Arrivederci, Torino

My last morning in Italy was spent strolling around the peaceful little town outside Turin I’d called home.

It’s quite unremarkable, really; about the most exciting thing it’s known for is its annual reenactment of the Battaglia della Marsaglia, which the locals carry out every September with great vigor and panache. Though goodness knows why they would choose to remember a battle which they decisively lost to the French.

We haven’t won a war since the Roman Empire, my host once pointed out.

A few doors down the strada was a house similar to ours: a tall, gracious structure with an invitingly large garden behind a gate. And it was for sale.

You could buy that and move here, my host mused.

I nodded dreamily, already envisioning the snappy little car and curly-coated retriever I’d get to go with my vision of Turinese domestic bliss.

It was a quiet walk, the hush broken only by the pitter-pattering paws of dogs out for their morning walk, and the low, leisurely conversations of sprightly senior folk with coffee and the day’s paper in hand, gathered in convivial little bunches.

We stopped in a small, cheerful, chintzy cafe, and the proprietor bustled over with croissants and cappuccinos. A warm, comfortable silence descended, punctuated by the rustling of the pages as my host pored over La Stampa; and in the fast-forward way of females, I found myself thinking that if I could spend the next 18,000-odd breakfasts just like this then I should be content.

A few meters away was the peach-hued Municipio, a friendly-looking hall with carefully trimmed topiary and bright magenta blossoms spilling out of planters, and directly across it, in a parochial configuration familiar to every Catholic accustomed to the non-separation of church and state, was the Parrocchia Assunzione di Maria Vergine.

My host knew that I liked European churches so we went inside for a look, and I had a secret little chuckle that I kept entirely to myself about walking down the aisle of a church with him.

***

All too soon it was time to say goodbye to the cat, leave my farewell gift to the parents on the kitchen table (handcarried all throughout the two-week trip so it was looking rather rumpled), and pile into the car for the drive to Milan.

I can’t say much about that journey because I was mostly in a flood of tears (yes, really), but by the time we arrived at Malpensa I’d calmed down enough to make a few key observations:

Even a food-court pizza is better in Italy. Sure, it took a longish wait but it was worth it, and again I pondered how I would confront the looming reality of grazing anyplace else that was not Italy, so awfully spoiled for life this country has made me.

As we really were cutting things quite finely we had split up to find the shorter line to the cashier and I got there first, whereupon they asked me what my table number was. In Italian.

Oh, er, um.. I hadn’t thought to even look at the number.

My host appeared to save the day. Everyone speaks to me in Italian here, I whispered. Don’t I look dumb and touristy enough?

I keep on telling you, you could pass for an Italian. Maybe south Tyrolese.

This airport is larger than it looks. We said goodbye at 2:20 PM, outside passport control, when boarding time was 2:35. Not one of our better decisions.

I had to run all the way to make it to my gate, and took up my place at the end of the queue, frazzled and breathless and not a little teary-eyed in contrast to the sleek, composed suits headed to Vienna.

Nevertheless I boarded without incident or undue hysterics, and as the Austrian Airlines flight promptly lifted off I pressed my face against the window to keep Italy in sight as long as I could. I will be back, I told the receding snow-capped peaks. Arrivederci, Torino.