Prologue—Turin: Your Makeshift Home

So here you are—you didn’t choose Rome, the legendary center of an empire, and you didn’t choose Florence, the birthplace of the Renaissance, and you didn’t even choose Milan, the posh (and sprawling) fashion capital of the world.

You chose Turin:

Turin, the first capital of united Italy, the home of Fiat, Nutella, and one of the best Egyptian museums in the world.

Turin, the capital of Piedmont, the city built around River Po, Italy’s largest river, the city that hosted the 2006 Winter Olympics.

Turin, two hours from the Mediterranean, two hours from the Alps.

Turin, the city home to intellectual giant Primo Levi, a city that Nitchze once lived in, that Herman Melville visited, that Mark Twain visited.

Turin is the place to go if you came to Italy to get to know Italia. It’s the city to live in if you don’t want to run into another American on every other block. It’s the city to come to if you want to take home a piece of a different culture back home—a piece that will change you.

This is your new home, for however long you’re staying. We’re going to take a journey through the city—to museums, piazzas, restaurants—so you don’t go back home without getting to know your town. One of Turin’s main attractions is its near-perfect location for traveling to other parts of Europe—trains and planes, they’re all close by—but don’t let Turin’s location fool you into thinking it isn’t a mysterious and magnificent city in itself. Find your feet; then it’s OK to frolic about in other countries. More than anything else, I urge you to do things that you can’t do in the States. This is Italia.

Here we go.

Part One, Chapter One—Locale: Your Neighborhood, Your Neighbors

If you miss this, you’re missing something very Italian.

As you’ve no doubt heard, family is of the utmost importance to many Italians. In a similar fashion, so is locality: the local bar (café), the local salon, the local panetteria and macelleria, etc.

But the bar is the most important one.

I remember the night Max—my roommate—and I walked around the blocks near our apartment. We were curious to see what was around us. It was only our second or third night in Turin, we didn’t have Italian friends, we didn’t know our neighborhood, and we didn’t know how Turin worked.

Then we walked into a bar hesitantly. It was only a block away from our apartment. It was called Caffé 500, at Via Genova and Spezia. Through the front window, appetizers had been laid out. The man behind the counter was short, Italian-looking, and when I asked him for a red wine, he went through several options and then presented a green bottle without a label and raved about it.

I said, “Yes, that one.”

In subsequent nights at this bar, I’d meet a handful of friends. I got to know the two baristas: Donata and Rosa, brother and sister. I got to know Jenny, Rosa’s daughter. I helped Jenny with her English a little, and she helped me with my Italian a lot. I met Marco, who sold fruit at the nearby open market, who had a huge German shepherd named Fox, and I met Tony, who sold underwear at the same market. I met Christina, a middle-aged Portuguese woman who knew English and happily translated for me the things I did not know. I saw Christina a couple more times at Caffé 500, and then she invited me to dinner at her apartment. I’d help her daughter with her English, and she’d make sure I got a home-cooked meal. I ended up going to her apartment several times, and the her boyfriend, Walter, a native Torinese man, cooked true Italian dinners for me—multi-course meals with local wine, local bread, and tales of Turin.

I got a similar offer from the lady who dry-cleaned my shirts. (Her shop was a few doors down from Caffé 500, and Rosa recommended it.) One day she asked if I would tutor her daughter in English. So the following Tuesday, I went to her husband’s salon to tutor Frederica. And the Tuesday after that, after I finished tutoring Frederica, Frederica’s father gave me a haircut for free.

None of these people were my age—and I’m sure that wouldn’t appeal to many college students, but for those who want to dip as deep as possible into the Italian culture, getting to know your neighbors is the way to do it. Especially in Turin, they’ll find your being an American intriguing. And if you remain insistent on going to the same places every single time for whatever service (clothes, coffee, etc.), doors will open.

Chapter Two—Piazza San Carlo, Fare Una Bella Figura

Literally, fare una bella figura means make a beautiful figure. The phrase has to do with the Italians’ great passion for beauty. Italy is the center of fashion, and for much of history it has been the center of art. The most beautiful cars come from here. Turin has beautiful architecture. And Italy’s got an impressive list of supermodels, too.

Piazza San Carlo will be one of the first places that USAC takes you, and for good reason. After walking down the polished-stone sidewalks of Via Roma, if coming from the direction of Porta Nuova, after passing grand window displays brightly-lit even at night, and after passing between two fountains, two statues, and two churches, you’ll come to Piazza San Carlo.

