The Road to Italy
There are roads one travels so often that, in the end, every curve is known by heart. For me, the road to Italy was one of them. I do not know how many thousands of miles I drove in my life. Perhaps hundreds of thousands. Perhaps even more. But none of them ever felt like time wasted. Quite the opposite. It was often during those long journeys that my best ideas were born. Most of the time, we left very early in the morning.
While Belgium was still asleep, we took to the highway. In the trunk were our luggage, samples, catalogs, and documents. And, of course, a thermos of coffee. Over the years, no one needed to ask which route we would take. It was engraved in my memory. Luxembourg. Switzerland. The mountains. The long tunnels through the Alps. Then... that indescribable moment when we entered Italy. Even today, I can summon that feeling again.
Not because the landscape suddenly changed completely, but because something changed within me. I was born in Abruzzo. Every time I once again heard Italian being spoken all around me, I felt something difficult to express in words. It was as though a part of me was finally coming home. Marco always noticed it with amazement.
"Dad... you change as soon as we enter Italy."
Perhaps he was right. Even when I spoke Dutch, my way of expressing myself naturally took on an Italian rhythm. My hands began accompanying my words. And when we stopped at a simple highway restaurant, even a sandwich and an espresso tasted different. We often laughed about it.
"But it's still the same coffee, isn't it, Dad?" Marco would ask.
I smiled and shook my head.
"No. This is Italy."
He burst out laughing.
"I didn't expect any other answer from you."
During those long journeys, we spoke about everything. New projects. New ideas. But also our family. His mother. My father. Loreto Aprutino. I told him stories from my childhood. My grandparents' farm. The village's small, dusty streets. The summers when the whole family gathered. He listened attentively. Sometimes he asked a question. At other times, he simply watched the landscape pass outside the window.
I believe that during those journeys he discovered far more than Italy. He also came to know his father better. When we finally arrived at a factory, we never felt like strangers. After so many years, many owners had become friends. We greeted one another with warm embraces. We laughed together. We asked about each other's families. Only then did we turn to business. That is something I have always found so beautiful in Italy.
You do business with the human being first. Only afterward with the company. Perhaps that is precisely why I always felt at home there. After the meetings came, almost naturally, a long lunch. Never hurried. Never swallowed quickly between two appointments. But calmly, with all the time needed for a good conversation. I believe I learned at least as much around those tables as I did during official meetings. Around a table, people often say what they truly think.
That is where ideas are born. Where trust grows. Where friendships form. When Marco and I returned to the hotel in the evening, we were often very tired. But it was a pleasant tiredness. Together, we looked back on the day. What had gone well? What could we still improve? And very often, we ended with the same words:
"Tomorrow will be another beautiful day." Today, I understand that those journeys were far more than trips between Belgium and Italy. They became part of our life. They were times when a father and son could speak for hours without being disturbed. Times when new ideas were born. When we shared our worries. And when silence sometimes meant as much as words.
When I travel those familiar roads to Italy again today, a strange feeling sometimes comes over me. The mountains are still there. The tunnels have remained the same. The highway restaurants still stand where they always did. But the passenger seat beside me is empty. And yet I sometimes instinctively glance to the right. As though Marco might ask me a question at any moment. Or suddenly say:
"Dad... I have another new idea."
Then I smile. Not because the emptiness has disappeared, but because in my memories he still travels with me. Some journeys never truly end. They continue to live in our memory. And as long as those memories exist, part of the people we loved continues to travel with us.
Perhaps that is the most beautiful destination a human being can ever reach.