Italy, August 1963
In August 1963, Giulio Bardi did something that every mechanic in Milan considered either magnificent or idiotic: he attached a caravan to a Ferrari and told his wife they were going on holiday.
Claudia stared at the two vehicles parked beneath their apartment window for almost a minute before answering.
The Ferrari was silver, low, elegant and completely inappropriate for the object standing behind it. The caravan was cream-coloured, rounded at the corners and looked as though it had been designed to follow a Fiat 1100 driven by a patient accountant.
Together they resembled a countess walking through Piazza della Scala while pulling a wheelbarrow.
“You’re joking,” Claudia finally said.
Giulio smiled.
“You wanted adventure.”
“I wanted the sea.”
“We’ll find that too.”
“In a Ferrari?”
“Obviously.”
“With a caravan?”
Giulio opened his arms as though the logic were unassailable.
“We have to sleep somewhere.”
Claudia looked at him, looked again at the caravan, then leaned over the balcony.
“Giulio.”
“Yes?”
“If you destroy that Ferrari, your brother will laugh at you until one of you dies.”
Giulio considered this.
“Then I must not destroy it.”
That was how their summer began.
They had been married for seven years. Giulio was thirty-six, Claudia thirty-two. They had money, but not the sort of money that came from generations of aristocrats staring sternly from oil paintings. Giulio’s father had owned a small workshop near Monza, repairing industrial pumps and agricultural machinery. Giulio had transformed it during the years of Italy’s economic boom into a successful company producing precision components.
The factory employed forty-three men.
Giulio knew every one of their names.
He also knew every invoice, every delivery date and every unpleasant sound made by every machine in the building.
What he did not know anymore was how to stop working.
Claudia did.
Or at least she remembered.
She had grown up near Parma in a family where Sunday lunch could occupy five hours and nobody considered this inefficient. Her father believed that the two great sins of modern civilisation were eating too quickly and purchasing tomatoes in winter.
Giulio, by contrast, ate lunch while reading technical drawings.
By the summer of 1963, Claudia had had enough.
“You have become boring,” she told him one evening.
Giulio looked genuinely offended.
“I own a Ferrari.”
“That makes the car interesting.”
He stared at her.
Claudia continued eating.
Three days later he bought the caravan.
Perhaps that was the first truly romantic gesture of their marriage.
Not flowers.
Not jewellery.
A used caravan with one damaged cupboard and a gas stove that occasionally required negotiation.
They left Milan on the morning of August 4.
Italy was already moving.
The great summer exodus had begun. Fiat 600s, 1100s, Autobianchis and battered family cars filled the roads, roofs piled with suitcases, deckchairs, umbrellas and luggage secured with ropes that appeared to have been tied by men possessing enormous optimism and very little engineering knowledge.
Giulio’s Ferrari attracted attention everywhere.
The caravan attracted more.
At the first petrol station outside Milan, a man filling a Fiat Multipla stared at them for so long that the attendant had to tell him his tank was overflowing.
“Is that yours?” he asked Giulio.
“The caravan?”
“The Ferrari.”
“No, the caravan. I stole the Ferrari.”
Claudia closed her eyes.
Giulio had decided within the first hour of the holiday that he was going to enjoy himself.
The road south was hot.
Air conditioning belonged to another universe. The windows were open, Claudia wore a scarf around her hair, and every few minutes a gust of wind rearranged whatever she was trying to read.
They carried a small transistor radio.
That summer Italy seemed to have its own soundtrack.
At one moment came Gino Paoli singing “Sapore di sale,” a song that appeared to have been written specifically for roads leading toward the sea. Later there was Edoardo Vianello’s “Abbronzatissima,” cheerful, absurdly summery and impossible not to sing along with. Rita Pavone appeared regularly, followed by Mina, whose voice Claudia insisted could make even a traffic jam romantic.
Giulio preferred Domenico Modugno.
Whenever “Nel blu dipinto di blu” appeared, even though the song was already several years old, he increased the volume.
