'Keep it!'

“For the feet as well as the eyes it is a classic spot!”
-- Friedrich Nietzsche

“Turin is the most boring city in the world.”
-- Gustav Flaubert


My two week-visit to this well-marbled city began here. Blog-wise, it ends on this page.

No sentimentality here. None that I will admit to, anyway. How about some practicality instead? Honestly, not much has been written about Turin, that I can find. The guidebooks are predictably clever and manic, mostly geared toward the 2006 Winter Olympics. “Time Out Turin” is smart and comprehensive, but badly needs an update. Eugenia Bell’s “A Civilized Traveller's Guide to Turin” is a fine read, but her excursions always revolve around the quest for “a nice lunch.” “A House on Hill” by Cesare Pavese describes Turin in the last days of the war. Lesley Chamberlain’s “Nietzsche in Turin: The End of the Future” describes the writer's annus mirabilis in the city. Haven’t read it; looks good.

If you‘ve got Internet access, an excellent trip planner can be found here. Where to find buses, trams, how to get places, how long it will take, etc. The best public-transit deal, to my mind, is the carnet of 15 tickets called a Biglietti Urbano, costing 13.50. (QUINN-dih-chee is how you say “fifteen.” Billy-EHT-ee is how you say “tickets.” Practice!) You can get them at most newstands and tabacchi shops. (Think “wacky tabacky“; hold the “wacky.”) The more expensive three-, five-, and seven-day Torino Passes are probably good, too, if you don’t mind the implicit time pressure. Museum admissions are included with those. If you want to get away, Sassi/Superga, Chieri and Ivrea can be reached without a car for a euro or two.


One of my last-day rituals consists of writing a phony inscription inside the cover of the cheap book I’ve been reading on the road, and then sliding the book into my host’s bookcase. Last year while in Berlin I carried with me a historical novel about the Battle of the Bulge and the Nazis’ eventual liquidation. The next person to open it will see the following: “To Peter: The lousy Krauts had it coming. (signed, the author).” This year the book is “The Comfort of Strangers” by Ian McEwan, who was kind enough to write, “To Peter: Thanks for the ‘creaking chair’ metaphor. Brighton in April? --Ian.” It now stands innocently on Adriano’s shelf between Sergio Mariotti’s “Primi Passi Negli Scacchi” and Autori Vari’s “Parigi, Ville Noire,” ready to ambush some English-starved tourist someday. I’ve been doing this my entire adult life.


If beauty and sadness are two sides to the same coin, Turin is a city of … a lot of coins. I’ve seen murderous road rage, and parents who whack their kids on the head for walking too far in front of them. I’ve seen a tuxedoed waiter deliver a demitasse of caffe to a beggar sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk. And everywhere, middle-aged men dote on their elderly mothers. One day I asked a skateboarder how to get to Piazza Something, and he pulled a school map out of his backpack, showing me street by street where I needed to go. Folding it up and smiling, he handed it to me. “Keep it! Prego!”


Most nights around 6:30 as I stand on my balcony, a mother and daughter walk below me toward the grocery store. The girl is blond, has glasses with clear frames and usually wears a purple track suit. She shuffles alongside her mother, her toes pointed outward, and even though she’s about 15, she never lets go of her mom’s hand. One day, two old women in the median of Corso Turati greeted her warmly and kissed her on the cheek.

I hope the shirt fits, I-Bot. I’m sorry I’ve been away so long. When I tell you about all the amazing places I’ve seen, I hope you’ll overstand.

End

last.day.in.turin from Sluggh McGee on Vimeo.

Southern man

I decide to ride to the city’s edge, wherever it may be. In the trip’s final hours, I already have one foot out the door. It is inevitable. You start tidying up in small ways and try to come to terms with the visit’s totality, assigning grades to this afternoon or that, before they all recede into the realm of daydream. The cost of vacationing is always this moment of impending return, the realignment with what had been before and now seems a little less appealing. Years from now these two weeks will seem like a passing silliness. But not now. I flip three coins. South, it is.