On a nice day, it’s crowded, especially on the weekends. There might be someone dressed as a clown blowing up balloons and shaping them into elephants. There might be some special event going on. There might be a pair of carabinieri swaggering by in their chic uniforms. During the spring, summer, and early fall, the several cafés in the huge piazza have dozens of tables out under shades. Dogs are barking, people, of course, are smoking cigarettes, and people are just walking around in circles.

This is the Italian piazza: it is where people come to watch other people, and where people come to be seen by other people. It’s fun enough just to soak up the ambiance, to sit on one of the steps leading up to the horseman statue in the center of the piazza and watch Italians be Italian. You can come alone and read a book, you can come with friends and just relax. Try to do what the Italians do. Watch them. Mimic them. Learn what it means to make an afternoon out of the piazza.

If you’re not afraid to spend a little money, sit down at one of the outside cafés and order a glass of barbera, or maybe dolcetto d’alba, two local wines. Piazza San Carlo can be absolutely free, or you can spend 70 Euros on dinner. It’s up to you, but I encourage you to go there again and again.

One day I was reading on one of the benches in the piazza. A guy sat next to me, he looked about my age, and he started rolling a cigarette. I watched his deft hands work and, after a moment, gathered the courage to ask if he’d roll me one. He was happy to.

We got to talking. Dario was, indeed, my age, and he, too, studied in Turin. He was not from Turin itself, but he was from Piedmont. He spoke good English for a Piedmontese and at the end of our conversation we exchanged numbers.

Chapter Three—Exploration: Get Lost

Max and I stumbled upon Caffé 500. It was nothing more than chance that we went into that café and not one of a million others. It was a good café and if we had not gone exploring near our apartment we would not have found it.

Exploring near your apartment is a good thing, but once you have done that you’re ready to graduate.

First, I’d encourage you to explore from the city center—Piazza San Carlo, Piazza Castello, etc. There are numerous gems of streets that run all around these areas. In my first week in Turin, I found an excellent café that I would return to at least bi-weekly. I found a pizzeria on Via Mercanti—one of those narrow, quaint European streets that we Americans find extraordinarily enchanting—that is very reasonably priced.

Go to the city center. Pick a direction and a street, and just keep going. Go at different times of the day, and go on different days of the week. Each time you’ll find something new. The more you get lost, the more you’ll learn, the more gems you’ll find. USAC-Turin does a wonderful job of giving you a starter kit of things to do, places to see in Turin itself, and I’ll be telling you of a few must-see, must-go places and attractions, but you’ve got to do this first. You’ve got to explore your town, you’ve got to get uncomfortable for a little while, and later you’ll eat the fruit of your labors.

Now it’s time to explore the buses and the metros.

Turin’s transportation system is good and getting better. You can buy an 18-Euro student public transportation ticket and be set to ride as many buses, trams, and metro cars as you want. The bus system is a matrix of complexity, running through all parts of the city. At peak traffic hours, they can take a while, and they can be filled with sweaty, noisy Italians. But they can take you places. The main buses that run along Via Nizza and Via Genova are the 1, 18, and 35.

Since the opening of the Lingotto metro line, however, which services Porta Nuova and Lingotto, you might be using those less. The metro is a wonderful thing—fast, reliable, efficient. It gets you to Porta Nuova in a heartbeat, and has many stops beyond.

Chapter Four—Aperitivo: A Torinese Tradition

This ought to be your mainstay social scene. The aperitivo is a wonderful thing. It can get a dinner (though stuffing yourself with appetizers doesn’t satisfy every night, it can be a good thing to do a couple times a week) and a drink at a fixed price that, at its lowest, beats any restaurant. It’s been mentioned before, but here we’ll look at it a little more closely and I’ll give you a few recommendations.

The aperitivo, Wikipedia says, might have started in Turin in the late 18th century, when vermouth was invented here. Since then, or since whenever it started, it has evolved and changed, and there are a million different kinds of aperitvo that you can find, different venues, different prices, different specialities.

Caffé 500, at Via Genova and Spezia, is your typical low-end aperitivo. At 3 Euros, you won’t find anything cheaper. Now, the cocktails aren’t enormous, but they’re not miniature or anything. At this café, at least, I’d suggest the red wine. If, as I did, you frequent this café (or probably any café with aperitivo), you’ll get perks. At Caffé 500 the appetizers are cheeses, breads and spreads, and mini pizzas. But, when I had gone there a few times, and when I brought a friend of mine, Donato told us to sit down at a table and he brought out hot appetizers until we could eat no more.

