The Italian Project

The midday flight from Paris had been uneventful, with the bright sun beginning to make its way to the ground through the broken clouds. Things were looking up this Tuesday, I thought. Storms earlier that morning had disrupted air traffic across western Europe. When I landed at Milan's Linate airport, there was still congestion in the baggage area, and the taxi queue was frustratingly long as I stepped up to the back of the line.

Directly behind me, a woman brought up her mobile after joining the other travelers waiting and shortly later was advising her contact that she was behind schedule. At least, I think that is how she replied – my Italian is quite limited. When she had disconnected, I turned back to see a sour face framed by her glasses and mid-length brunette hair. I shared my frustration with her, remarking that it would be some time before I reached my destination in Vimercate. "Ah, Vimercate, I need to get there too." she sighed. It was an area where many high-tech companies had their offices.

The minutes passed more quickly as we picked up a conversation, both of us comfortable in English. I would be working the entire week in Italy reviewing progress on a regional project, part of a multi-year corporate program managed out of our Paris headquarters. I would find my way to Stuttgart and Madrid for similar reviews before heading home to Dallas. She shared that she was staying until tomorrow, returning to her office in Rome on an afternoon flight. I raised a question about the recent Italian election, not a particularly sensitive topic I hoped, and one that would keep our interlocation going. The newspaper I read during the flight had me confused. Her eyes rolled, followed by several short, unfinished expressions, the last one in Italian. The final shrug of the shoulders confirmed that I was not going to come closer to a better understanding just now. I shifted to asking her about memorable vacation spots in northern Italy. I was looking forward to taking a week off in the fall after my next quarterly project review. We were moving forward in line as she began outlining the area's attractions, and it seemed logical to offer to share a taxi when I came to the head of the queue. She happily agreed. I removed my suit jacket as we climbed in from opposite sides, the driver placing my luggage in the trunk. Minutes later, we were on the A51 toll highway heading north, with most of Milan, including the famous Duomo, out of sight to the west of us.

As we continued, I lifted my computer case from the floor and extracted a Northern Italy guidebook and map. Always an opportunist, I felt it would be interesting to get her thoughts on fascinating, out-of-the-way destinations and record them directly on my reference material. Her expression lightened. She leaned forward, pulled a small black notebook from her purse, and turned to a page of place names and phone numbers. She knew of an excellent gelateria in Brescia, then a great place to stay overlooking Lake Garda, or maybe I would like a day trip into the Italian Alps? Awesome! I find that local knowledge trumps travel publications, and while Rome was not local, it was a lot closer than Dallas. I continued to jot notes along the map's margin and in my guidebook as she shared her list of favorites with me.

We were not paying attention to the drive, and we both looked up when the taxi came to an abrupt stop outside the Cosmo hotel. I quickly threw everything into my computer case, jumped out to retrieve my suitcase, and pulled on my suit jacket. We shared brief salutations and exchanged first names. I nodded goodbye to Carina as the cab left for her offices. I entered the hotel reception area with lightness in my steps, delighted at my good fortune and progress on my vacation planning. Shortly later, I walked over to the office to check on the project review preparation, beginning the next day. My colleagues confirmed plans for a team dinner, giving me a chance to meet several new project members informally. It was quite late that evening when I made it back to my hotel room, and I was glad when my head hit the pillow.

The next day I arrived at the conference room early to prepare for our meeting. The scribbled notes from the cab were on the top of my computer case with my guidebook, reminding me of my luck in getting input from my acquaintance yesterday. I had been hesitant to discuss any vacation plans with my Italian colleagues, as each of them would have their favorite place, and undoubtedly I would be asked follow-up questions after my vacation on which I had chosen. It was safer to keep that part of my life separate. As I pulled out my computer, a small black notebook fell to the floor. It looked identical to the one Carina had referenced on the cab drive up the day before. Disappointed with my clumsiness rushing to exit the cab yesterday, I carefully looked for any information I could use to contact her. Name, address, or phone number? I found nothing that would help. She had only introduced herself as Carina, but I would need her last name or that of her firm. She had filled the middle of the notebook with annotations and rows of numbers. Only within the final pages did I recognize the contacts that I captured for my upcoming vacation. I committed myself to head back to the Linate airport after completing the morning session and seeing if I could find Carina before she boarded. This plan would fit well, as there were several points that I needed the team to follow up on, and giving them the afternoon to close the open questions would work for us all. I took my computer back to the hotel and ordered a taxi.

I decided to have lunch at the airport to ensure I didn't miss any early afternoon flights. There were numerous itineraries to Rome throughout the day, and I needed to look over the passengers of them all. I picked up a sandwich and checked the flight departure board. At least there was only one logical point for Carina to enter security, so I stood in an open space and waited. And waited. When the flow of passengers subsided for a minute, I strolled around the terminal entrance to relieve the tension in my back. I was not used to standing still for such a long period. When does the afternoon end for Italians? As the outside sunlight dimmed, and the terminal clock showed 18h 30, I reluctantly gave up and went to join the taxi queue. At least there were far fewer people in line than yesterday, and I was quickly on my way back to my Vimercate hotel. I would try to develop new options to get the notebook back to its owner over dinner.

I made my way down from my room and scanned the restaurant for a suitable table. Suddenly I picked up a familiar profile, just turning to look towards me. Our eyes met, and all my disappointment and concern from the last twelve hours disappeared. "May I join you for dinner?" I queried as I stepped up to her, breaking into a smile. After pulling in my chair, I reached into my suit pocket and pulled out her well-used notebook, placing it on the tablecloth near her. Instant relief spread across her face, the tension flowing from her shoulders. She picked it up, leafing through the pages with incredulity. She held the book in her two hands with relief, looking towards me, then smoothly placed it in her handbag. She looked back to me, inquiring, "Tell me." She was grateful and amused at my prolonged attempt at intercepting her at the airport. Simultaneously, she had been rebooking her flight for a day later and confirming a room in her usual lodging. Carina had feared that I might not have her notebook but was hopeful that she could intercept me at my hotel to confirm, one way or the other. We continued our conversation from the day before, but we had hours to explore many topics this time. With both of us now visibly relaxed, maybe I would try with her again to figure out the election.

Hours later, the dinner came to a close, our tiramisu flutes standing empty. It was easiest for me to charge the meal to my hotel bill, but she insisted on keeping the two business meal expenses separate. We exchanged a gentle embrace and cheek kiss and saluted, "Arrivederci!" She waved goodbye, exited through the front entrance, and began the short walk to her nearby hotel. Having exchanged email addresses, I was also happy that a knowledgeable contact could help my future vacation planning.

The next evening, I returned to the hotel after a fruitful discussion on the project's next steps. It would be a quiet evening for me, completing what preparation I could for my next week in Stuttgart and relaxing over another comforting dinner, this time on my own. As I entered the lobby, the receptionist at the front desk waved me over. He had received an envelope hand-addressed to me, which was entirely unexpected. I opened it up to find a short thankyou note from Carina. She explained that her small black notebook held not only the coordinates and access code for her uncle's safety deposit box but also the keys to his newly acquired cryptocurrency. He had been intrigued by the fresh approach to the technology for making payments and was never one to play catch-up. Her uncle had been very successful in the hospitality field in southern Italy, energized by his business and never having married. She had recently inherited the contents and cryptocurrency from him but had not yet made a copy of the information. Clipped to her message was a personal check for $20,000! The return of the notebook had been of life-changing importance. The letter ended with her insistence that I accept the payment for my role in returning it to her. I took note of the residential address on her check and thought that perhaps a vacation around Rome would be equally, if not more interesting, than one in Northern Italy.