Turin, continued

Late into the evening they stood outside the hotel door, to the sides, pushed back by a rope and a vigilant porter. And they were there this morning. mostly young, not minding the cold. Stood and waited. I finally had to ask: che cosa state asspettando? (what are you waiting for?) The answer -- Johnny Depp!

 

 

 

Of course, I wouldn't recognize him if I saw him. That felt just wrong --  I could be in an elevator with him (the fancy executive suites where I imagine he's staying are on the upper floors of my hotel) and not realize it? I look him up and then I see it, the newspaper headline in the paper Torino Today: 

Johnny Depp a Torino per il nuovo film: nel cast Riccardo Scamarcio, Al Pacino e Luisa Ranieri

It's supposedly a movie about the life of Amadeo Modigliani -- a tortured artist whose work I actually like. (Johnny Depp will not be acting in this, but directing it and shooting some scenes from it. The film will be based in Paris, but supposedly Depp is mining background material from here. But why? To my knowledge, the artist himself never lived here. Is it that Depp spent time at the Museum of Cinema? Speculations abound!) This whole Modigliani filming opened my eyes to the possibility of there being perhaps a very good collection of modern art in the city. I look this up and boom! There is! GAM -- the Gallery of Modern and Contemporary Art has an amazing collection! And guess what? All tickets are sold out, or at least are not available for purchase for today. Possibly because of the entourage that's in town. So, Johnny Depp opened my eyes to another side of the city and then with the same hand (likely) took away the privilege of exploring it. Win some lose some.

The day is a repeat of Monday -- hazy sunshine, warm temperatures. I'll take it!

But first, breakfast. After yesterday's big meals, I have zero appetite for food, but I am rested (thanks, Barbara, for suggesting Benedryl! It worked!) and full of punch, so I decide to eat something. (Too, it comes with the price of the room.) Like a true Italian, I stick with a few sweet bites, fruit, and milky coffee. (Italians don't do breakfast. They just tickle their sweet tooth and move on.) Orange cake, a honey "brioche" and a marmalade "brioche." A bit of a misnomer there, but hey, we all engage in cultural appropriation at one point or another. Here's my breakfast pic:

Two cups of milky coffee and I'm ready to move on.

Where to? Well, there's the Central Market. We drove past it (more like sped past it!) yesterday and it looked chaotic, but it is a huge thing and might show a side of Turin that most who live here know and engage with.

It's a half hour walk that takes me through a different part of town.

(Note the shoes! At least in Turin, they are everyone's choice of footwear.)

One noticeable thing about Turin is that there are very few cars. Trams, buses, taxis and the occasional vehicle. The center is a ZTL -- Zona a Trafico Limitato. Only residents and cars with special permits allowed. This makes for a very quiet city!

On the way to the market, I pass through perhaps the most noted square in the city -- Piazza San Giovanni. This is where you'll find Turin's late 15th century Cathedral. With the Bell Tower.

I follow a group of school children inside. 

 

 

Oh, yes, I remember now -- this is where the "Shroud" is on display. The fake one. There are rows of pews before it and a cluster of worshipers -- I just hear Italian, so maybe locals? The actual shroud (however you want to believe in its authenticity) is in a box underneath the fake one.

And speaking of copies and/or forgeries, this, too is where you can see Leonardo da Vinci's the Last Supper.

Think I'm confused, right? Isn't the Last Supper in Milan? Well yes, but this is a copy of it painted by Cagna in 1836. So heavy that it almost brought down the wall of the place where it hung before its move to the Cathedral. Now, if this is a faithful replica, does that make it a forgery or just a plain old copy? 

Alright, onto the market!

It is huge. Largest outdoor market in Europe actually. I zero in on the produce. So many stalls of artichokes! 

 

 

 

Most are from Sardinia. 

The market is not a quite one. Vendors shout at you to get you to notice their foods. Since my camera is now small and invisible to most, and since I inspect produce carefully and close up, as I would if I lived here, I get the shouts and encouragements to buy as well. If I take out the camera, they back off. Ah, turista. -- I hear their note of disappointment. Sorry!

 

 

(all Italian markets have tomatoes. all the time.)

(more artichokes?!)

(my favorite predinner munch at home consists of leaves of raddichio and endive. there's something about their bitter taste that I love...)

(yes, more tomatoes. and zucchini flowers.)

Inside the hall, there are plenty of meat vendors and of course, loads of cheese sellers. With an Italian character all its own.

(this is why you have to dress correctly for the market: you may run into someone you know!)

