling the great riches of the arno still, and on a bright summer day, if you look down to the river, you will find it still shines with the brilliance of the riches of those three great kings and the one man that was never seen or heard from again.

*this is a work of fiction based on fact, as told by a good friend of mine. thank you, jacqueline*

It's with great expectation, not sadness or disappointment, that I say I haven't been on nearly enough adventures in life thus far. It's not that I'm short on ambition, I just never saw the appeal in traveling abroad with so much opportunity here at home. Lo and behold, a lovely friend of mine meets me for lunch one day last fall and enthusiastically tells me she's going to Italy for a semester in the summer. Why would you do that? A differing perspective, she says. Snooze. All the history and art, she says. Snooooooze. Authentic Italian food and beautiful women. CHECK!


So here I am, half a year later, back in Atlanta from one of the great adventures of my life. Rome to Florence. Florence to Milan. Milan to Torino. Torino to Trieste. Rome to Amsterdam. Stops off in the Lombardi countryside, Naples and Lake Como. I saw the entire country, ate all the pizza I could stand, drank fine wines and amidst it all, I experienced that new perspective I felt I was so sure I didn't need. I'm going to try to relate this experience, and I'm going to try to relate that new perspective to you.


As you read this, it will be split into two parts. The meat and potatoes will be the intermittent blog entries that I wrote as part of the class segment of the trip. The in-between sections will be commentary on Italian economic and production practices, tourist culture, historical curiosities and espresso lust.


So, with no further ado, let us begin.


Italians create some of the most exclusive products in the world.  They don't mean to be arrogant, but you can't deny that Farraris, Ferragamos and Lavazza frappes are what they are because Italians place more value on products further up the production possibilities frontier.   They require only the finest input materials, they craft their products with their own hands, and they rarely let family secrets stray too far from home.  There's an overwhelming number of globally-renowned companies in the country whose core values lie in quality of craftsmanship and simple functionality but whose designs push the borders of timeless beauty.


The Italian production mentality creates an entire population of warring factions struggling to hawk their wares everywhere from the city markets in Florence to the fiercely competitive high fashion markets in Milan.  Even venturing outward to the globally revered historic city of Rome and to Trieste, the quiet coastal town on the Adriatic sea, I kept finding myself having to choose how I wanted to experience Italy at the hands of warring restaurants, shopping malls and tourist attractions.



In Rome I found myself constantly barraged by players in an elaborate tourist game, in which each local had some offering just slightly different, but just as assuredly Italian in order to preserve the natural continuum of the experience. The restaurants had very little variety. It would seem there are only three or four authentic Italian foods to choose from. Scallopine, tagliatelle, spaghetti pomodora and pizza were the mainstays. Also, there were paninis.






Of note is the fact that after the games were largely ended throughout the Roman empire, the Colosseum was converted to an ancient apartment complex, filled to the brim with living quarters, offices and retail outlets for all manner of business. The only remaining signs of this are square holes in the walls that once housed beams that supported the floors of the apartments. Some of the living quarters were four and five stories off the ground!


The Vatican mirrored the splendor of the ancient ruins in a lot of way, though the architecture was slightly more modern and vastly more ornate. The power and opulence of the Catholic church is simply mind-blowing. Witnessing the sheer volume of sculpture-work and paintings populating the chambers of St. Peter's Basilica rendered me speechless. I mean, seriously, didn't they know the vast majority of their empire was poor at the time. Beautiful as their display of wealth may be, it seems a terrible waste of resources.


A highlight of the trip was our visit to the Necropolis, which struck me as something of a second nursing home to rich and powerful Romans. I thought it was funny that the Romans would throw elaborate parties in the Necropolis and decorate the second-life condos with beautiful mosaics and carved-marble sarcophagi.


After our tour of historic Rome, we parted ways with our Professor and our guide and headed back to the hotel to regroup and prepare for the opera, where we saw a haunting and memorable rendition of Madam Butterfly. That night we rested, and the next day we split into two groups for a day of adventure.


