I ruefully said goodbye to the Ferrari 458 Italia in Row U, Section 6, of an underground parking garage in Portsmouth, England, an ignominious close to a journey that had begun in Maranello, Italy, and culminated with a thrilling dash up the hill at the Goodwood Festival of Speed in West Sussex: four days and four countries of driving bliss. I said goodbye to the incarnadine beauty and marched straight out to the hotel. It was like choosing not to look at a dear one lying in an open casket, preferring instead to remember the good times and all the grace. Having soared too close to the sun during the past four days, I now went forth without wings.

On the previous Monday, I was starting a routine week when the call came to get on a plane that very afternoon. Clearing customs in Bologna, Italy, fewer than eighteen hours later, I walked through the airport lobby and nodded at a man holding a Ferrari placard. He drove me past a Parmesan cheese factory and some balsamic vinegar producers on the way to Ferrari headquarters in Maranello.

Here, I met photographer Paul Barshon, and we were off. Needing to share the new Italia with another reporter en route, we set out in a Ferrari California, the retractable-top spider. Following behind the Italia let me familiarize myself with the control layout that the two cars more or less share. As we tooled along the autostrada, I saw how Italy's membership in the EU has caused the nation to get serious about traffic enforcement; we kept to a reasonable 75 mph, and the engine only snarled when we occasionally hurried around another vehicle. With the radio playing classic rock, it wasn't so different from crossing Indiana. But before reaching Turin, we headed north-northwest, aiming the prancing horse on the hood for a point between the Matterhorn and Mount Blanc.