Well worth the walk here!

I take a different path back and this is where I have a change of heart toward Turin. It's not just a northern Italian city. There are so many vast, uncrowded squares here! They open up the city significantly and on a sunny winter day, it's just heavenly to cut across them.

(she's either playing for the Ukraine or she herself is Ukrainian)

(one square leads into the next...)

In the afternoon I take another longer hike, to the other side of the river...

 

 

... and up the hill to the Chiesa del Santa Maria del Monte dei Cappuccini. 

(a more residential, affluent, hilly neighborhood)

I come mostly for the view, hazy as it is.

And down again. [During this return walk I check my phone for messages. Ed wrote. Our coop was raided this morning. We lost two of the Bresse girls. Decapitated, carried away. Such a good bunch we had now! The remainng three are trumatized. What are you going to do...]

I thought about pausing for a coffee in the sunshine once more, but since I am leaving Turin tomorrow, I changed my mind and looked instead for a small ma and pa local cafe that serves the classic bicerin (the combo of gianduja hazelnut chocolate and coffee and milk). I did not order it correctly. By the taste of it, I think I got a pure thick hot gianduja chocolate. So rich! I could not finish it.

I pass a tiny park where everyone is so enjoying the warm near-evening air!

 

And at the hotel, the mountains once again come into focus as I admire them from my room.

 

 

Downstairs,  the crowds swell for a Depp sighting.  (I can see them from my window. They chant Johnny in the most Italian way -- John-ny, John-ny!) And they are rewarded! At 7, he comes out. Somewhere in that tumult is Depp.

 

 

 

...I set out for Scatto Restaurant. It's on yet another pretty square, which a little bit reminds me of San Marco.

Scatto is supposed to be only 6 minutes from the hotel and it is reputed to have great locally sourced food. A couple of weeks ago, I checked the price, I clicked, and I booked. I did wonder if perhaps this wasn't your ordinary trattoria when they asked for a deposit with the reservation. Oh, oh. Is this sort of like Johnny Depp -- something with a cult following?

It is. Turns out Scatto is run by the Costardi Brothers. Christian and Manuel. I saw an interview with them maybe a year ago. They are the gurus of risotto (among other things). They use the fantastic Carnaroli rice from the Piedmont region (where I am). Scatto isn't their first restaurant. They are the chefs behind Ristorante Christian e Manuel in Vercelli -- a town where their grandfather once ran a hotel, halfway between Turin and Milan. That place has a Michelin star. There, Christian makes risotto and Manuel does desserts. And so much more. Michelin stars aren't easy to come by.

Scatto isn't at that level of stardom. Simple, minimalist decor, with a set menu that wont require you to put a second mortgage on your house. Thank goodness. Still, when I checked the place on line one last time before heading out, I decided to change clothes and I felt myself to be grateful that I brought one pair of pants with me on this trip that isn't corduroy (my standard winter travel wardrobe is 100% corduroy).

Once again I choose the "select your own" tasting menu. Three small dishes and a dessert. 

And it is too much. Their fabled risotto? Today it's with calamari and pumpkin and ten other things that I cannot now remember (served in their signature Warhol like can). 

 

 

 

What I do remember is that halfway through it I'm thinking -- everyone of those cooks in the open kitchen is watching me. As are the waitstaff. And despite that, I cannot finish this signature dish. And by the way, I have two dishes to go. (Which I also then cannot finish.)

The food is beautiful, inventive, fabulous. I hadn't eaten a lunch and I ate only a small breakfast. What just happened here?

(kiwi, white chocolate, etc...)

 

There are so many reasons for having a low appetite: yesterday's packed meals are still with me. Too, at home, I have so moved away from foods that are not veggie based, that I am overwhelmed by them now, as I chomp away at pasta, meats and fish, with creams and butter no less. And, I really do blame much of it on my pinkie finger. It got infected way back at the farmette and the infection lingered. The day before leaving I went to the doc and said -- I feel so stupid with this, but I'm going away and I want to know if I should do anything for it. She at once put me on a heavy course of antibiotics. Which I'm plowing through right now. There's little out there that'll tame your appetite more than antibiotics. Finally, there's the age factor. I eat so much less than I did when I was younger. Could it be that these tasting menus are meant for younger people? The crowd tonight was staid -- in their later middle years I'd say. Nonetheless, once again, I am sure I was the oldest one in the room.

So, a wonderful restaurant, where I cannot finish all the food that's put before me.

I'm learning that Turin's small is my enormous.

I rolled into bed after that. As well I should. Tomorrow morning I leave for Rome.

