Do you want to write a love letter on a typewriter?

"Would you let me write my girlfriend a love letter?"

A perfectly real question experienced at Casa Brillas, the only establishment in Barcelona that still sells and repairs typewriters. Adam Brillas's answer was yes, of course. He wanted to add a special touch to the gift, to the declaration of love, to the letter he had in mind, and who knows, maybe it was destined to change his life. The story is funny; it speaks well to what happens to us when we stop and take a quick look back and perhaps see that everything is going too fast these days. At Brillas—on Moianès Street near the Sants road—they are now in their third generation of artisans, experts in each and every corner of the old Remington, Underwood, or Hispano Olivetti. The first question is clear: who are their customers?

There's a bit of a catch, since Adam has been opening his sights for years now and also repairs computers, printers, photocopiers, and performs IT maintenance for individuals and businesses. But, of course, the place is bursting at the seams with old machines, all working, all available to anyone who wants to buy them. All of them? Well, not all. A while back, a collector wanted—paying for his own money—to take home an 1880 Remington with wooden levers, and it was Manel, Adam's father, who stopped him in his tracks. "But Dad, have you heard what it offers us?" "Yes, son, and do you know what a joy this is? Let's see if you can find this machine somewhere else." And there it remains today, on the presidential shelf.

But let's get back to the clientele. It's varied. Collectors, obviously. But also those who want it to decorate a special space in their home or professional office. Also those who want to repair their grandfather's typewriter and those who feel the whim of, for some reason, hearing that special sound again, that cadence of the keys so beloved by, for example, Josep Maria Espinàs, who wrote all his life with his inseparable Hispano Olivetti. Adam also reveals to me some little secrets that seem unbelievable. It would be tempting to think that an electric typewriter is anything more than a useless piece of junk. Well, no. They're highly sought after by notaries and agencies, for example, who find them very useful and very quick for adding small touches to already printed documents. The date, the signature, the numbering. There's a logic to it, of course. "Write and print at the same time," said the advertising slogans for these tools, which were once revolutionary.

In addition to the machines, we also saw old hand-cranked calculators, early-generation adding machines, and a couple of Nationals, cash registers that for decades were a fixture on every counter in every store around the world. The founder of the business, Manel Brillas, after escaping from the front lines in the Civil War—he left the trenches to urinate and was saved from the shell that killed all his comrades—saw the market niche that typewriters held. And his son, also Manel, continued his business. In times of splendor, there were companies where thirty typewriters were working simultaneously, and the wear and tear was evident and constant. "My father visited them day in and day out. The work never stopped." Manel is now retired, but he still lends a hand if there's a cog that's resisting or a stuck machine that can't be unwound. Drawers and drawers filled with keys, snails, lead letters, and all kinds of spare parts to be able to repair as many models as possible. Pure craftsmanship. A tune-up can cost 60 euros. A tune-up, including tape, 72 euros. And a more laborious repair, a higher budget.

Finally, a lovely story. The great Tom Sharpe was a lifelong customer. The last repair involved changing the machine, and the previous one, the one replaced, was left in the shop. The aura of the author of Wilt –established in Llafranc– was well-known, and they wanted to buy it. They refused to part with it, and in the end, the machine now belongs to the writer's foundation.