What in the world? Well, it’s new to my eye, and that counts for something.


A multi-use path stretches to infinity. These leaves will turn yellow, then orange, then nutty brown in the next several weeks. It must be a sight.


A memorial to 19 Italian soldiers killed in Nassiriya, Iraq, on Nov. 12, 2003, during the hardest fighting of the war.


About 2 p.m., I see hundreds, maybe a thousand, workers stream back into the Fiat factory after their two-hour lunch. I don’t know how economists measure productivity, but these early-afternoon lulls can’t be good for the bottom line. Most non-chain stores are closed from 1 to 3. Maybe productivity isn’t everything? That notion will surely slink away as my old deadlines reassert themselves. For now, it is a sweet, almost guilty, indulgence to see other people toil while you pedal toward the horizon. Sorry, suckahs! The factory complex is immense, stretching on for a mile. The “T” in Fiat stands for “Torino,” and the company recently purchased Chrysler.


“Detroit without the degradation” is how travel writers Dana Facaros and Michael Pauls describe the city. This seems to significantly play down Turin’s charms, but I wish I had come up with it.

Down here, blocks of apartment buildings dominate the skyline, each with its own restaurant, grocery store, nursery school.


Farther south, it is clear Turin has ceded dominion over this part of the city. The grass goes uncut, the sidewalks aren’t repaired, and hoodlums skipping the first day of school scan for easy prey. The stamp of the recession is more indelible down here, too. Many businesses are shuttered, and not just for lunch.


These fountains have rescued me a dozen times. Love ’em, love ’em, love ’em. I call this one Spitting Bull.


Here’s a surprise. The tomb of Rosa Vercellana, second wife of King Vittorio Emanuele II. And that’s how it goes: The big shot spends eternity in Rome’s Pantheon (not at Superga with the rest of his clan, interestingly), and the gal is relegated to a ramshackle replica of the Pantheon in the boonies of Turin.


I’ve made it! The countryside takes shape and the pavement turns to gravel. Non-degraded Detroit is now over my shoulder.


A bridge must be crossed, mustn’t it?


Over the bridge and through the woods, I emerge in the town of Nichelino, with its own rent-a-bikes. Front baskets, rear racks, Shimano components, step-through frames. An elevating sight.


A picture is taken for proof of the journey. When some knucklehead tries to guilt-trip me with the passive-aggressive “So, you stayed in Turin for two weeks?” I can counter, “Not exactly, Dillweed. I also visited Sassi/Superga, Chieri and Nichelino.” So there.


There’s a Fillipo Turati street here, too. I think he was a communist labor organizer. A few communists who slept through 1989 still ply the streets of Turin, trying comically to sell their newspaper. Their predecessors sure were useful during the war, though.


Nichelino appears to be a doughnut city, without a center or any real nutrition for a wandering bicyclist. I head back, through the forest …

Over the bridge …


And back home to a cold bottle of La Mummia, which proved to be a disappointment. The spores Birrifico is using to ferment this should have attenuated it to a puckeringly dry finish, and the carbonation didn’t have the cork-blasting, champagne-y quality it deserves. I honestly think it could benefit from a couple more years on the shelf. It’s a $7 bottle. Good enough for an airport beer but little else. God, I’m a snob.


Having no phone in the apartment, I go to a pay booth to tell Adriano about the Internet key. I can barely make out what he says. That’s odd, it’s all paid up, there’s nothing to be done at this late hour, don’t worry about it. Something like that. This is a loud city. Each morning at 5 the rumbling of the tram reverberates through my pillow, and the honking and sirens start shortly after that.

honks from Sluggh McGee on Vimeo.

About midnight I ride the bicycle to the center. You haven’t lived till you’ve done this. San Carlo:


Via Roma.


Castello.


Carignano.


Carlo Alberto.


Di la Citta.


In 31 hours I fly back to Frankfurt. Not cool.

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!