In the morning, our group left for the train station, all bound for Positano, on the Amalfi coast. As fate would have it, only a few of our group actually got their. I believe we took the gravity of the trip for granted and didn't plan accordingly. We woke up in a hurry and ran to the train station. At the station we found that half of our cash cards didn't work, and that none of us really understood the train system yet. The result was that three of us got tickets and the others promised to follow close behind. Our train was scheduled to make a stop in Naples before completing its journey. In Naples we stepped off the train and debated whether to continue onward or wait for the rest of the group to catch up. We decided to wait, but after an hour we thought the best course of action was to salvage the day the best we could and enjoy Naples for a few hours before heading back to Rome.
This proved a fantastic choice, as Naples turned out to be a varied and photogenic town. I don't mean that Naples was particularly beautiful, because the city itself was somewhat ratty and beat down, but the coast was nice. From the marina just down the street from the train station we were able to see a volcano in the distance and many large and elegant yachts harbored at the local yacht club.


In a small cafe by the water I made friends with the barista and was invited behind the bar to pull a shot of espresso for the owner of the shop. The shop was using a lever-operated espresso machine, which I had never used, and pulled some pretty lovely shots of espresso. Upon presenting the espresso to the owner, I informed him it would cost him two Euros. He didn't get the joke. And even if he had, he probably wouldn't have found it funny.


Eventually, we made our way back to the train station and headed home. It was a long day spent walking around a town of unique character. Our feet were black with dust and our clothes soaked through from a hot summer day, but there was a sense of ease as we boarded the train and headed home that seemed the perfect end to our first adventure away from the typical tourist channels.


That feeling of perfect contentment was short-lived, unfortunatey. Upon arriving we found the group in uproar. The other half of the group returned to find their rooms ransacked, with many Euros missing from a few of the students bank rolls. Chaos ensued, we attempted to contact the police, who were all asleep, and somewhere in all the confusion the culprit returned a large portion of the cash. Not all, but a large portion. It was a very emotional end to our time in Rome, and it left a bad taste in my mouth for a city I was already on the fence about.


No matter, though. We packed our bags and in the morning we left Rome behind for the city that I will always love: Florence.


In Florence we witnessed history firsthand. For example, the owners of Castello del Trebbio still only use a few rooms in their renaissance castle during the Tuscan winter.


At the end of the our time at the museum we made our way upstairs to ogle at loafers and suits and purses for a moment before heading off to dinner in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Ah, life is a dream.


In Milan the group navigated itself around a modern, metropolitan city.  The architecture was an interesting blend of Gothic and 80s modern, which catered to both "Miami Vice" set extras and the historically inclined alike. And in the end we all ended up sharing a burger at McDonald's anyways. It was kind of like watching one of those every-clique John Hughes films from the eighties.


Their staff is larger than the typical Italian firm. They maintain 500 employees on the floor at any give time, as well as 380 in the corporate offices and 120 in the fabled racing division, which is the only division we were not allowed access to. This was unsurprising. The racing divisions of the both Pagani and Ducati are where all research and development take place. In other words, they are treasure troves of industry secrets that many would kill to discover.


Here are some specifics of the assembly line, just for kicks.
This is just food for thought, though. Given a solid opportunity, I believe it is in the company's best interest to expand their horizons, if for no other reason than to hedge against the high costs involved in the racing division. If the company could develop a cost-effective vehicle marketed towards those looking to experience the thrill of racing on the streets, strong sales could give Dallara the financial cushion they need to be more competitive in other race circuits.


I'm not versed enough in the history of the painting to discuss any of these controversies, so I won't bother. What I can say is that, when Milan was bombed heavily over the course of World War II, the monastery in which the chapel resides was hit and mostly destroyed, leaving only the chapel and other random segments standing, which I thought was pretty interesting.


A few of us students made our way to Como Lago, a quiet lake town surrounded by hills, located thirty miles north of Milan. The lake flirted with the Swiss border, at the very foot of the Swiss Alps.  From it's high perch, the small town of Brunate consisted of high-priced condos and light tourist fare, all with spectacular panoramic views of the pristine lake and surrounding mountains. We took a tram up to the town and enjoyed drank cappuccini in full view of the breathtaking lake and surrounding countryside. The trip was a welcome distraction from the frantic pace of the trip up to that point. Even our last free excursion, to Naples, was hurried by comparison. Como was about relaxing and enjoying the natural beauty of the country, rather than analyzing what made the country beautiful. Do you see the distinction?


