336 hours in Turin: Turin needs a hug

Another flawless day in the big city. Too nice for museuming. I wish I could take a picture or craft a phrase that would allow you to feel the cool air on your skin, the moderating warmth from the cobblestones. Though we’re far from the ocean, it’s like being at the beach. There is always a slight breeze, you’re never mopping your forehead. Remember Shelley Duvall’s hippie-chick character in “Annie Hall” talking about Bob Dylan? “Simply transcendent”; that’s what it is. Thinking about Turin? Go in September. The horseman is Emanuele Filiberto at the battle of San Quintano in 1557. I have no idea where San Quintano is or what anybody was fighting about, but I have wondered, is he unsheathing his sword or putting it away? Is the battle beginning or ending? The statue was placed here in 1838 after a stint at the Louvre.

Gelato is one of the four food groups on this trip. (I like the baby counter-cone on top.) I know I said I don't like chocolate, but the dark kind is the perfect counterpoint to a fruit gusti. You'll have to trust me on this. Ordering one flavor is louche. Three … well, it's almost impossible to triangulate three flavors with any kind of panache. You want the ying and yang, the ebony and ivory. You want two.

I put in many miles on Bessie today, mostly in ever-widening circles in the city’s center, looking for gifts for the folks back home. This is a travel conundrum. You can’t force the gift thing. Waking up one morning and saying, “I will buy gifts today” is insane. For the same reason, you can’t wait till the last minute. There is an elusive sweet spot, best arrived at when you assume the aspect of a crab as the tide recedes, waiting for tasty things to wash up in your vicinity. We can all agree that airport gifts, though they’ve gotten better in recent years, carry a whiff of desperation, like bad cologne. Sometimes the gift is bad cologne, from the airport -- a double whammy.

Turin is really hopping today. Where do all these people come from? Do none of them have jobs? Note the oxymoronic Smart Car trying to wheedle its way into the pedestrian-only area. Tsk.

All roads lead to the Porta Palazzo market, at least for me. I always wind up here. Six black people live in Turin. Here is one of them.

As long as we’re sharing, this is the current state of my refrigerator. I believe I am cooking tonight. I’ve got olives, cheese, pomodoro, some white wine, shrimp, pasta. I’m letting the possibilities percolate in my skull. Will let you know.

My go-to beer this trip has been the steady-as-she-goes Nastro Azzurro. It’s a Peroni product, sold in these half-liter bottles for 1.50 euro. It’s virtually indistinguishable from Heineken -- same color, skunkiness and low ABV (5.1%). Makes me wish I had a lawn to mow! It tastes like the beer my dad would give me a sip of when I was a little kid, a la Carling Black Label.

Two observations: The word “prego.” Is there anything it can’t mean? Typically, of course, it means “You’re welcome,” but I’ve also heard it used to signify “Please,” “After you,” “Time to get off the elevator,” “Pipe down, kids” and “Hold on a sec.” It’s very “aloha”-like in its versatility.

No. 2: Without exception, when I tell someone I’m in Turin for two weeks, they think I’m lying. “It is not possible,” a shop owner named Stefano insisted today. Once they get over the fact that I’m not kidding, the Torinesi seem deeply complimented, though they won’t say so. They feel Turin has been forgotten, especially with the Olympics receding into history, and the city seethes with an inferiority complex. Time to shake it off, people. This place is mad-crazy-sick-tight, and those who live here seem to be the last to know.

Eataly, hallowed ground for the foodie, the stuff of myth, Whole Foods on steroids, it’s all been said before.

I rode the bike down here. There was one hairy roundabout on the way, but the basic bike precepts remain the same: Stay out of the door zone, pay attention to your line, if you move left, traffic behind you will move left. I may get guff for saying this: Europeans talk endlessly about freedom but long to be ruled. In the same sense, motorists everywhere revel in their autonomy but secretly crave to be directed. Predictability and consistency; that's what people want. Feeling crowded? Take the lane!

A grocer with its own beer bar. Try before you buy! I picked up a Trentare brown (9.1%!) and a Birrifico La Mummia, which advertises itself as “spontaneously fermented,” a fancy term for coming to age in a cask infected with brettanomyces, lactobacillus or some similar bug. I’m going to go out on a sturdy limb and say the world’s best beers are made this way. My favorite ones, anyway. I’m skeptical about these Italian brews. They’re cooling as we speak.

The relevant question is what doesn’t Eataly have? It’s been said you can build a house from just the materials available at a Home Depot. From Eataly, you can grab the ingredients needed to cook up anything under the sun, and some things that haven't been dreamt. The New York Times tells me an Eataly is coming to NYC this year. It may have already opened.