Grr

I've lost my Internet connection. Will resume as able. Am currently sitting outside a hospital with libero Wi-Fi. Not too bad in the shade. Maybe I'll set up shop here ...

Tales from the crypt

It’s been nine years already?

The younger kids don’t go back to school till Monday. They have celebrated their final days of freedom by liberally coughing on me in the piazzas, buses, trams, museums and cafes of Turin. Today I wake up with a slight fever, scratchy throat and generalized blahness. I will make it an early night, but in the meantime one must soldier on.

The entrance to the Museo Egizio, whose vast collection is a national treasure. On this day it is stuffy and stiflingly crowded. The building used to be a school for the city’s rich kids, and its stairways and hallways still have that look and echoey feel like the bell just rang and you'd better skedaddle to homeroom.


The tomb of Kha, the best surviving example of a non-royal tomb from ancient Egypt. He was a scribe who oversaw the construction of more-important people’s tombs. We’re talking 1350 B.C.


A life-sized statue of Wahka I, about 1950 B.C. He was a prince, and mayor of Tjebu. I wonder if he did any ribbon-cuttings or worried about downtown "revitalization."


The strength of the museum, to my untutored eye, are its statuary halls, containing a veritable who’s who of ancient Egypt. The lighting is by Dante Ferretti, production designer for “Gangs of New York” and “The Aviator.” It basically ensures all your photos will look like manure.


King Amenhotep II. He lived to the age of 26, which was a pretty good run in those days, though you’d think his royal status might have earned him a few more years. He was snatched from the Temple of Amun in Thebes. Doesn’t Egypt want this stuff back? I know that country has an aggressive director of antiquities who’s been nipping at the heels of Germany to return its bust of Nefertiti. I wonder if Turin returns his calls.


This sphinx protected the procession way at the Karnak Temple in Thebes during the reign of Ramesses III. 1100, 1200 B.C., whatever. I am so bored I could die.


A detail from the sarcophagus of Gemenefherbak, defensive end from Alabama. Ran a 4.6 at the combine …


I’ve been to a few good Egyptian museums in my time, and my favorite exercise is picking a deity to worship. Ladies and gents, I give you Thot:


He’s the baboon patron of the sciences, he controls the moon for fuck’s sake, and for the duration of 2010-11, I am his devoted cult follower. Makes as much sense as muttering to a statue in the Santuario della Consolata. And think of all the possibilities for invoking his sacred name. Having an aneurysm? “Oh my Thot, my head!” and so forth. Get creative!

Fresh air, finally. A weekend market on Via Madama di Cristina. Counterfeit Purses R Us.


According to the guidebooks, this is the grim slum of San Salvario. Are you kidding me? I could name nine arrondisements in Paris where you’d be in more peril. Just because a general curry-and-rayon body odor permeates the area doesn’t mean you’re about to get a shiv in the kidney. Grow up, people.


I was in Berlin long enough to know these pockmarks mean something blew up here, oh, 65 to 70 years ago. Turin’s vast industrial might made it an attractive target in World War II. Half of the city’s 600,000 people fled; of those that remained, 2,000 died in the bombings, which continued on and off for five years. A thousand factories and half of Turin’s buildings were destroyed. This is police headquarters, on Via Sebastiano Valfre.

My street at last. I feel at home.



I was first introduced to this pepperoncini-infused olive oil the other day at the pizzeria Strabiglia on Via della Rocca, and it was a revelation. Even if it’s not widely available back home, it must be a breeze to make. Anyway, I picked up these two babies at the Carrefour. A pepper floats in one, a mushroom in the other. I think they might be game changers in la cucina. Speaking of which, I tried the Trentatre brown ale from Eataly today. It was spot-on to style: caramelly malt expression, mahogany in color, almost no hop aroma. Just a fine, fine beer, meant to be drank in quantity. How encouraging is that? Based on just this small sample size, I am guessing the Italians have already lapped the French, beerwise. If there is any justice, Thot will have healed me by Sunday morning and the Browns will smoke the Bucs. See you then.