Turin

This morning I landed in Turin. Big city! Nearly 2 million. Once the capital of the Duchy of Savoy (think:  1561), then the capital of the Kingdom of Sardinia, then very briefly, the capital of the United Kingdom of Italy (from 1861, for four years!), Turin is no small potato! Well you might ask -- then how come so few people travel to see it? This includes me -- I've never been here before.

And it's not that I feel the need to now, in my older years, check off all the big and beautiful cities of Italy. There are quiet a few that I'll never visit, of that I am sure. Nonetheless, I'd always been curious about Turin. Some call it Parisian in appearance. Stately buildings. The architecture spans all important periods: the Renaissance, Baroque, Rococo, Art Nouveau -- it's all here. (I will dispute the comparison to Paris, since to me it feels totally northern Italian, but the comparisons have been made.) Others sing praises about its foods. This, after all, is where the Slow Food movement originated. It's where chocolate got its foothold. But none of this is what drew me here right now. I'm heading for Turin because this is where I needed to land in order to head up to the Aosta Valley and the mountains. In the end, I moved the mountain trip to January (and to Chamonix), because something else came up: I'm to meet up my Polish friends this coming week in Rome. Turin -- a town completely unknown to me,  remained in place as the gateway to that more familiar, eternally seductive city of Rome. 

And so here I am, in Turin, the fourth largest Italian city (after Rome, Milan, and Naples).

You probably know a few random things about it: it's in Piedmont -- the northwestern corner of Italy. It supposedly houses the shroud of Turin, though if you come here for that, you'll be disappointed. They dont display the real thing. For one, there have been lingering questions about whether the shroud actually dates back to the time of the crucifixion of Christ -- not helped by the fact that the Catholic Church has not sanctioned further testing of the material and so analyses are going to be fragmented and not necessarily accurate. But, too, even if you date it correctly and would like to believe that it once covered the body of Christ, even if you bypass the further speculation that its remarkable imaging is there due to the resurrection, even if all that is in your head, you still will be disappointed because the actual shroud is not on display for public viewing. You can see a copy of it, nothing more. Which, to me, is a really odd reason then to go to Turin -- to see a copy of something that may or may not be real in the first place.

Other things to note about Turin: I said it's a chocolate city. This is where you would order (because everyone else does!) a bicerin -- a coffee, laced with drinking chocolate, milk and topped with cream. And this is where Gianduja comes from -- a chocolate blended with hazelnut paste. No, not Nutella -- that's a commercial product with other stuff thrown in to make it into a spread. Gianduja is all about chocolate, milk and nuts, a combination dating back to the time when Napoleon was in charge (Turin was annexed to the French Empire in 1802 -- for a while anyway).

Boulevards, piazzas, cafes. A very tall museum. The River Po (which then flows through Milan, Parma, Mantua, Ferrara... all the way to the Adriatic). The Alps, framing it to the north. That's what I'm sure you'll find in the Turin photos here, on Ocean.

But not right away. 

A review of the trip itself comes first here, because in short vacations (and this one necessarily has to be short, because of a commitment I made to be back for the kids' special school International Day), the travel takes out a chunk of the trip days. You shouldn't pretend they didn't happen. They're part of the experience. And this time, everything was easy, which should be noted, just like when there are crazy delays and broken seats and re-routings and mix ups, and we cant wait to tell everyone about our misery.

I will say that in terms of planning, were I unconstrained financially (I always pick the cheaper connections), I would not have taken the trans-Atlantic flight that I did. When you fly to Europe from the Midwest, your overseas segment is always overnight. Mine was from Detroit to Amsterdam and it was indeed overnight, but it left Detroit at 4:20. There is no hope in hell that I'm going to fall asleep on a flight that lasts 7 hours and arrives in Europe before your own midnight. (This one landed at 5:20am Amsterdam time, which is 10:20pm Madison time. Just when you're getting sleepy, you're told to put your chair in an upright position and be prepared to disembark.)

The winds were strong over the Atlantic and we actually arrived nearly an hour ahead of schedule. That means I had close to a four hour layover at this airport:

... plenty of time to eat this breakfast:

... and to catch up on my writing.

Okay, now the equally trouble-free flight to Turin, over the Alps of course. Stunning view, though as we come down toward the Turin valley, you can see how little snow there is on the lower elevations. This is February?! Note, too, that the valley itself is hidden under a mist.

