That is exactly how I felt in Sassuolo. Until then, I had mainly known Italy through my childhood memories. Loreto Aprutino. My grandparents. The summers spent with my family, filled with simplicity, affection, and warmth. But northern Italy was an entirely different world. As I entered the Modena and Sassuolo region, I saw tall factory chimneys everywhere. Trucks were constantly coming and going. Long freight trains waited on the tracks.↗

In and around the warehouses, enormous stocks of ceramic tiles stood ready to leave for every corner of Europe. I immediately understood that I had arrived in the beating heart of the ceramic industry. The first thing that struck me was the energy. Everyone seemed to know exactly what had to be done. The machines ran without stopping. Forklifts moved constantly through the immense warehouses. Conversations were brief and focused. Decisions were made without endless meetings.↗

There was an atmosphere of confidence, but also of discipline. For someone like me, coming from the world of coffee, it was especially fascinating. During my first factory visit, I was given a hard hat. I put on a dust- protection coat and followed the director along the production lines. I heard the deep rumble of the gigantic presses. I felt the heat escaping from the enormous kilns.↗

And I watched clay, water, and minerals transform, step by step, into a finished ceramic product. It looked almost like magic. But it was not magic. It was knowledge. Craftsmanship. Experience. And passion. I kept asking questions. Why were those particular raw materials used? Why were such high firing temperatures necessary? Why did one tile receive a matte surface and another a glossy finish? How did firing affect strength?↗

And how did they ensure that thousands of tiles kept the same dimensions and colors? The engineers smiled. Perhaps they thought I was a far too curious Belgian. But at the same time, I sensed that they appreciated my interest. I was not asking those questions to test their knowledge. I asked because I genuinely wanted to understand what I would be offering my customers. At noon, we ate together. Not a quick meal behind a desk.↗

Instead, we sat around a single table, where directors, sales representatives, technicians, and factory workers sat side by side. We laughed. We talked. About ceramics. Soccer. Politics. Family. That touched me too. Despite the size of the factories and the speed of the work, human relationships remained important.↗

Perhaps that is why I felt at home so quickly. Once again I heard the language in which I had grown up. I ate dishes that reminded me of my mother's cooking. I recognized the familiar gestures. The lively conversations. The pride with which people spoke about their work. In those moments, I understood once again that, even after so many years in Belgium, a part of my heart had remained deeply Italian.↗

When that first journey ended and I set out again for Belgium, I was bringing home far more than samples and catalogs. I was carrying something much more valuable. A conviction. I felt that a future awaited me in this world. Not because ceramic tiles happened to be fashionable.↗

But because I believed in the men and women who made them. Once again, I had met entrepreneurs and craftspeople who spoke about their work with sincere passion. A passion I recognized immediately. Whenever I met people who truly loved what they did, I felt an almost instinctive desire to build something with them.↗

Perhaps that was one of my greatest strengths. And, at the same time, one of my most vulnerable qualities. I have always believed in people. Most of the time, that trust brought me valuable collaborations and friendships. But not always. My growing interest in the world of tiles also had another side. At first, I tried to keep DOROMA and ITALIA IN running side by side. That worked for a while.↗

But both businesses demanded more and more attention. I must acknowledge something important here. DOROMA's customers did not buy only my coffee. They also bought it because I personally looked after them. I delivered the coffee myself. I repaired their machines. I handled the maintenance. I visited some customers every week. Others every month. They knew me. They knew I would come. And if there was a problem, they could count on me.↗

DOROMA was therefore not merely a product. It was also the personal bond I had built over time with every customer. As long as I visited them myself, that bond remained strong. But ITALIA IN began demanding more and more of my time. I had to look for suppliers. Select products. Receive customers. Travel to Italy. And continue developing the new company. In addition, I had invested much more money in ITALIA IN than in DOROMA.↗

That greater investment brought greater responsibility and more financial pressure. I felt that I had to give ITALIA IN every opportunity to succeed. Almost without realizing it, I therefore began giving it an ever-larger share of my attention. My visits to DOROMA's customers became less regular. I could no longer personally look after every one of them each week or month as I had before.↗

Convinced that DOROMA would remain in good hands, I entrusted its daily management to someone within my family circle. I believed that deliveries, customer contact, and follow-up would continue to be handled carefully. But I had underestimated something essential. A delivery can be entrusted to someone else. Another person can be asked to take orders.↗

But the personal trust built over many years cannot simply be transferred to someone else. My customers had become accustomed to my presence. To my advice. To the repairs and maintenance I performed myself. When I stopped visiting regularly, something changed in that relationship. They did not lose confidence overnight. It happened gradually. Some continued to order.↗

Others ordered less. And, over time, a few looked for another supplier. Later, I was also saddened to discover that I had not always been honestly informed about what was happening within DOROMA. The trust I had placed in someone from my family circle was not fully returned with the same honesty.↗

But that was not the only cause of what went wrong. My own attention had shifted too. I had invested far more time and money in ITALIA IN. I was no longer present enough for the customers who had helped DOROMA grow. I must admit that honestly. Just as DOROMA had once grown one customer at a time, it now lost its strength one customer at a time. By the time I fully understood what was happening, much had already been lost.↗

DOROMA slowly faded away. That hurt me. To me, DOROMA had never been just a business name. Within that name lived Dorina, our family name Rossi, and Marco. The brand carried our family, our dreams, and an important part of my life. I had built it from nothing. I had personally visited every customer. I had experienced every first order as a victory. And now I watched something that had begun with so much hope disappear. It would be easy to place all the blame on someone else.↗

But I do not want to do that. In the end, DOROMA was my company. I had made the decision to devote more and more time and resources to ITALIA IN. I had entrusted DOROMA's daily management to someone else. I had not exercised enough oversight. And I had realized too late how closely the company was tied to my personal presence.↗

The final responsibility therefore remained mine. Not because my trust had not been betrayed. It had. But because an entrepreneur remains responsible for what he has built, even when he delegates certain tasks. It was not an easy truth. But it was mine. I learned from it that trust is indispensable. Without it, people cannot build anything together.↗

But trust alone is not enough. A company that developed around personal contact cannot lose that contact without customers feeling the difference. And anyone who divides his attention among several activities must keep checking that none of them is slowly slipping from his grasp. Perhaps that, too, is part of entrepreneurship. It is not only about taking pride in what went well.↗

It is also about having the courage to accept responsibility for what was lost. When I think back to that first journey to Sassuolo, I therefore see more than factories, machines, and endless rows of ceramic tiles. I see a new horizon. But I also see what I was beginning to leave behind. One chapter of my professional life was slowly closing, while another was opening wider and wider before me.↗

In Sassuolo, I discovered a world in which my Italian roots and my Belgian experience could complement each other. In Italy, I found the products, the craftsmanship, and the passion. In Belgium, I knew the market and the people to whom I could introduce those products. At that moment, I could not possibly know where that combination would lead me. Yet during that first return journey to Belgium, I felt one thing very clearly. In Sassuolo, I had not merely discovered new products.↗

I had found a destination that would give direction to my life for many years.↗