Diwan Café is a typical mid-range aperitivo. It’s located on Via Giuseppe Baretti near Via Madama Christina, an easy bus- or metro-ride for anyone living off Via Genova or Via Madama Christina. For 6 Euros, I got a big glass of dolcetto d’alba (my go-to Piedmontese red wine) and, as at any aperitivo, unlimited food. Café Diwan’s food is far superior to Caffé 500’s. At Diwan, there are (sometimes) warm or hot dishes, and more importantly, there’s meat. Meat! Meat is something amazing for any college student—that’s not a vegetarian. Diwan has a little more of a chic atmosphere, too, than Caffé 500. Diwan, to me, represents the ideal aperitivo, in terms of price, atmosphere, and food selection; the location, too, is splendid for those living in midtown or near school. Café Blah Blah on Via Po is another option similar to Diwan Café. Café Blah Blah is 7 Euros.

Now we go to the city center. Shore (located at Piazza Emanuele Filiberto 10) is a cocktail bar that puts out a big buffet of foods for aperitivo, though when I went the food was all cold. There were some pasta dishes, some potato dishes, and some meat dishes. Shore, being closer to the social center of Turin, costs about 9 Euros; the cocktails are bigger, and you’ll find a wider range of drinks here. Shore is worth a visit, but it’s a trip to get there and 9 Euros could buy you a beer and a pizza at the right pizzeria.

All in all, the aperitivo is ideal for a large group or a small group, or even by yourself to get to know the proprietors of a place near you. For those romantically inclined, bringing a date to an aperitivo (especially a sexy place like Shore) is both economically efficient and authentically Torinese.

Chapter Five—Parco Valentino: On Vacation

Do you write? Do you paint? Do you write poetry? Do you like to relax? Heck, do you like to have fun? If you answer YES to any of those questions, go to Parco Valentino, the most wonderful stretch of benches, trees, and grassy knolls that Turin has to offer—oh, and located along the banks of River Po. You’ll find a multitude of Italians here, playing soccer, picnicking, tanning, walking, running, and one time I saw a guy roller-blading.

Turin’s (mostly) clean streets are wonderful. The piazzas are always busy with social happenings, the aperitvos are always playing their music, and Via Roma is always available for the wonderful Italian art of window-shopping. Turin isn’t a huge city, but it’s a big one. It can get busy and, at times, it can become a little suffocating. I, for one, had never lived in a high-rise apartment before. I’d never been on the third floor of a building that, below, had shops, cafés, etc. I’d always grown up in houses and at school at the University of Iowa I lived in a duplex in a quiet, residential neighborhood. After a couple weeks of being in Turin, I needed an escape.



If you need an escape, and if you don’t want the hassle of having to take a train somewhere out of town, go to Parco Valentino. At the right time of season it is paradise. The river, as I said, runs along one side of the park. You can rent a bike, you can rent a peddle-powered go-cart sort of contraption, or you can rent one of those carriage-looking bicycles. This is another place that is great alone, with one other person, or with a group.

One time I went alone. I read Hemingway and Woolf and sat on a bench and watched some Italians play soccer. And one time I went with a group of others, and we played kickball. Parco Valentino, obviously, doesn’t cost anything. But bringing a picnic and some wine is a great option to make an afternoon of it. The park is quiet, tranquil—yet another versatile Torinese setting.

Chapter Six—Eataly: Impressive Italy

If we’re honest, we can point out some things that Italy doesn’t do so well (as there are problems in every great country)—namely: bureaucracy, parking, and dealing with dog poop. Getting your police permit is a pain, dealing with your landlord—depending on who you have—can be, uh, questionable at times, and if there’s roadwork on Via Nizza the bus can take 30 minutes to get from Porta Nuova to Spezia (a walk that’d take 40 minutes if done briskly). As you go through the invariable ups and downs that come with culture shock (trust me, you’ll deal with this), you’ll get to a low point where you start criticizing everything Italian.

What a horrible parking job! Why isn’t there a ticket on that car?

Typical Turin…I just stepped in dog poop.

Did that bus just pass us?

The point being: you’ll deal with frustrations. When those frustrations come, when you’re down on Bel Paese (an affectionate term that Italians use for Italy), go to Eataly.

The USAC staff might take you there—or one of your Italian classes (Eataly is conveniently located, once again, right next to Lingotto, on Via Nizza)—but don’t let that be your only time to go.