We returned that night tired, but fulfilled. And maybe just a little bit in love.


That night we dined at Duomo. We drank a bit too much wine and crafted the single most convoluted story known to man, starring a young and lusty Italian couple with decidedly French names, a Baron, a Baroness, a talent promoter, a bartender, a stripper, an economist, an academic and a party girl with a red dress and an overactive bladder. After dinner I was invited to the back to try my hand at whipping up a cappuccino, which I delightfully accepted. After dinner we smoked cigars, drank whisky and smoked cigarettes, feeling lighthearted and free after a day that was all our own.



I don't blame them that. It is an art. It's just not what we want anymore. It's boring. It's tiring. One blend day after day after day. It just doesn't make sense. Okay, I'm done with my rant.
So that's it. All the scheduled company visits are done and I am on my way towards my last great adventure in this country. My train should arrive in four or so more hours and then it's off to get caffeinated. Ciao friends!

Due mainly to inexperience, but surely also to my propensity to rush, my travels to Trieste were mostly uncomfortable and not terribly scenic.  I took an overnight train from Torino with a stop-off in Bologna at 1 am.  My connecting train didn't arrive until 3, so I had to find a few hours to kill.  I managed by venturing out of the station, eyes open for the first operational cafe to get a cappuccino and a panini to fill my growling stomach.  It didn't take long to find a spot.  It was the only cafe open in the area and was bustling with travelers.  

I had been seating two minutes when a flustered Korean couple stumbled up the cafe, obviously weary and unsure of their whereabouts.  I offered them a seat and they accepted.  Before I knew it, we were discussing our travels, our professions and our various loves in life.  Both were bankers and met each other at work.  At the time they were taking a month-long break, exploring parts of Europe.  They were on their way to Venice and were due to catch the same train as me.


We had some difficulty communicating.  I'm no natural linguist, I guess.  What we did have in common was a mutual respect for the country we found ourselves in.  They spoke to me of the natural beauty of Korea and the disparity between the citizenry and the governing body.  I spoke to them of my love for coffee and mentioned that Korea was home to a couple well-renowned cafes.  We spoke of Las Vegas and the Grand Canyon, and of Italian architecture and industry.  Before we knew it, it was 3 and we were all rushing to catch our train. 


In the hustle and bustle of boarding I lost sight of them, and upon searching later I was unable to locate them and thank them for their company, but I hope they know how much I enjoyed our conversation.  I also hope they enjoyed Venice.  I hear it's quite a romantic city.

Trieste is a picturesque town on Italy's far Northeastern Coast, bordered by both the Adriatic and Slovenia and rimmed in sprawling hills.  The hills are covered in mid-rise condos and apartment complexes with fantastical views of the sea spanning far into the distance.  I arrived in Trieste early in the morning after a long night of travel.  I didn't have an alarm with me, so I couldn't sleep on the overnight train.  Again, I stepped off the train and headed out of the station in search of a cafe in which to grab a bite and perhaps freshen up.


I found one with ease.  It was 7:30 in the morning at this point and most businesses in the area were opening up.  I stopped in for a pizza and a Coca Cola and to ask directions to my destination, the corporate headquarters and production facilities for Illy Caffe.  The barista couldn't help much, but suggested a cab driver might be more knowledgeable.  I paid her and headed to the restroom to change and brush my teeth.


I left to find a cab and gave the driver an address I had found online before I left for Italy.  After five minutes we arrived at a vacant building and panic ensued!  I hadn't truly just traveled across the country to find an empty building, had I?!  I asked the driver if there were any other Illy offices in the area and he mentioned there were two.  One was in an industrial sector east of the city and the other was 10 kilometers north of the city.  Taking my chances, and drawing on my experience with Lavazza before, I asked him to drive me to the industrial site.


We drove for what seemed a long time, though it surely wasn't more than 15 or 20 minutes.  My anticipation was growing, as was my anxiety.  We passed a huge industrial port with massive cranes loading and unloading tankers and cargo ships.  The magnitude of the port humbled me and eased my worries a bit.  After a time we arrived at a modern office building and the drivers exclaimed that we had reached our destination.  I thanked him profusely and exited his cab, feeling very much alone, but exhilarated!  I approached the door and my worries melted as I saw a long, soft-white reception desk bearing the distinctive red logo of Illy Caffe. 


