Friendship, Fate, and an Alfa Romeo

By Roberto Rosa

Some of the most important things in life arrive quietly. 

• Friendships that shape us.

• Machines that somehow become part of our identity.

• Moments that at first seem ordinary but later reveal themselves as turning points.

For me, two of those things have always been intertwined: friendship, and Alfa Romeos.

To understand this story, I have to begin with my father.

My father was a skilled panel beater, not merely a body man, but a craftsman. Metal obeyed his hands, and under his hammer bent steel slowly returned to life. The smell of gasoline, paint, and metal dust is part of my childhood.

He loved cars, but he loved Alfas most of all. In Italy, they were the only cars I remember him owning. Alfa Romeo was not simply transportation in our family. It was passion. It was pride. It was music. It was identity.

In 1966, my father was granted a work visa to the United States. He, my eight-and-a-half-month-pregnant mother (carrying me), and my two-and-a-half-year-old sister packed everything they owned into a few suitcases, and with a great deal of courage said goodbye to family, to familiarity, to language, and boarded a ship for New York. My mother never let me forget about her voyage. Being heavily pregnant on a restless Atlantic crossing was not exactly a pleasant memory. I was born five days after they arrived.

Soon after, we settled in Newton, Massachusetts, in a neighborhood called Nonantum, or “The Lake,” as the locals call it, where my father’s new job awaited him. 

A year later, my maternal grandparents joined us, along with my 20-year-old uncle and my 16-year-old aunt. In those years, “The Lake” felt like a small piece of Italy transplanted into America. Everyone knew each other, the espresso pot was always ready on the stove, and my father’s gregarious personality was a magnet for constant visitors. Our house was full — full of voices, friends, music, and food.

My uncle Nazareno (quickly re-baptized “Nat,” as people could not pronounce his name) attended Wentworth Institute of Technology in Boston. Following family tradition, he began bringing Italian classmates and new friends home. One of them became a regular presence in our house. His name was Venanzio. 

I must have been four or five years old then, but certain images remain vivid even now: My father playing guitar in the living room, the sound of laughter echoing through the house, and Venanzio sitting comfortably among the adults, talking, joking, and being playful with my sister and me, as if he had always been part of the family. He was warm, affectionate, and what Italians call simpatico, a word that doesn’t translate easily but means someone whose presence simply feels good. 

Then, in 1974, my father decided it was time to return to Italy. America had given him opportunity, but home was still calling. Back in our hometown, he opened his own body shop, and that is where my own love affair with Alfa Romeo truly began. Every car my father owned from that point until his sudden death in 1980 was an Alfa. Each one is etched in my memory.

After he died, those cars became something more than machines. They were reminders of him, of his voice, the smell of the workshop, the feeling of sitting beside him as he drove one of the Alfas and smiled at the sound of the Webers, turning to me and saying “senti che musica”. 

Years passed and we would often open old photo albums and talk about our years in Newton. Venanzio’s name would inevitably come up. Someone would remember a joke he told, his unique ways of telling a story in his distinctive voice. He had been part of those happy years. 

In 1986, after completing my mandatory service in the Italian military, I moved back to the United States in search of opportunity. I often asked my uncle about Venanzio, as I had a strong desire to reconnect with him. He had been part of my earliest memories, and perhaps it was because he had known my father during those early years, and was someone my father deeply respected. Perhaps it was simply nostalgia.

But my uncle had lost touch with him after moving to Connecticut. Time had scattered everyone. No internet. No Google. No easy searches. I tried asking other people who might know something, but every lead went nowhere. I began to accept that perhaps some people remain only in photographs.

In the spring of 1997, an Alfa Romeo changed everything.

One Saturday morning, I was driving through Newton when I noticed a red 1974 Alfa Romeo GTV parked in front of a house with a small “For Sale” sign in the window. The price was $3,500. The car had rust in the usual places, rocker panels and trunk area, and the engine bay looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in decades. But when I started the engine, it sounded right and the interior had that familiar Alfa Romeo scent. I swear they should bottle it. So, I bought the GTV and it became my daily driver. Through that car I discovered Alfa Owners of New England and soon joined the club. A new circle. A new family.

Then one weekday morning, while driving to work in the GTV, I stopped at a Staples to pick up some office supplies. When I came back outside, I immediately noticed broken glass on the pavement near my car. As I got closer, my heart sank. Someone had backed into the GTV and driven away.

The damage was not catastrophic, but it was significant enough to leave me frustrated and unsure what to do next. Repairing it might cost more than the car itself was worth. 