Here's the rub: my week away will have warm and dry weather today and tomorrow, marginally good weather for the two days after, and then pouring rain for the remainder. Normally, I wouldn't mind. Rain has its charm. But despite knowing that the weather will be turning very wet, I chose this time to wear my lace up Allbird treetops. For the uninitiated -- these are eucalyptus fiber (i.e. highly permeable) sneaker type shoes (these). Why? Because for the past 385 trips I have worn the same old beat-up leather Mary Janes, and Rome (where I am heading on Wednesday) demands closer attention to fashion: you need to feel happy about the way you present yourself to the world or else! And by the way, I made a point of staring at people's feet on the plane and 98% of those traveling to Amsterdam at least, wore lace up sneaker type shoes. I'll report if this is also a trend in Rome itself!

Anyway, I'm qualifying my weather report for Turin because even though we will hit a high of 63F (17C) and the sun seems to be throwing shadows on the ground, don't get too jealous -- Italy will not be as warm going forward. And, too, there is that haze. I would call it a smoggy haze. Or a foggy shroud (!). Or something.  You cant really admire the mountains because they are hidden in this blanket of... something.

There is a train that runs from the airport to the city center, but it goes only every half hour and the car trip is a scant 25 minutes (and thus cheap), so I take a taxi to my hotel. Wow. That guy drove fast! 150 kph (which has to be over 90 mph). I am in Italy alright.

I'm staying at the Principi di Piemonte and this highlights one important detail of a visit to this city: it's perhaps half the price of such biggies as Florence or Rome or Milan, to say nothing of Venice, which outpaces all hotels anywhere. Principi di Piemonte is a very nice hotel! I asked for a room with a view and at first you could see nothing much at all (that haze!), but in the late afternoon I could finally decipher the mountains to the north.

I would have liked to do very little today, but the weather is so good, as judged by the warmth factor, that I spend no time at the hotel. As soon as my room was ready, I wash up and go out. 

There are museums galore here, but none of the big ones sparked my curiosity. Except for one. Please don't laugh: I bought an advance ticket to visit the National Museum of Cinema. Bizarre? Well yes, especially since the special exhibit is all about Tim Burton -- a director of creepy goth movies. The thing is, I want to see the museum building! It's a tall brick tower of a structure, visible from most point in the city. A ticket buys me an ascent in the elevator to the tippy top. (And these tickets sell out! Lots of the goth movie lovers also want to climb to see the hazy views.) I save all this for the late afternoon.

I begin my exploration with a walk toward a pastry shop. Up and down mostly pedestrian streets.

There are a number of cafes and pastry shops that are rather well known, if only for their age (dating back to the 19th century), but in the end, I reject those and go instead to this square:

 

 

I think you'd do the same. The square has a number of cafes and they open up onto the sunny expanse of sidewalk. It's definitely warm enough to eat outside! And as I sit down in this place...

... and i watch the people order plates of good food, I realize I'm hungry for something more than just a pastry. I ask for this dish of veggies -- not for the cauliflower or red cabbage, but for the fresh, raw artichokes. You cannot get such good artichokes back home. The grocery store ones are too old to use raw in a salad. Right away I send a message to Ed -- we need to grow artichokes at the farmette this year!

(the people around me are Italian; let me pan the camera, as I sip a drink called Torino-Milano, because it is heavy on Torino Vermouth, with a dash of Milano Campari; stunning and delicious!)

x                                                                                      

(my food)

(and of course, the chocolaty creamy coffee for dessert, with a cookie assortment at the side)

I may be tired, but all that food makes me want to extend the walk some more. 

(The River Po)

(pretty, but not Parisian...)

(chocolate shopping)

Now for the Mole Antonelliana -- named after the 19th century architect who designed it. And no, it did not start out with a focus on the cinema. It was to be a synagogue, but very quickly the structure was handed over to the government and now you can go there to immerse yourself in the technical aspects of movie-making.

 

Close up:

And the view, which on a hazy day is just mildly good. You can see the mountains slowly coming into focus, but just barely.

 

So, this is my afternoon: A walk, a pause for food, and an ascent up the Mole Antonelliana. 

(school pick up time; no, not for me, for this Torino mom...)

 

In the evening, I go to dinner at Madama Piola. Choosing where to eat here is hard! Yes, I want Piedmont food! Simple authenticity is always a goal for me and this time too I wanted a dinner that presented Turin simply, but well. (And as always, I look for places that are no more than a 15 minute walk away. Madama Piola is just at 15 mins!)

(I was the oldest one in the room...)

