Agony for 'Il Toro'

The video grab says it all. For the second time in two weeks, a lifeless Torino FC comes up empty against an inferior side. The 1-1 draw against Crotone had fans arguing in the aisles about their team's suckage, and had the carabinieri at the ready with clubs in case any heads needed busting. Crotone scored in the first minute of the second half with a parabolic dagger from about 22 yards. When Torino responded at minute 76, there was relief, but I wouldn’t call it a celebration. The fan above was responding to this blown chance. Watch as he almost jumps into my camera:

oh.the.horror from Sluggh McGee on Vimeo.

The Torino fans deserve better. Even when Crotone was playing keep-away in the waning minutes, the home crowd tried to will their team to victory. A brief medley of their chants:

biking.in.turin from Sluggh McGee on Vimeo.

Riot shields and paddy wagons, just in case. Even Commissioner Gordon was on hand.


On Sunday, as Turin rests, so do I. Which is to say I imposed a blander timetable on myself. Two hours were spent fine-tuning my fantasy-football lineup. If you're a slow traveler, you can afford this luxury. And since I failed to get sufficiently lost in Il Quadrilatero earlier, I thought about returning. There’s something slightly mystic about those narrow, shaded streets. I can see myself entering a marionette shop, being offered a cup of herbal tea, and awaking the next day in Perugia as part of a traveling circus.


The bike, rode hard and put away wet on Saturday, would remain in its stable. You can cover an enormous amount of ground with it, but you also whiz by points of interest more easily seen on foot. I am now going to exaggerate to make a point. All buildings in Turin are either this color:


Or this. It makes the city -- how do I say this without sounding precious -- more restful to the eye. For the completists among you, the yellow building is at the corner of Valeggio and San Secondo; the patricianly red number from the 16th century is at 9 Villa della Basilica.


One of the city’s few subway stations, below. There is just one metro line, bisecting the city north to south. A second line is under construction, disrupting traffic on the northwest side and perhaps elsewhere. A couple of words about Turin and cars. This place is every bit as auto-centric as the United States, and all of Turin’s expansion plans factor in the automobile heavily. (The same is true of Berlin.) Secondly, motorists here like to honk a lot. I’m pretty sure it’s a tendency nationwide. Sometimes drivers honk in anger or frustration, but 90 percent of the time it’s a prophylactic toot, as if to say, “We don’t really want to fill out all that paperwork, do we?” You can be standing on a sidewalk and get honked at because a driver thinks you might enter the roadway.


I make a wide swing to the west, just to change things up, and run into Vittorio Emanuele II. He had a pretty good run, ruling from 1849-78. The dithering House of Savoy ruled supreme here for almost 500 years. It’s crazy to think Italians thought this was a good idea till 1946, when they kicked the family to the curb, and then only because Emanuele III had hitched his wagon to Mussolini and gotten his country blown to bits.


My photography teacher taught me that nuns always make good subjects, especially if they’re playing volleyball or holding the prize-winning zucchini at the county fair, so I instantly fell back on my training. But he’s an idiot, and she’s just minding her own business. Sorry, sister.


Via Barbaroux is so narrow, the rooftops can’t be more than 7 feet apart. Memo to Peter Greengrass: The next “Bourne” movie should involve a rooftop chase in the Quadrilatero.


An upscale market in the shadow of the Palazzo di Citta. I just want to bury my head in all this great cheese.

More gelato, please, and faster! This time it’s vanilla and raspberry (lam-POH-nay). Damn, that’s good. Minutes later, my face and hands are a sticky mess. Whaddya know? One of those public water fountains is just feet away. It’s times like these when you have the sudden recognition that, hey, Turin, you really know what you’re doing.


The Porto Palazzo market. Absolute junk. Old remote controls, dirty old shoes, VHS tapes of “Smokey and the Bandit.” I don’t want to sound like an elitist jerk. I’m wearing dirty old shoes as we speak, and “The Dukes of Hazzard” got 15 times the viewership of, say, “Mad Men.” It’s just that it looks like every meth head’s yard sale at Dodge and Flower back home was assembled in one place. I’m out.


I tire of walking and stop at a nearby park to tear through my novel. There’s some kind of Italian Democratic Party thing going on nearby. It’s half trade show, half pancake-breakfast fundraiser. You can buy a vacuum cleaner and a bowl of agnoletti. Other than the fact the president has been indicted a zillion times, I know nothing about Italian politics. I wish them well. Just don’t let the Savoy bunch back and things will work out.


An old-(looking) clock keeps perfect time, and it reminds me to go home and toss my own agnoletti into the pot.