I called Dave Pratt, whom I’d met through AONE, for advice, suggestions, and a shoulder to cry on. As we talked, he suddenly said, “Wait a minute. Someone just submitted an ad for the next Velocissima newsletter. He’s selling a GTV that might make a good parts car. I can give you his number. His name is Nick. Nick Fonte.”

Fonte ... The name sounded strangely familiar. It echoed but I couldn’t place it. Still, it felt familiar. I dialed the number and Nick answered with an easy, friendly voice. He explained that the car belonged to a college friend of his and was parked at his parents’ house in Sudbury. “I’ll be home this weekend,” he said. “If you want to stop by Saturday late afternoon, that works.” All week long the name stayed in the back of my mind. Fonte ... Questo nome lo conosco … 

Saturday arrived and I drove to Sudbury, still trying to understand why that name felt so familiar. Nick was waiting outside the house when I arrived. We looked over the car and agreed it would indeed make a good parts car. We shook hands and settled on a price.

As we continued chatting, curiosity got the better of me. “You must be Italian,” I said. “The name Fonte sounds very familiar. Where is your family from?” 

“My father is from Abruzzo,” he replied. “A town called Raiano, near Sulmona.” 

“Not far from where I lived in the Lazio region,” I said. “What’s your father’s name?”  I asked casually. 

“Ven, well, actually Venanzio.” 

For a moment, I felt as if the world had shifted slightly under my feet. There are not that many “Venanzios” out there, I thought.

“I knew a Venanzio once,” I said slowly. “When I was a child in Newton. My uncle went to Wentworth and had a friend named Venanzio. He was always at our house. 

Nick looked at me. “My father did go to Wentworth. Who’s your uncle?”  

“Nazareno.” 

His expression changed instantly and with a big smile he said: “No way. That’s my father.”

For years, I had been searching for him, and now, without even trying, I was standing in front of his son. 

And the last name “Fonte” finally made sense ... it was buried somewhere in my head. I quickly and excitedly told Nick of my memories of his father at our house, the laughter, the music, the affinity my father felt for Venanzio. Nick smiled and said, “Oh, my God ... let’s go inside. We have to surprise my father. This is going to be fun.” 

Inside the house, Nick’s mother Laura was in the kitchen, and Venanzio was sitting at the table. I immediately recognized him. Yes, twenty three years had passed, but he was the same Venanzio I remembered.

“Good evening,” I said, nervously and emotionally staring at Venanzio. 

Nick said casually, “Dad, he’ s buying Ramzi’s GTV.”   

Venanzio nodded politely. “Oh, very nice. So ... you’re an Alfista? Have a seat. Can we offer you something? Espresso, water? What’s your name first of all?” His voice was unmistakable.

“Roberto.” 

“Roberto ... please have a seat. Are you Italian, Roberto”?  

“Yes, 100%,” I said.

“Where are you from?” 

I knew that if I told him my town, he may figure me out right away. I wanted to build this up, at least a bit longer, so I tried to diverge the question and casually said, “Well, my parents came from Italy. I was born here in the States but moved back to Italy in 1974 when I was 8 years old and returned here 11 years ago.” 

He paused. Nodded. Studied me with narrow eyes while I was trying not to let my emotions an excitement show. 

“Roberto ... hmmm ... I knew a little boy named Roberto once. He was a scrawny little thing. What is your father’s name?” 

I couldn’t drag this out any longer. My voice caught in my throat. I managed a smile and said, “Egidio.” And waited for his reaction. 

His mouth opened, he slowly stood up, and he stared at me in disbelief and softly said: 

“Porca miseria ... non ci credo.” 

As we embraced, there was  laughter, tears, and a flood of memories from a lifetime ago. As if twenty-three years had only been twenty-three minutes. The joy I felt at that moment on that day is indescribable and is still with me. The young man who spent so many evenings in my childhood home, shared meals and laughter, and created such wonderful memories for me and my family, who I longed to find and reconnect with, was now in front of me. 

Even now, I sometimes think about that day. What if I had not bought that red GTV? What if I had driven my pickup truck to Staples that morning instead? What if the accident had never happened? I would never have needed parts. I would never have called Dave Pratt. I would never have spoken to Nick Fonte.

And perhaps I would never have seen Venanzio again.

Life often moves in ways we cannot see while we are living it. Small events connect to one another like links in a chain, leading us somewhere we never expected to go.

In this case, that chain began with a damaged Alfa Romeo. And it led me back to a piece of my childhood and to a man who had once sat in our living room, shared meals with my family, sang Italian songs with my father, and was part of my childhood. 

I will always be grateful to have found him and for his friendship. 

Grazie Menanze!

Roberto Rosa