“You know everybody can hear us,” Claudia said.
“That’s the purpose of a radio.”
“No. The purpose is for us to hear it.”
“Then why did they put windows in the car?”
They crossed the Po Valley beneath a white summer sky.
Near Parma, Claudia demanded they stop.
“For what?”
“Prosciutto.”
“We have food.”
“We have bread and cheese.”
“That is food.”
“In your family perhaps.”
They bought prosciutto, Parmigiano, peaches and a bottle of Lambrusco from a small shop where the owner came outside to inspect the Ferrari.
Then his wife came outside.
Then their son.
Then a neighbour.
Within ten minutes Giulio was conducting what amounted to an informal motor show while Claudia stood beside the caravan eating a peach.
The shopkeeper pointed toward the tow hitch.
“You pull that with this?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Giulio looked at Claudia.
She waited.
Finally he said, “I no longer remember.”
The first night they stopped outside Bologna.
Giulio had imagined something picturesque: pine trees, perhaps a river, silence.
They found a campsite beside a road.
A dog barked for most of the evening.
Someone nearby owned a radio more powerful than theirs and listened to football commentary at a volume normally associated with public emergencies.
The caravan was hotter inside than the Ferrari’s engine compartment.
Claudia lay on the narrow bed staring at the ceiling.
“This is your idea of freedom?”
“Tomorrow will be better.”
A mosquito flew past her face.
“It already has air superiority.”
At two in the morning the folding table collapsed.
At three, Giulio discovered that the caravan leaned slightly to the left.
At four, Claudia began laughing.
“Why are you laughing?”
“Because I married a man who could afford the Grand Hotel in Florence and I am sleeping beside Bologna with mosquitoes.”
Giulio began laughing too.
That first disastrous night saved the holiday.
Something broke inside them — not the caravan this time, but the seriousness they had been carrying for years.
They stopped trying to make the trip perfect.
And that was when it became wonderful.
The next morning they drove toward Florence.
The road climbed through the Apennines.
With the caravan behind them, the Ferrari could not behave like a Ferrari. Giulio, accustomed to feeling the car respond instantly beneath him, now had to anticipate corners, hills and braking distances.
At first this frustrated him.
Then something strange happened.
He slowed down.
Really slowed down.
For perhaps the first time since buying the car, he began seeing the countryside rather than attacking it.
Villages appeared between hills.
Laundry hung outside stone houses.
Old men sat outside bars.
Children stopped their bicycles to watch the strange silver automobile passing with its little white home behind it.
At one village, an elderly man raised his hat.
Giulio raised his hand.
Claudia saw him smile.
“You like this.”
“I like what?”
“Going slowly.”
“I am not going slowly.”
“We have just been overtaken by a Fiat 500 carrying four people and a mattress.”
“That driver is irresponsible.”
“He waved at us.”
“He was mocking me.”
“He was eighty.”
“He knew what he was doing.”
They reached Florence in the afternoon but did not stay.
Too hot.
Too crowded.
Claudia wanted the countryside.
So they turned toward Chianti.
That evening they found a field near a farmhouse outside Greve where the owner allowed travellers to stay for a few lire.
The place overlooked vineyards.
There was no electricity.
No shower.
No restaurant.
No telephone.
Claudia declared it perfect.
They ate outside beside the caravan.
Prosciutto from Parma.
Bread bought that morning.
Tomatoes from the farmer.
Cheese.
Peaches.
Lambrusco, now slightly warmer than ideal.
The sun disappeared behind the Tuscan hills.
Their little radio played quietly.
Then came “Sapore di sale.”
Neither of them spoke.
For years afterwards Claudia would be unable to hear that song without returning to that exact evening.
Not approximately.
Exactly.
She could see Giulio sitting opposite her, shirt sleeves rolled up, holding a piece of bread.
She could smell warm earth and tomatoes.
She could hear insects in the vineyard.
There are moments in life that do not announce their importance.
They simply happen.
Only much later do we understand that we would give almost anything to enter them again.
They stayed two days.
