Tracing footsteps

My son and I are leaving for Italy a week from today.
I'll stay for a couple weeks to get him settled in and then I have to get back here to my freelance job -- if I want to have a freelance job. I'll have been off a month by then.
My husband will join us for a long weekend. (Flights really are cheap now.)
My eldest boy-child, 24, will then stay.
We've been joking about it for the past few days.
"Next Wednesday is the beginning of your new life," I've said to him, laughing. "All starts next Wednesday."
So far all he'd done was laugh back, with some riff on Wednesday.
Last night, his face lit up at dinner and he answered: "I'm so excited. I cannot wait."
He has no idea what it's going to be like for him.
None of us really do.
He knows it's going to be a big challenge though, which he relishes.
We don't know what the internship/job will be like, if he'll like it, if they'll like him, if he'll be able to perform all in Italian. If it'll lead to anything.
What the social environment at the job will be like. Will everyone be married with kids?
What life out of work will be like for him alone in a small town by a lake in central Italy, a place he's only visited on vacation over the years.
I do know one thing though.
I moved to Italy when I was 24 too.
And then six months later met my husband and life partner at a Thanksgiving party. I had just recently graduated from college in the U.S. too.
Ohmigod. Isn't that kinda freaky?
I stayed six-and-a-half years then. We could've stayed forever. Why do I always want to move? It's so damn hard.
Back to my son.
He's off.
Last night, we speculated how long he might stay.
Nobody knows.