Gianluca Drago
Well-Known Member
Today, on my way back from a short trip, I pass once again through a highway restaurant — but not the usual, unremarkable pit stop. This one is different, suspended like a bridge over the roaring lanes beneath. Designed in the 1960s by architect Melchiorre Bega, it’s instantly recognizable for its octagonal windows, their proportions shifting along the span of the structure — wider and more generous at the center, narrowing towards the edges.
Recently restored, the place has regained some of its vitality, though not all of Bega’s original vision survived the process. Still, there’s something timeless about its geometry, a lingering echo of a future once imagined.
And yet — poetic architecture or not — there’s a catch: miss the right exit, and you’ll find yourself hurtling in the opposite direction. Which, of course, is exactly what happened to me today.
Recently restored, the place has regained some of its vitality, though not all of Bega’s original vision survived the process. Still, there’s something timeless about its geometry, a lingering echo of a future once imagined.
And yet — poetic architecture or not — there’s a catch: miss the right exit, and you’ll find yourself hurtling in the opposite direction. Which, of course, is exactly what happened to me today.