Eataly is a sexy, Italian version of Whole Foods. Like many things, it is a product of Turin that has since migrated; there is a location now in New York City and also Tokyo.

Far different from the cookie-cutter feeling you get at American supermarkets, Eataly is an organism of its own, a true example of Italian ingenuity, art, and creativity all centered around its favorite cultural point: food. The place itself is a maze, as you enter with the checkout area to your left, a cookbook sort of library to your right, and goods on sale in front of you. Walking straight and then turning left, you discover how the market (but also a restaurant) is laid out: in, essentially, stations. There is a cheese station, a meat station, a fish station, a beer station downstairs. And of course there is something of a wine temple also downstairs, the various wines stacked neatly and attractively on high shelves, labeled by region, or by what foods they go well with, or types. Piedmont boasts a great portion of one of the walls.

My apartment was two minutes away from Eataly. I went there again and again. I went there for groceries, I went there for wine, and I went there for coffee.

And of course, the food, even if slightly pricey, is delicious. And it is made in front of your eyes. It is made with Italian ingredients from all over the region-driven country. It is an honor that Eataly started in Turin, for it truly captures the best of Italian traits (creativity, taste, showmanship) and brings them together into one building.

Chapter Seven—Piazza Vittorio: Going Out in Turin

For goodness’ sake, don’t get stuck going out at only the pubs. This is Italy; this isn’t the States. You can go out to a pub any time you want to at home. Please, I’m begging you: branch out. Don’t only hang out with Americans. Form a small group, and go out to Piazza Vittorio.

On the weekends in the warm seasons, Piazza Vittorio will be busy until late in the morning. It’s a fantastic piazza, huge and open, right next to the river.

It was my first weekend in Turin, and I’d accidentally locked my keys in my apartment. Miles, Alex, and Pat had just gone downstairs after inviting me to go out with them. I wasn’t big on going out, or partying, or whatever you’d like to call it, so I’d given them the diplomatic answer of: maybe, I’m Facebook chatting a girl right now and I’ll ask her if she wants to come.

But that was before I’d locked my keys out of the room. Or, before I realized it. And when I did realize it, I ran down the three stories of stairs to watch their bus pull away. I started sprinting. I caught up with the bus when it was stopped at a red light, I banged the door, and the driver let me inside.

We went to Piazza Vittorio. We went to a moderately creepy bar, meeting up with some other USAC students, that had blood-red walls and odd paintings. We were sitting around when Michael, one of the USAC students we had met up with, returned from wherever he had been, very excited, and told us he had met some Italians.

Piazza Vittorio is where the young Italians go in Turin on the weekends. The cocktails and drinks are expensive, but you don’t have to get more than one. On Friday night or Saturday night it’ll be busy until late in the morning. Friday night is the best time to go, because the high schools in Italy run through Saturday—so Friday night you won’t see many.

Chapter Eight—Gelato: Siculo

I’m not personally a gelato fan. I can eat it, but most of the time I won’t be thrilled by it. It always seems that I’m just with my friends, minding my own business, when someone suggests gelato. I tell them I don’t really like it that much—but they insist, and they insist again, and in the end I’m eating gelato. And probably not being thrilled by it.

So, even though I’m not, as I say, a connoisseur of gelato, I’d be one to know good gelato when I have it. So this post is not about Italian gelato in general (if you like gelato at all, you’ll love most places here), but about a specific place in Turin, because I’ve been to several places in Turin and only liked one. I’d never tasted anything like it.

Siculo Gelateria is at Via San Quintino 31, not too far from Porta Nuova and the city center. Google the address and you can find directions.

I did not stumble upon Siculo—Walter, the middle-aged Torinese I told you about in chapter one, showed it to me.

“It’s the best in Torino,” he said. The word “Siculo” means a “Sicilian.” Sicily is one of the places where gelato is said to have been perfected, and you can tell when you taste the gelato at Siculo.

They have mango and banana and fico d’india and frutti di bosco and mela and coco and chocolate and pistachio and coffee and lemon and chocolate.

They have fruity flavors, classic flavors, and incredibly strange flavors. They have peanut-butter-flavored gelato and wine-flavored gelato and beer-flavored gelato, and they have many, many other flavors. The flavors change daily, too. So go more than once.

As I said, I’m not a gelato person. But if you’d seen me eating this, you’d probably think gelato was all I ate.