On the second morning, Giulio woke before Claudia and made coffee on the little gas stove.
The stove produced one useful flame and another flame that seemed to serve no identifiable purpose.
He placed two cups outside.
Claudia emerged barefoot.
“What time is it?”
“I don’t know.”
She stopped.
This was perhaps the most astonishing statement Giulio Bardi had ever made.
“You don’t know?”
“My watch is inside.”
“Are you ill?”
He handed her coffee.
They sat together.
No factory.
No telephone.
No appointments.
The Ferrari stood nearby covered with dust.
Normally Giulio would have considered this unacceptable.
He did not wash it.
Claudia noticed.
She said nothing.
From Tuscany they drove toward Siena, then farther south.
The caravan became an attraction.
Children photographed it.
Petrol station attendants asked questions.
At a roadside restaurant near Grosseto, three men spent their entire lunch discussing whether towing a caravan with a Ferrari should be considered a crime.
One voted yes.
One voted no.
The third said it depended on the caravan.
Giulio joined the discussion.
Claudia ordered coffee without him.
They reached the Tyrrhenian coast at the beginning of their second week.
There, at last, Claudia got her sea.
They found a campsite beneath pine trees near Castiglione della Pescaia.
In 1963, the Italian coast still contained places where tourism had not yet completely transformed the landscape. There were stretches of sand without rows of establishments, roads that ended almost unexpectedly near the water, simple campsites where families from Florence, Rome, Turin and Bologna spent entire summers living in bathing costumes.
The Ferrari caused a minor scandal.
Most campers arrived in practical vehicles.
Fiats.
Lancias.
Old vans.
Some German Volkswagens.
One family from Turin had a station wagon loaded so heavily that the rear wheels appeared to have accepted defeat.
Then Giulio arrived.
Silver Ferrari.
Cream caravan.
Claudia wearing large sunglasses.
Everybody stared.
A boy of about ten approached Giulio.
“Signore, are you a racing driver?”
“No.”
“An actor?”
“No.”
“Famous?”
“No.”
The boy looked disappointed.
“What are you?”
Giulio thought for a moment.
“On holiday.”
The boy considered this the least interesting answer possible and walked away.
They stayed six days.
Those days became the centre of the journey.
They swam in the morning.
They ate lunch beneath the pines.
Claudia read novels.
Giulio discovered the terrifying pleasure of doing nothing.
At first he lasted approximately seventeen minutes.
Then he began looking for tasks.
He adjusted the caravan door.
Repaired a loose hinge.
Checked the tyres.
Reorganised the food cupboard.
Claudia finally stopped him.
“Sit.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the chair.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
“Because I want you to sit in it.”
He sat.
Five minutes passed.
“Now what?”
“Nothing.”
“How long?”
“As long as necessary.”
“Necessary for what?”
Claudia turned a page of her book.
“For you to stop asking questions.”
On the third day he managed an entire afternoon.
They became friends with another couple, Franco and Mirella, schoolteachers from Turin travelling with two children and a Fiat 1100.
Franco was fascinated by the Ferrari.
Giulio was fascinated by the fact that Franco seemed completely uninterested in work during August.
“What do you do when school ends?” Giulio asked.
“Live.”
“No, I mean professionally.”
“Nothing.”
“For two months?”
Franco smiled.
“Giulio, the country survives.”
That evening the four adults ate together.
Someone produced a guitar.
Someone else had wine.
Children ran between caravans.
The radio played Rita Pavone.
Mirella sang badly.
Franco sang worse.
Claudia sang anyway.
Giulio refused.
Then “Volare” began.
Everyone sang.
Even Giulio.
Especially Giulio.
Later that night, lying inside the caravan, Claudia whispered:
“I haven’t heard you sing since our wedding.”
“I remembered why.”
“You were terrible then too.”
Silence.
Then Giulio said:
“I’m happy.”
Claudia turned toward him.
It was dark.
She could not see his face.
“Good.”
“I had forgotten.”
“What?”
“How little is necessary.”