Entering, I offered the receptionist my name and she welcomed me warmly, beckoned I sign in and assured me my tour guide would be coming round shortly.  I was directed to a locker to store my belongings and then to a lounge to rest while I waited.  I took the opportunity to look around and marveled at the sleek, clean appointments of the office.  The decor adhered strictly to Illy's design aesthetics, abounding with soft whites, reds and blacks, with hints of silver. All was well-illuminated. In the center of the main foyer was a four-sided coffee bar constantly populated by Illy employees taking short coffee breaks. A lady behind the bar churned out an astounding number of drinks as I watched.


Soon enough my guide, Roberta, arrived and asked if I'd like a coffee. I assented and we enjoyed an espresso before beginning our journey through the factory. The factory itself was, in many ways, like Lavazza before it. And yet, something was different. The scale was smaller, and the feel more personal. The personnel looked happy and the facilities were bustling, unlike Lavazza's spartan, mostly mechanized assembly lines.


We began by visiting the green coffee intake center, where 60 kilogram jute sacks are stored and distributed to the sorting and blending machines. The sorting machines are really something special, shooting the beans at high speeds past lasers that examine them for defects. The defective beans are discarded and those that pass inspection are sent along the way to be blended. The blending process seems simple, on the surface, but only on the surface. Later in the tour I was shown one of the company's daily cuppings, where samples of green coffee are roasted, tasted and sorted according to specifically-evaluated flavor profiles. Back at the blending center, certain percentages of each flavor profile are combined to create the well-balanced, signature flavor the company is known for the world over.


After blending the beans are sent to the roasting room, where large barrels capable of roasting 400 pounds of coffee at a time are happily set in motion, rolling the beans over themselves and embracing them in a 500 degree bear hug. The beans are exposed thusly for a very short time before being dropping out of the barrels and sprayed with cold water, which evaporates immediately, shedding all the heat absorbed by the beans. The process brings the beans from roasting temp down to room temp in a matter of seconds.


Things got a bit more interesting after the roasting room. We headed into the mechanized pod and capsule creation center. Along expansive belts crossing the factory floor ground and dosed small quantities of the roasted beans, wrapped the grounds up in logo-stamped woven-paper envelopes or tamped them into small plastic capsules before lining them up into neat rows and placing them within the various cans, tins and boxes that they would one day be sold in. These packages then got stacked onto pallets and sent to a warehouse where robotic arms arranged them to rest until their shipping orders came in and they got sent out into the big, wide world.


From start to finish the process left little to chance. Defective beans, pods and capsules were discarded and only the finest final product was sent for shipping. Pods and capsules that found themselves not properly aligned for packaging were sent back to be repackaged. It was a highly efficient process that discouraged waste. The company wasn't outputing the same volumes as Lavazza, and their final product seemed better for it.


One particular process I haven't touched upon yet was the tin manufacturing process. Illy packs their wholesale coffees in distinctive aluminum tins that are produced right there in the factory. The aluminum arrives at the factory flat-packed on pallets. On an assembly line designed by Illy engineers, the sheets of aluminum were wrapped into cylinders and welded. The bottoms and tops of the cylinders were them machined, capped and welded with other, more specialized pieces of aluminum. After the tins were welded completely they were corked with an air compressor and submerged in water to assure they were airtight.


After the air test, the functional tins were dried and filled with beans and nitrogen to assure the natural gasses within the beans stayed within the beans, while the defective tins were separated, crushed and sent away for recycling. The tins are, in a way, iconic of the company as a whole. It was interesting to witness their creation up close.


We proceeded upstairs to Illy's world-famous training facilities that boasted myriad espresso machines and other brewing apparatuses. It also housed the personal library of Dr. Francesco Illy, which contained thousands of books pertaining to science, philosophy and coffee geekery.


I regret that I was not able to experience the infamous Illy Aroma lab, where cutting edge research is conducted into the molecular chemistry of coffee and the gastronomical applications thereof. It was in this lab that one of Illy's newest products, Cafe Crema, was created. Cafe Crema is a frozen, nearly gelatinous concoction of Illy espresso and heavy cream that has a texture like gelato, but without remaining rigid. It is smooth and creaming and utterly delicious. It's been released in Italy. Let's hope it makes it to the States soon.


