Chieri getaway

Turin has been getting on my nerves the past couple of days. When I first arrived, the streets looked like Lubbock on a July afternoon. Now it’s a Bruges-type toy town with tens of thousands of tourists on the prowl, all in the city center. I trace this phenomenon to sometime around noon on Friday, when it seems like 2,000 tour buses disgorged their pushy, insufferable cargo all at once. What’s a fella to do? Well, run away, of course.


I’m taking a combination of buses and trams today to Chieri (kee-AIR-ee), a hilltop town about an hour away. The surest way of confounding an Italian is to pronounce the “ch” words like David Bowie does singing “Changes.” For one thing, you’re hopelessly mangling the word you’re trying to pronounce, and for another, the locals simply can’t do the language math necessary to walk the cat back (“English speaker, inappropriate “ch,” must mean “k.”) Even if you fail to get your tongue completely around your “R’s,” you invite a dumb stare. This isn’t just an Italian thing. In Germany in November, I ordered a “Mister Miller” hot dog from a street window. My server met me with blankness, utter incomprehension.

“Yeah, a Mister Miller. It’s on your menu.”

She shook her head as if in pity. “Nein. Ein Mee-stah Mee-lah.”

I take full responsibility for my language shortcomings. But you can’t appropriate English words as your own and then expect them to be pronounced your own crazy way. Somewhat related case in point: There’s a X-Games type of event going on downtown tonight called “Torino Street Style.” The Torinesi have words for “street” and “style” but opted out, for whatever reason. If I ask someone tomorrow if they went to Torino Street Style, they’ll get the “Torino” part and just tune out the rest. I wait for the bus.


I get off the bus too early, in the town of Pino. It’s hard to know when to disembark. The bus-line signs are microscopically small and there’s often no one to ask; the drivers are cocooned behind plexiglass. Some beautiful homes are in Pino though. Mmm, smells like pine.


Most of these handsome villas are shielded with electronic gates and guarded by bitey, furry things.


I ask a boy, “Quanto dista Chieri?” Six kilometers, he says. I‘m not so sure; the kid seems soft. I bet he’s overestimating. This road used to be a cart track. People have been walking between Pino and Chieri for centuries. I set off on foot.

Over this low wall is somebody’s backyard. I hear the clattering of silverware and clinking of teacups. The last days of summer are precious ones, and everyone is holding on tight.


A river serenades me as I cross a bridge. The bus can kiss my white ass.


I was right. I’m in old Chieri in just 25 minutes, 3 kilometers at most. A wedding party in Piazza Cavour.

Spacious, quiet, and all to myself. Yeah, I’d say “sublime.”


Dozens of these tiny streets remain from Roman times. This one is called Vicolo Tepice.


The Romans called this town Karreo Potentiai, and later, Cherium. Much later, the Savoy gang decided Chieri it would be a good spot for the University of Turin from 1427-1434. Helluva commute!


The Piazza Mazzini. So glad I came. This is the tonic I needed.


A private residence, and obligatory art shot. Maybe I’ll blow it up and sell it at the street fair. :)


Every home here has a cool-looking letter box.


What’s a trip to Italy without a laundry-out-to-dry shot?


Outside the Casa della Missione. I am now lost. I am lost in a town called Chieri. I might as well turn in my touristin’ credentials.


As if on cue, a map appears at my feet. This is not a prop.


The San Domenico Church, a swell example of Gothic architecture from 1326. Unfortunately it is closed this afternoon. Need I remind you today is Sunday? I guess you have to have an appointment to talk to God. “I’m here 24/7,” Thot reminds me.


The bricks for the San Domenico were scavenged from old Roman buildings.


The city’s “Duomo.“ Could Chieri have the greatest ratio of churches per person? There seem to be one on every corner. One intersection has three.


I had carefully mapped out where to pick up the bus for the ride home, but today it’s smack in the middle of an area pedonale until 8 p.m., so that’s not happening. Some kind of church fundraiser is going on, and people from all over came for the 4 p.m. Mass at the Duomo. Many were on crutches, some were bused in from old folks’ homes. Gotta be flexible. I head toward the edge of town and catch the No. 30.

Back in Torino, they’re having a bike-polo match on Via Roma. I saw folks playing this game last week in Valentino Park. Not very fun to watch. They’re riding fixies (no freewheels, so they can’t coast; and no brakes -- it‘s what all the hip kids ride these days.; they call their bikes “whips”), and they can’t maneuver very well. Plus, it seems ridiculously easy to score. This will not catch on.


Back home, I listen to the Browns’ offense shrivel up and die in the second half. If I had a fireplace, I would have hurled something breakable into it. Moments later, my computer won’t recognize the Internet key and I am effectively thrown offline for good. I continue to blog in vitro so as not to fall behind. Mise en place and all that. The next morning (today, Monday), I head down to the Modigliani to upload my pix. Nope, no signal. Across the street on my hospital bench, Google fires up like a champ. Two blog installments tomorrow, and that’s the whole enchilada. Thanks for joining our studio audience!