The food at Madama's is great. I mean, predictably so. As you probably know, Italian menus can lead you to overeat: they offer "appetizers" and "first courses" (typically pasta) and "second courses" (meats and seafood) and desserts. You want to try it all, but you soon learn the golden rule: just two will do. You have to skip courses or else you best have a supply of antacids on your night table. But at Madama Piola's, you could opt for a sort of tasting menu, in that for fixed price, you could pick any four dishes you want, but in smaller portions. Plus dessert. You do still get stuffed silly, but it's worth it. I was offered a place at the counter, facing the cooks. After some consultation and a lot of staring, I asked for the pumpkin veggie flan, the agnelotti stuffed with meat and smothered in a sauce, and Torino's most famous dish -- the Tonnato. Thinly sliced veal over tuna mousse. Sounds weird, doesn't it? But done well, it is exquisite!

 

And of course, the pasta is equally sublime.

 

 

I walk back to my hotel with eyes half closed. At long last it is time to rest. That is the hope at least. First night rests in Europe are always hit or miss for me. The excitement level is high. I think back, I think forward, I sleep, I wake up, I (maybe) sleep some more. Familiar pattern in this old but new for me city. Oh, but it is wonderful to be out exploring again!

 

Sunday

Day of departure. My last trip had with it the most chaotic dash of any trips I've taken in recent years, nay, decades. (That's the one where an impending snowstorm pushed up our leaving to a day earlier. At the last minute.) This one? Quite the opposite. Because it was a Saturday -- a day free of any commitments -- I took care of everything then. This morning is, therefore, very peaceful. And sunny. And beautiful.

And isn't that just grand! Breakfast, leisurely, with Ed. 

I'm tempted to take a short walk with him, but in the end, we opt for a quiet few moments in the farmhouse. 

He drives me to the airport. It's Sunday, he has the time for it and we want to save on the parking. An extra few minutes to review... everything! I tell him how much I'll miss him. He tells me I should stay happy. And then I am off! To Detroit, to Amsterdam, and finally, to... well, let me write about that tomorrow. I'll post this on the early side because my transfer in Detroit is on the short side. I'll write again from the other side of the ocean.

with so much love...

Saturday

Picture this: an old woman, arriving at the train station (or airport) hours ahead of schedule. Ready for her journey, quite ready, because for days now she has kept an open suitcase where she placed items she did not want to forget. Clutching valuables in her tightly closed purse now as she waits. 

This is an image I have of my grandmother. She used to be that person. And I always wondered -- does she think she needs all this time to wait? Is she afraid of being too late? 

These days I know that it's not necessarily the fear of missing a connection. It's an older person's dislike of being rushed.  My days still have a tint of the frantic about them (yesterday comes to mind), but when I can and especially when I travel, I try hard not to put myself in the position of having to hurry. (Rushing also leads to forgetting and forgetfulness is the ever lurking enemy of an older person!)

All that I had to finish up before leaving tomorrow (because I am leaving tomorrow) I did by the end of the day yesterday. I need to pack. That and only that I saved for today.

 

It's beautiful outside. A typical February-in-Wisconsin brilliance: sunshine and crisp cold air, all rolled into a lovely shade of winter. Sure, we could use a snow cover. But even without it, it's pretty out there!

And breakfast? Warm, cozy, perfect. (I ask, rhetorically -- why do I look forward to breakfast at a hotel, when the most perfect breakfast is right here? Ed answers, rhetorically -- yes, why?)

Then I take out my suitcase and consider the weather and thus clothing requirements for the next week. This isn't difficult. I have my travel clothes -- I wear the same stuff, be it on a trip to Chicago, Paris, or the Alps. There's the "warm weather" set and the "cold weather" set. The only hesitation now is that where I am going, it's neither warm nor cold.

Interruption: my friends want to zoom. They're part of the week's doings. They want to confer.

Back to packing.

Interruption: Ed wants to go for a walk. Yes, I'd love that! 

 (Oh, but it's windy! Crispy is the wrong word. I'd say more like blustery jaw freezing cold!)

Back to packing. Indeed, I'm done with it! Now I'm really like my grandma in the years when she was ready days before she needed to be ready.

The evening before a departure is always a touch sad. Leaving behind Ed. Kids, grandkids. Losing that immediacy of a person right there, in the same space (Ed), or  town (young family), or at least time zone (youngest family)! I'd make a lousy long-haul truck driver. Or pilot. Jobs that require you to always be away. Funny that a person like me, who loves waking up in a new place also loves to wake up in the farmhouse. We are a strange compilation of many traits, desires and inclinations.

with love...