We happened to talk with our friend and writer Luca Londi about our recent experience at the Bologna Motorshow and the history of one Alfista in particular. This story is a moving look at a dramatic page of Italian history, made of small and big losses. The only thing we can't lose is the collective memory, that's why we thought that a Florentine writer (yes we know, Montelupino), could make the best of this page of alfista and Italian history.

The Red Giulia by Luca Londi 

The Motor Show is a sparkling showcase, full of colours, chrome, lights, large screens that project the future of the car. We are a museum, we represent the past, many might think that that place full of promise and novelty is not our place.

But no, we are here with the passion and the will to pay homage to Made In Italy; many of today's cars have to do miles to make you dream like our Alfa Romeo. And in fact, with our stand, our cars, our history.
Maybe history is not fashionable today, but Beauty still attracts people, and a lot of people, young and old, even young people, fascinated by the timeless lines of our Alfa Romeo cars, enter the stand.
We are proud of it, and to see all these men and women of all ages approaching and starting to smile, of that smug smile, of appreciation, just hinted that it forms when you see Beauty. They stop in many, groups of curious friends, loud kids, couples looking for the dream car, people with bags full of brochures. They all leave with that smile of beauty.

Yes, beauty is ageless, like our Alphas.

Speaking of age, at some point a gentleman comes into the booth. Grey coat, white scarf, gloves and hat in hand. He is elegant, distinguished, well-groomed white hair, thin moustache, thick glasses, an 80-year-old eye or so. I think he could be my father, I like to think so, it gives me confidence. He comes close to our Giulia 1600 Super Quadrifoglio Verde from '64, one of our flagships. In the stand there's a moment of calm, I get away from my office and I go near him. "Good evening." "Good evening, my dear" he says seriously. I smile, I don't want to disturb him, but I'm curious. "Do you like our Giulia?" "Yes, very much. Want to know why?" "Sure, thanks!" He looks at me and looks at the car, puts gloves and hat in his pocket and starts talking.

"I had this car, not this one, a regular, beautiful, red Giulia. She doesn't know the sacrifices, the bills of exchange, she used to pay for her cars like that, there was a lease." I hear that Tuscan dialect, the ones you aspire to, the unmistakable drop. I smile and ask: "Florentine?" "Yes, Florentine from Florence, now they're all Florentines but nothing is true." "Go on, you were telling me about your Alfa Romeo Giulia Rossa." "Ah, yes, she was beautiful, and I used to drive her with my wife and kids or on business, and I liked her because she was safe, stable and sporty, at least for me. Then came November 4, 2006.

My red Giulia was parked in the courtyard under the house, as soon as I could get down, I looked for her, instead of the car there was only water and mud, various items brought by who knows where, a tree uprooted, not even a shadow of the car. Florence had been struck by a blind fury, the Arno had swept away everything, thousands of books in the National Library, hundreds of works of art in all the churches and museums, and even my car. I looked for it in the neighborhood, cars smashed by the hundreds, in all the streets, in all the squares, not mine. They told me they'd seen it in a little field not far away, so I went to see it.

There was nothing more than the Alfa I had bought with difficulty, it was a pile of dented sheet metal and broken glass, full of mud, the upholstery made useless by the oil, the seats soaked in all the crap in the world". He turns around and looks at me, "You know, I haven't had a nice car like this since."

His eyes are clear, and maybe I am a little. I turn around so he doesn't see it, I go to the office and in a few seconds I'm back. "Look, I can't show you around the fair, but if you want to ride on it, here are the keys."

A thousand faces, a thousand voices, a thousand speeches, a fair like the Motor Show is a carousel of people who come and go, then you forget it. But that smile under the thin mustache, those little eyes that shine from behind the glasses, that man who rides "his" Alfa Romeo Giulia after fifty-two years that he lost it, I never forget them again.