On March 21st, in Padua, The Carraro Spirit took place — an event designed to tell and stage the new values of the Carraro Group.
I had just started my internship at GereBros, and if someone had asked me to describe my role in those first few weeks, I probably would have said:
“I’m still trying to figure it out.”
I didn’t have a defined job title, no badge to scan in, no desk with my name on it.
But I did have a laptop — and the clear feeling that the GB team was doing some seriously interesting stuff.
We had to build an event from scratch, in very little time, with one clear—but complex—goal:
to tell the story of a company’s values, not in a theoretical or celebratory way, but through its people.
Real people.
Five values, five videos, five stories.
And behind each one, a huge amount of listening, rewriting, fine-tuning.
No actors, no scripted performances.
Just faces, voices, and settings — captured as honestly as possible.
Every day, something new landed on the table: something to do, follow up, fix.
I was trying to find my place in the middle of it all, doing a bit of everything: reading scripts, checking a rundown, correcting a word, tweaking an image, running a cable, setting up a room, watching.
At first, it felt like I wasn’t doing much.
But slowly, I started to understand: even standing quietly in a corner is a way of taking part — if you know how to listen.
During the first real briefing — the kind where you take notes even though you have no idea what you’re writing — I had a small revelation:
from the outside, it looks like an event.
From the inside, it’s an ecosystem.
Of people, roles, decisions, tension, rhythm.
The very first thing we talked about was the opening video.
A short moment, right at the beginning of the event.
Its job? To set the tone. Create a feeling.
Move something.
Hit that emotional frequency that makes everyone stop — and tune in.
But the heart of the project wasn’t just in the videos.
It was in the construction of a story.
Renato — who would also be hosting the event — spoke of narrative as a continuous, invisible thread running through everything: the words on stage, the videos, the silences, even the way someone steps into the spotlight.
It wasn’t about presenting.
It was about guiding the audience on a journey through stories and people.
Tore handled the direction, Isabella the visual and narrative content, Giorgia and Cinzia the event architecture — making sure every piece flowed seamlessly into the next.
Every detail was discussed, tweaked, refined.
And yet, no one seemed stressed.
No one looked like they were chasing after things.
Yes, the workload was intense — but there was a kind of calm.
The calm of people who know what matters, and what doesn’t.
Then came rehearsal day: train to Padua, rundown in my bag, mind already visualising that empty stage waiting for us.
When we arrived, the room was mid-setup — but you could already feel the structure of the event taking shape.
Technicians were adjusting monitors, voices whispered through microphones, lights were aimed and re-aimed — like a set that’s about to switch on, but isn’t quite there yet.
I watched everything. Trying to figure out who was doing what, how people moved, who made decisions, and who just knew what to do without being told.
There was a precise energy in the room — focused, detail-oriented.
Like an orchestra rehearsing sections of a score: each musician with their own sheet, but already in sync with the rest.
These weren’t the kind of “dress rehearsals” I had imagined — the ones where you run everything start to finish, hoping it all works.
No, here we rehearsed in blocks. Piece by piece. Line by line. Entrance by entrance.
Tore, in the booth, seemed to see things a few seconds before they happened.
And Renato on stage, weighing every word, adjusting pauses, fine-tuning his tone — like tuning an instrument before a concert.
Then there was the rest of the team: Isabella, Giorgia, Cinzia — each holding their own part, making sure it stayed alive and in dialogue with the others.
It was a constant exchange — and none of it needed to be said out loud.
I did what I could.
Sometimes I took notes, sometimes I carried a tripod, and sometimes I just stood there watching and listening — knowing that even just observing that process up close was already a huge opportunity.
What struck me most wasn’t the technology or the tools.
It was how decisions were made.
There were no big speeches, no endless meetings.
Just a glance, a cue, a well-timed question — and things moved forward.
There was trust. Not just in roles, but in people.
And that — even if no one teaches it — is something you can learn.
After hours spent rehearsing every cue, every transition, every video, we headed back to the hotel.
At dinner, we all sat around the same table.
It didn’t feel like a work team. It felt like a group of people who had known each other forever — even if, for some of us, it was the first time.
There were jokes, stories, tired laughter.
Renato told us about the time he directed an event and the lights went out.
Tore acted out the “classic control-room-under-pressure expressions.”
Someone shared what they noticed during rehearsals. Someone else lost track of the courses.
It was the night before the event, but no one really talked about what would happen the next day.
Maybe out of superstition.
Or maybe because some things are better left to settle quietly.
And that dinner — in all its simplicity — ended up being one of the most authentic moments.
Not for what was said, but for how we were together: tired, but with the calm awareness that up until then, we had done everything we could.
That night I realised something: behind every GereBros event, there isn’t just a brilliant idea.
There’s a team that knows each other, has fun together, trusts each other — and still manages to laugh, even when 1,500 people are about to be watching you the next day.
A small thing, maybe.
But it changes everything.
Show Day: Everything Begins (and There’s No Turning Back)
7:30 a.m. We’re already there.
Coffee break humming in the background, the atmosphere alive but composed.
The room is still half empty, but already buzzing.
Technicians are handling the final tweaks: cables, lights, microphones.
There are audio checks underway, someone rehearsing an entrance, someone else going over their lines.
It felt like a theatre just before curtain-up — only instead of actors, there were managers, colleagues, guests.
Giusy (my fellow intern and adventure partner) and I looked around with the classic “where the heck are we?” face.
We were both trying to figure out where to stand, how to move, how to be helpful without getting in the way.
9:00 a.m. The welcome begins.
People arrive, speaking softly, looking around for points of reference.
Some smile politely.
Some greet each other with long, familiar handshakes.
Some are already claiming the best seats.
The room fills slowly, without rush — as if the event is waking up by itself, minute by minute.
At 10:00 a.m., Mario Carraro takes the stage.
His speech opens the curtain.
From that moment on, everything flows: narrative bridges shaped by Renato, with his unmistakable style.
No jarring transitions, no TED Talk silos.
Here, every part was in dialogue with what came next.
And even though I knew the rundown by heart, I still got emotional — also because, well, things shifted here and there 🙂
Behind the scenes, direction was an operating orchestra.
Everything moved with a kind of precision I wouldn’t know how to explain.
Everyone ready to handle real-time changes, delays, compressed or stretched timing.
A real on-going process: flexible, adaptive.
And here’s no small thing — no one lost their cool.
And when, at a tricky moment, someone let out a not-so-zen comment, I saw the famous GereBros strategy applied live:
Silence.
Pause.
Assertive reply.
Internal standing ovation.
I lived that event from start to finish: from the wrong cable to the “video goes in 3, 2, 1…”, from the music flooding the room to the moment when the managers — after weeks of training with Renato — got on stage and spoke.
They weren’t stiff. They weren’t awkward.
They were present. Real.
And the audience noticed.
The moral of my story:
An event is like theatre: you rehearse, refine, make mistakes (before), then throw your heart over the mixer.
Talking about corporate values isn’t boring — not if you do it with people who actually know how to tell a story.
Even as an intern, you can make a difference. Even just by listening to the silence in the room.
Lights aren’t enough. You need a story. And someone who can tell it like it’s their own.
One last thing (maybe the truest)
I don’t know if I’ll do this job forever.
But I know this experience changed how I see things.
Now, when I see a stage, I also see the cables.
When I hear a speech, I think of the person who wrote it.
When a video starts, I imagine someone saying “this one works” in front of a timeline.
And I think — for a first time,
it couldn’t have gone any better.
Signed:
The intern who didn’t make photocopies — but got a front-row seat to what it really means to tell a story.