Chapter Nine—Ristorante: This Is Italy, After All

Italian food reflects Italian culture. Cuisine in Italy, in all of its complexity, creativity, and diversity, is the macrocosm of the stereotypical Italian individual—a character filled with creativity, a person with a passion for beauty and showmanship, someone with great pride, someone who enjoys and knows how to live simply yet beautifully. The Italians take great pride in their locale cuisine. Indeed, each town, and certainly each region, parades even a particular kind of bread, made in a particular kind of way. In Sardinia, for example (and in other coastal regions), bottarga—fish eggs, essentially—is used with pasta dishes and appetizers. Carta da musica is a thin, flat type of bread made in Sardinia and is served before meals.

And the restaurant is a beautiful thing. Sure, you’ve heard so much about Italian food, and I’ve talked with several of the other USAC students who said they have been disappointed with the food here, so you can’t have unrealistic expectations. Some places are good, and some places aren’t.

(Side note: a lot of the USAC students say that because they make their own food 90% of the time and then eat out whenever they travel; financially, it makes sense, but it can make a bad impression on you; don’t worry—Italian food is all it’s cracked up to be when you understand the insane intricacies of food here.)

The things you here most about are wine, coffee, and pizza and pasta. Like I said, the truth is that food is incredibly regional. Fifty years ago you would have hardly seen any pizzerias in Turin or anywhere in the north. Pizza is from Naples. Now that we understand Italian food a little better, let’s get some suggestions.

A restaurant that I’m pretty partial to is La Capricciosa at Via Genova 13. It’s not terribly expensive but it has a high-class environment. The waiters dress in starched clothes, use little hand-sized machines to write down your order, and the décor is very nice. The food, too, is very good. I’ve had pizza, pasta, and gnocchi and have not had a bad experience.

Another good option that is close is Cacio e Pepe at Via Genova 34. It’s cheaper than La Capricciosa, but probably not as good. What I liked about Cacio e Pepe is the staff—young, college-aged, and if you go there often you’ll be able to get to know them and, maybe, you’ll become friends with them.

There are other good options obviously. The internet and travel websites are great to find good restaurants on, and especially restaurants in Turin, because there aren’t many places that have been watered down due to excessive tourism.

Eataly is another good place to go. More expensive. But I worship the place. It’s incredibly fresh, always.

Chapter Ten—Piazza Castello and Via Garibaldi: No Castles in America and More La Bella Figura

The closer I get to leaving Turin, the more I miss (already) the piazzas. We don’t have anything like them at home. Well, I suppose some cities do. Iowa City has a nice pedestrian mall, as does Charlottesville, Virginia.

Shops, restaurants, street performers, children playing soccer, old people just standing, teenagers and their really good amateur photography, twenty-somethings flirting and talking and drinking and kissing and laughing. This is another wonderful Italian piazza.

Piazza Castello was designed, I believe, in the 16th century—a long, long time before we even had a constitution. The history of the piazza is incredibly. Go there, soak it up, and look at the old home of the Savoy family.

Right off of Piazza Castello is Via Garbaldi, a busier, livelier street than Via Roma, running from one piazza to another, filled with shops and restaurants and cafés and everything else imaginable. If you’re at Piazza Castello and tired of sitting, walk up and down, and up and down, and up and down Via Garibaldi. It’s incredibly interesting. It’s incredibly Italian.

Chapter Eleven—The Open Market: An Alternative to Grocery Stores

It was a Wednesday morning, eight o’clock, and I was at the open market at Nizza and Spezia. It was another foggy day in Turin, and after coffee and a shower, I walked the few blocks to the open market. I had been there before, to buy a few household things, but I had never lingered too much when I did go. At the corner of the market there was a man with a beanie, a scarf, and orange gloves setting up metal tables that he carried off the back of a white van. It was cold, low thirties in Fahrenheit. He had a cigarette in his mouth, and he was working with another man who wore a light-gray ski coat with the hood pulled over his head.

I walked past them and through the lanes of the market. More cigarettes. I saw two dogs sitting in the passenger seat of another white van. One of the dog’s front legs was hanging out the window as he sat, as a human would, with his back against the backrest of the seat. Sometimes there was a radio playing, sometimes talk radio, sometimes a music station, sometimes American music, sometimes Italian music, sometimes there was joking with the proprietors of the nearby stands, sometimes joking with your fellow workers at your stand, and sometimes there were no words at all. You talked to the people you know.

Often times there didn’t seem to be any difference between one stand and the next. There didn’t seem to be a huge push for groundbreaking marketing or advertising. The open market scene wasn’t as bella figura as other things I’d seen.