She reached for his hand.
Outside, the pine trees moved gently in the night wind.
The following morning they decided to continue south.
Rome came next.
Towing a caravan through Rome tested both Giulio’s marriage and his understanding of Christianity.
Traffic appeared to operate according to rules visible only to Romans.
Vespas emerged from impossible spaces.
Fiats stopped without warning.
A bus driver shouted something Giulio could not understand but interpreted as criticism.
Near Porta Pia, a man on a scooter looked at the Ferrari, looked at the caravan, pulled alongside and shouted:
“Avvocato! You forgot the house!”
Claudia laughed for five minutes.
They left Rome sooner than planned.
The road south brought heat, dust and the beginnings of exhaustion.
This was not modern touring.
There were no satellite navigators.
No air-conditioned service areas every few kilometres.
Maps unfolded to the approximate dimensions of tablecloths and could never be folded back correctly.
Claudia navigated.
Giulio questioned her navigation.
Claudia reminded him he was welcome to navigate himself.
Giulio stopped questioning.
Near Terracina they took a wrong road and ended up beside a field where a farmer informed them that the coast was in the opposite direction.
“How far?”
“Not far.”
In Italy, they discovered, “not far” could represent anything between three kilometres and another province.
But wrong turns became part of the journey.
So did breakdowns.
The first serious problem happened near Gaeta.
Not the Ferrari.
The caravan.
One tyre failed with an explosive sound that made Claudia scream and Giulio use language normally reserved for factory machinery.
They stopped beside the road.
August heat pressed down on them.
Giulio removed his shirt and began changing the wheel.
A Fiat stopped.
Then another.
Two men offered assistance.
Neither was necessary.
Both stayed anyway.
Within fifteen minutes, four Italians were discussing tyres, Ferrari suspension, caravans, road quality and government policy while Claudia sat beneath an umbrella.
A woman from the second car handed her a bottle of water.
“Men,” she said.
Claudia nodded.
It was enough.
By the time the wheel was changed, somebody had produced sandwiches.
This was another Italy.
A country where strangers could turn a roadside inconvenience into lunch.
They reached Naples two days later.
The city overwhelmed them.
Noise.
Vespas.
Laundry.
Voices.
The smell of coffee.
The sea.
Giulio fell in love immediately.
Claudia became obsessed with sfogliatelle.
They parked outside the city and took a bus into the centre because even Giulio finally admitted that towing a caravan through Naples might be excessive.
They walked for hours.
At sunset they stood overlooking the bay.
Vesuvius sat in the distance.
Claudia rested her head against Giulio’s shoulder.
“We should go home soon,” she said.
He did not answer.
“Giulio?”
“I was thinking of going farther.”
“How far?”
“Amalfi.”
“With the caravan?”
A pause.
“No.”
Claudia looked at him.
He had learned something.
The caravan remained at the campsite.
They took the Ferrari alone.
For the first time since Milan, the car was free.
The road toward the Amalfi Coast curved above the sea.
Giulio drove differently now.
Not slowly.
But without urgency.
There is a difference.
The Ferrari sang through tunnels and along cliffs.
Claudia’s scarf flew behind her.
The radio faded in and out depending on the mountains.
At one point “Abbronzatissima” appeared through the static.
They laughed.
The sea below seemed impossibly blue.
They stopped in Positano.
They ate lunch overlooking the water.
They walked down toward the beach.
On the climb back, Claudia removed her shoes and carried them.
“You promised adventure,” she said.
“I delivered.”
“You also delivered mosquitoes, a broken table, one destroyed tyre and a night beside Bologna.”
“Those were complimentary.”
She kissed him.
That evening, driving north toward the caravan, they watched the light disappear across the coast.
Giulio never forgot that road.
Not because of the Ferrari.
Because Claudia kept one hand on his shoulder for almost the entire drive.
Eventually every holiday reaches the moment nobody wants to discuss.
The return.
By the end of August, Italy was beginning to change.
The light softened.
Evenings arrived earlier.