The next couple days are a blur of insomnia and emotion. I took a train back to Milan that same afternoon, to find only the empty rooms of my classmates. I took the opportunity to take a much-needed shower and headed out on the town for dinner. I spent the evening at Duomo, sipping red wine and watching the street salesmen sending illuminated flying toys into the sky against the looming silhouette of the chapel. It was an interesting setting to look back on the trip and digest what it meant to me. Everything has changed. There's a new perspective within me that wasn't sought out, but it crept in nonetheless


You see, I never saw myself as the traveling sort. I always figured the States had enough to offer, enough to see and experience. But there is a pervading thought in America that life is about the accumulation of wealth, and that the pursuit might somehow lead to happiness. That is simply not the case. It struck me that, walking down the streets of Florence, one could count a dozen or more neighborhood shops founded over 100 years ago and still attracting the necessary business to sustain the owners in comfort. It became apparent that the Italian mentality relies on the retention of a firm's control, either by family or by a select group of individuals, by any means necessary. They have traded short-term profitability for security and longevity and they're perfectly content with the switch.


These things I pondered over spaghetti con ragu and a Chianti Reserve. Feeling tipsy, but content with a bit of coconut gelato in my stomach I took the Blue line back to the hotel. My roommate was back, exclaiming the group missed me terribly, and that the professor was singing “Oh Danny Boy” all day to alleviate their lamentations. I helped her pack and we discussed some of my thoughts from earlier, and a bit of what we loved about this country. We fell asleep feeling nostalgiac, but happy. In the morning I walked her to her bus and then she was gone. Her adventure was nearly over, but I still had one last leg of my journey: Amsterdam.


I wasted no time getting to the airport. I had a train ticket for the next morning that I switched for an overnight leaving that evening. The ride was, as usual, uncomfortable. I didn't bring my phone across the pond, and I never thought to pick up an alarm clock before this point, so I didn't get a lot of sleep on the train. My car was full so I didn't even get to stretch out. I arrived at Schiphol airport exhausted, but thrilled. I checked my baggage into a locker and went downstairs to catch a train to Amsterdam Centrale.


The train station was packed. So were the streets, despite ominous clouds and the beginnings of a light drizzle. I left the station and headed for a tourist center, where I found a map of hostels in the area. I started walking towards what I later discovered to be the Red Light District and took a room at the Bulldog. After a shower and a shave I set out to discover the city. The canals were a maze, a web of long names and ambiguous signage. I got lost a few times, but I never hurt for good food. The streets are lined with pastry shops, coffee bars and, ironically, Argentinian steak houses. A word to the wise: the chefs prefer their steak quite rare.


I didn't have much time in the city, so I mainly wandered the streets. The town lit up at night and I soon found myself bathed in neon. The squares hosted live music and soon enough the city was awash in everything from rock and roll to jazz to hip hop tunes, setting a peculiar mood. Everywhere, groups of friends walked about with beers and cigarettes in hand, reveling in the lively atmosphere, largely ignoring the drizzling rain and offensive odors rising up from the canals.


There was too much to do, too much to see for the few hours I had to explore. I met up with one of the guys from my dorm for a beer late in the evening. We talked about where we were from, and what we did. I told him of my quest to seek out the best coffee in Europe and he told me that he had planned to be in Amsterdam for two days, but was on his fourth night. The city, it would seem, has that effect on people. Knowing I had an early flight, I took my leave of the gentleman in search of an alarm clock. I found one, but I couldn't set it, so I stayed awake by the sound of the ticking.


When the sun rose, so did I. I made my way out into the gray Dutch morning with my camera in one hand and my overnight bag in the other. The day that followed was much like many before it. I boarded a few trains, sought out my luggage, got on a plane and made my way back to the States.


You hear a lot about culture shock when you go abroad. Heading to Italy I felt none of it. Perhaps it was my American arrogance, or that my excitement drowned out any negative mental state of mind that the cultural differences may have brought to bear. Regardless, I felt shock coming home. I began to miss the old continent the moment I stepped back in the airport, but by the time I boarded my plane I wished with all my might I could have just one more day far from home.


I'm thankful for my time away, and I feel I'm a better person for it.


Florence, wait for me. I'll be back someday soon.