Before I joined the company, my father sent me abroad for a year and a half. I studied international marketing in southern France for six months, learned pattern drawing in Milan, interned at a last factory in Germany and a fashion designer in Milan, and I worked for a few months in the shoe factory ‘Area Forte’ in Montegranaro. I wrote this piece for the German news magazine ‘Der Spiegel’ in 2024 reminiscing about my time in the Italian shoe factory:

“To become an actual shoemaker, I lived in Italy for a year after graduating. I spent half of my time in the big city and the other half in the countryside. In Milan, I studied pattern drawing, and in Montegranaro, I was taught to put those lessons into practice.

I spent much of my time in Marche on a small mezzanine in an old warehouse of a shoemaker's family. I sat there by myself for months on end, drawing shoe patterns all day. Only rarely, I would get a specific assignment, and even more rarely, they would actually make a shoe based on it. In that little attic, I had all the time in the world to contemplate my life and all the uncertainties that unfolded after my graduation. Time crept by slowly. The small FM radio on my desk was the only distraction. ‘I'm blue ladadie ladada’ it crackled at least five times a day.

I was fully integrated into the family. Maximo, the owner of the factory taught me that his name was pronounced with two long s’s instead of an x. I had to pronounce the name of his brother Mauro, who was the joker in the office, as Ma-uro. Whenever I mispronounced a name, they ignored me. At lunchtime, the family's mum always prepared the highlight of the day in their company kitchenette: a huge pot of pasta. I looked forward to it every day. At the dining table, sitting on a bench, squeezed in tightly between family members, I enjoyed the temporary escape from the little attic.

In the evenings and on weekends, the family brought me along everywhere they went. As far as I was concerned, they didn't need to. This always meant long drives for the best roast pork, the tastiest cheese, or simply a cup of coffee, all of which happened at Italian speed. Moving around always took place in enormous groups of friends and family who barely spoke any English. I came along as an invisible ghost.

(Image above: Floris’s Italian hosts brought him along wherever they went. This is at the Formula 1 race at the Monza circuit.)

One day, I drove the 260km from Montegranaro to Bologna with the father of the family. For most of the journey, we sat quietly next to each other. On the way back, the dad felt that a truck driver was making his life difficult on purpose. He got really riled up. After some honking and swearing, he pulled up beside the truck. He opened the window on my side, honked again, leaned over me while driving and shouted at the driver. I understood only one word: “Una Pistola, UNA PISTOLA!” That word was hard to miss because when he said it, he pointed his hand like a pistol at the driver right in front of my face.

The pure, warm, emotional, and authentic way this family lived, with the shoe factory being the centre of their existence, has left a lasting impression on me. To them, it was a normal life but it was a revelation to me. As a youngster, I learned about cultural differences, cordiality, and independence. I never went back to see the Foresi family, but I definitely took a piece of them home with me.”

(Image above: Floris's farewell dinner at the Foresi family's shoe factory.)