The radio presenters began talking about the end of summer.
Families packed campsites.
Children returned home brown, taller somehow, carrying shells, stones and stories.
Giulio and Claudia began driving north.
Naples.
Rome.
Tuscany.
Bologna.
Milan.
Places that had seemed like destinations now became memories passing in reverse.
On their final night they stopped in the mountains.
A small campsite near a wooden chalet.
Pine trees.
Cool air.
A road covered in pale dust.
Giulio parked the Ferrari with the caravan behind it.
The next morning a traveller with a camera asked permission to take a photograph.
The sun was bright.
The Ferrari was dirty.
The caravan showed three weeks of roads, dust, insects and life.
Giulio almost apologised for the condition of the car.
Then he changed his mind.
“Take it like this.”
Claudia stood beside the photographer.
“Why not wash it?”
Giulio looked at the Ferrari.
“Because then it wouldn’t remember anything.”
The photographer took the picture.
A silver Ferrari.
A little caravan.
A mountain cabin.
Italy, 1963.
Nothing extraordinary seemed to be happening.
That is the great deception of photographs.
We see an instant.
We do not hear the songs.
We do not feel the August heat.
We cannot smell the coffee prepared beside the caravan.
We cannot hear Claudia laughing when Giulio is overtaken by a Fiat 500.
We cannot hear “Sapore di sale” playing through a tiny radio beneath the Tuscan stars.
We cannot see the night when four strangers sang “Volare” around a camping table.
We cannot hear the tyre exploding near Gaeta or the Roman shouting from his scooter.
The photograph shows only the vehicles.
But the real journey happened around them.
They returned to Milan the following afternoon.
The factory was still there.
Nothing had collapsed.
The employees had survived without Giulio.
He stood outside the gates for several seconds the next morning before entering.
Franco, the schoolteacher they had met by the sea, had been right.
The country survived.
Giulio went back to work.
But Sunday changed.
He stopped going to the factory on Sundays.
Claudia noticed before anyone else.
Sometimes they drove into the countryside.
Sometimes friends came for lunch.
Sometimes they did absolutely nothing.
The caravan remained with them for another nine years.
Eventually they sold it to a young family.
The Ferrari went later.
Life continued.
As it always does.
Years became decades.
Songs became old songs.
Cars became classics.
Photographs became history.
Claudia would eventually joke that she had spent one of the most romantic summers of her life sleeping in a box pulled by a machine designed for grand touring.
But when someone asked which holiday she remembered most clearly, she never hesitated.
Not Paris.
Not Capri.
Not the expensive hotel in Switzerland they visited later.
Summer 1963.
The caravan.
Because luxury had almost nothing to do with it.
They had been young.
Italy had seemed endless.
The roads had been slower.
The music had been louder.
A peach eaten beside a river tasted better than dessert in a hotel.
Getting lost was an inconvenience rather than a crisis.
A broken tyre could produce new friends.
And there was always another town ahead.
Another café.
Another beach.
Another song coming through the radio.
If you look at the photograph today, perhaps the Ferrari is the first thing you notice.
Of course it is.
A beautiful Italian machine from an extraordinary era.
But look a little longer.
Look at the caravan behind it.
That is where the real story is.
Because the Ferrari represented everything Giulio had worked to obtain.
Success.
Money.
Speed.
Status.
The caravan represented everything he had nearly forgotten.
Time.
Conversation.
Silence.
Laughter.
His wife.
The freedom to arrive late.
And perhaps that was the great joke of their summer.
They crossed Italy behind the wheel of a Ferrari and discovered that the most precious thing they owned was the ability to go slowly.
Many years later, whenever “Sapore di sale” played on the radio, Claudia would stop whatever she was doing.
Just for a moment.
The room around her would disappear.
She was thirty-two again.
Her hair was wrapped in a scarf.
The window was open.
The summer air was warm.
Giulio was beside her.
Behind them, a ridiculous little caravan bounced along an Italian road.
Ahead was the sea.
And they still had almost the whole summer left.