Blog

Trieste has always felt to me like a gateway — the last breath of Italy before the Balkans begin. An Adriatic city shaped by trade and faded empires, industrial yet poetic, caught between the Latin elegance of the South and the austere grace of the East. Its heavy buildings whisper of once-great ambitions. Among them, perched above the sea, the Castle of Miramare still stands — a silent witness to the tragedy of a Belgian princess and a would-be Mexican queen.

To the Adriatic coast we went — to Grado, a timeless seaside and thermal town built on an island. Its lagoon offers calm waters and the soothing scent of salt and pine. We used to go every summer with my parents. Forty years later, not much has changed. Except that, as a child, I had ice cream there — and this time, I tasted wine.

San Daniele is the small town next to the village where my grandfather was born.
Just 100 years ago, he was 13 years old, working there to learn the craft of cabinetmaking. Three years later, he left the town to travel through Europe — a journey that eventually brought him to Belgium, where he met my grandmother, settled down, and started a family.

A century later, I’ve come back — following his footsteps.