Today was the day. That day. Going by train (to be precise: 3 trains) to this little village, Meledo, out in the countryside between Verona and Vicenza. Picking up the van. Driving it to Altavilla, an industrial district on the edge of Vicenza, and leaving it there with the outfitters who will take care of the roof openings of the box, so that it is lit from above. Then back home by train (2 trains, this time).

In Meledo there is this small dealership of the hard-working North East that has believed in electric mobility for years. It is called D&D Auto, and one of the Ds is Diego, whom over the past few weeks I have called and texted more than any friend or family member. A truly good person. Then, from there, my first time driving a vehicle over 6 metres long and 2 wide, electric. Thanks to my zen breathing and a few apotropaic mantras, I arrive safe and sound in Altavilla.

There I am welcomed by two craftsmen who listen to me, explain, correct me, make me think, and they do it calmly, with the rolled R of a lightly chewed Veneto accent. I savour their competence, people who know their stuff. It is always good to deal with people who know their stuff without showing off. Good to know they will be working for you.

I have just enough time left to enjoy a sandwich, a small beer, the sweet early-autumn sunset in this little café by the station of Altavilla, tiny. And to celebrate this perfect day with my trusted travel companion.

I have the keys of happiness in my pocket.

Never lose sight of your goal.

That is what the fortune cookie said, and everyone knows fortune cookies are never wrong.

The goal:

My little van (I like the word “van”) is electric, and I cared about that a lot. For ethical, aesthetic and practical reasons (it can go anywhere, no traffic restrictions) (apart from its size…).

The model is a Ducato, made by Fiat. But since it is electric, it is called eDucato. And I find this beautiful: quiet, clean, discreet. In short, very well-mannered.

An idea, a concept, an idea — as long as it stays an idea, it is only an abstraction. If I could eat an idea, I would have made my revolution. (Un’idea, Giorgio Gaber)

For a month now I have done nothing but think about this idea. Day and night. Which vehicle would be most suitable. How to make it a travelling work of art. How to make it transformable inside and anonymous outside. How much this little scheme would cost me. A month asking myself whether I have really gone mad. Or whether I would be mad not to do it. On the threshold of 70. Working out wildly complicated business plans. Auditing my own financial and insurance situation like I had never done in my life. Talking it over with the people who love me, listening to their opinions, their affectionate doubts, their enthusiasm. Then I saw him on a listings site and I understood it was him. And I also understood this thing had to be done, and that this is what I would do with the next 4 years of my life. And I began to eat this idea.

I will call this project Nomad. Because it means the same thing in every European language. And also because it says NO MAD: no madman here (which is, after all, what all madmen say about themselves).

It came to me while pedalling, as often happens to me. Outside there is Switzerland — the Switzerland of combed meadows that look like a desktop background, the rough and crazy one like the bark of trees, the sober and elegant one of the Helvetica font.

I want a commercial vehicle, one of those that carry Amazon parcels, white and anonymous, but which, when it stops and opens, shows my art and tries to give a flash of magic. And which, when I want, becomes my studio, my travelling atelier. And which, when I need it, becomes my office, my meeting room, a place to meet and work with other people.

The more I pedal, the more it seems I have been thinking about something like this all my life, without knowing it.