A rainstorm approaches, I don’t need a cap to cover my thinning pate, the temperature is in the mid-60s and the bike feels like a limousine. The old part of Turin is as comfortable and familiar to me as my own living room, and I now feel as qualified as any other tour guide, provided I don’t have to speak Italian or answer any probing questions.
These plaques are a nice touch, honoring the bravery of the Italian resistance against fascism in World War II. This one is on Via Massena. The date of Gianni’s death is interesting. The very next day, April 28, 1945, his comrades caught up with Mussolini as he tried to escape to Switzerland, filled him full of bullet holes and put his body on display, along with mistress and a dozen others, in Milan, about an hour from here. As for Gianni's fate, I don’t know. Probably hanged.
A web-fingered merman creeps me out in the courtyard of the Golden Palace restaurant on Via Dell Arcivescovado. He seems to be warning me that a glass of champagne here starts at 15 euros. What recession?
The Porto Nuova train station, home to every hustler and pickpocket in town. At least they’re mostly in one place.
At midday, I return to the apartment to meet Adriano (wearing a denim suit!). I need to pay him the balance of my rent. Can I just say this about maximum daily ATM withdrawal limits? Stop it. If I go to my bank and ask for all my money, the response shouldn‘t be, “I'm sorry, sir, but you'll have to come back on 13 separate occasions in order to complete that transaction.” It’s my fucking cash; let me have as much or as little of it as I desire, whenever the hell I want. Thank you.
She-warriors outside City Hall.
A woman picks through the remains of today’s produce market at Porto Palazzo after closing time. Entire families were doing the same thing. They get there before a water truck comes through and sprays everything to the side, leaving the Plaza Della Repubblica smelling like Lysol. This is a daily ritual.
Free plums!
The city’s oldest surviving café, founded in 1763. Its namesake bicerin drink, a frothy hot chocolate-coffee-and cream mixture, is inextricably associated with Turin.
Next door to Al Bicerin, in the Consolata Church, a woman holds a whispered conversation with a friend. She is straight-backed and well-dressed, in her mid-60s. She listens carefully, contemplating what she hears with eyes closed. Raising her hand to her face like a fan, she suppresses a laugh. The church’s interior darkens as a cloud passes, and her mood changes. She makes a choked plea to her companion. To my untrained ear it sounds like “Promise me,” or “Do say yes.” Her urgency makes me step back, not wanting to interrupt their moment. After a minute, she breathes deeply and stands. A promise is made to meet again soon. She blows a kiss and walks into the sunlight. Her friend is a marble statue of the nation’s patron saint, Catherine of Siena. Welcome to Italy.
Tonight I make spaghetti with olives, sausages and fennel. Tomorrow marks the midpoint of my visit. I try not to think about it.
sept.6 from Sluggh McGee on Vimeo.
I have so many comments after watching this excellent video ... where do I start ... what song is that? It's great. Love the cat in the window ... What flavor is purple (viola)? What flavor is blue (Duffo!)? What was the occasion for the dancing you taped? Mmmmm ... that sausage looks amazing. I think I know who taped that last piece of footage. She's quite handy with the camera!
ReplyDeleteThe song is "Willow Willow" by Love. Interesting thing about those gelato colors (and I don't know what flavors they represent) -- when they're neon bright like that, it's not the real deal. The purists hold that real gelati consist only of milk, sugar, eggs and flavoring. Fruit gelati are just sugar and fresh fruit, nothing more, and should be more muted in color. The dancing was going on at Parco Cavalieri di Vittorio Veneto. It looked like a general mixer. On the same grounds is a military installation housing the "Guardians of the Alps." When Italy topples into bankruptcy, which looks more likely every passing week, some government accountant is going to raise the uncomfortable point that Hannibal has been dead for 2,200 years and maybe the Alps don't need guarding, after all. Thanks for the footage; your hand is steadier than mine.
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