I went to the bancomat and returned to the open market.



More stands were open for business.

The closest American equivalent I could imagine with this open market was if tailgating for American football games was infused with a grocery store. Tailgating minus the drunkenness and football game, grocery store minus the glossy white aisles. Minus the uniformed employees shelving boxes. Minus the music on medium-low volume. Minus the bright lights. Minus the frozen food section. Minus the packages. Minus the individually-wrapped things. Minus the automatic doors. Minus the grocery carts. Minus the 25-cent rides near the entrance. Minus the hesitating in front of a section as you take apart the products with your eyes.

Chapter Twelve—The Turin Auto Museum: More Beauty

Italians are so fashionable about beauty. It’s no accident that the most famous fashion stores and designers are Italian—Gucci, Armani, etc.—it’s no accident that they call their country bel paese, and it’s no accident that the Renaissance happened here first and the spread to the rest of Europe. Beauty in Italy is like apple pie in America: it’s everywhere.

The Turin Auto Museum was yet another shining example of that.

USAC might end up taking you at some point, in which case you’d not have to pay for your ticket, but if you go on your own it’s not the end of the world—six or so Euros if you bring your student ID, which hopefully you always carry. I slam it into your brain pretty often.

The museum itself is slick, even on the outside—big and curvy and silver. And it’s less than a ten-minute walk from school, so there’s really no excuse not to go. The entrance of the museum looks out to the River Po and the opposite banks, and then you go inside. Of course, there’s a café in the museum. And of course, in the little shop near the café, you can buy wine with the Fiat label printed on it.

The actual exhibits, once you buy your ticket, are superbly clean and clean-smelling. The museum had been recently renovated. Everything is shiny and sleek, as an Italian car museum ought to be. And the museum is more than a collection of cars on platforms.



Some cars are on slowly-spinning platforms. There are new cars, and there are old cars.

Fast cars, slow cars. Italian cars, foreign cars.

Cars for two people, a car for one person, and cars for more people. There are race cars.

FIAT, Ferrari, Ford.

There’s also a Jeep.

There are interactive things to do at the museum, there are short films you can watch, there are—for those truly into cars—pieces of engines on display, old engines and new engines, and there are old wheels and new wheels, and there is something of a story-telling sequence of signs throughout the museum that educates you about the development of cars in Italy and in the world.



The museum is colorful; the museum is sexy. It keeps you engaged. You don’t have to be Ricky Bobby to thoroughly enjoy the place. If Walt Disney, Fiat, and Da Vinci got together, the Turin Auto Museum would be their love child.

Chapter Thirteen—The Turin Egyptian Museum: A Mark of Pride

I know: there are lots of museums in Turin. But the Torinese are terribly proud of all they’ve built in terms of culture, and they’ve built a lot.

The Egyptian museum is one of the things they are most proud of. As they’ll tell you (often), the Egyptian museum in Turin is supposedly the second best in the world, however you qualify how one Egyptian museum is better than another; I suppose there are people even for that.

I was hesitant to go. The Egypt thing isn’t normally my thing. Normally I go to a place with Egyptian artifacts and plaques about which pharaoh reigned when and what he did and then about how some pharaoh was actually a girl, and there’s always a lot about cats, and everything is about death and everything is so old and there are so many different eras and areas and kingdoms during the Egyptian dominance of north Africa and the Middle East. Normally I think it’s just a bunch of old rocks.

And while I didn’t enjoy the Egyptian museum as much as the car museum, the Egyptians have things to offer that the employees of FIAT do not.

As we’ve learned with the Italians, the museum was beautiful. It is located in an old building near the city center, a short walk from Porta Nuova and Piazza San Carlo, and you’ll get a discount if you bring your student ID.

A good thing about this museum is that most of the signs have English translations to go along with the Italian. This museum, like the auto museum, tells a narrative of the empire. There are several different sections of the museum, and there is an order to the sections. It isn’t a free-for-all. (Actually, I got confused and went in the last section first, and ended up doing the museum backwards. But there is a way that you’re supposed to go.)

There are statues, mummies, hieroglyphs, sculptures, painted coffins, large sarcophaguses, small ones, and there are huge ones. There is a lot to do, a lot to see, a lot to photograph. I didn’t spent too much time there, but it was worth the handful of Euros it cost to buy the tickets.



Anyway, now anytime someone from Turin asked if I had been to their world-famous Egyptian museum, I could please them by saying yes and then lauding it as the greatest and most beautiful museum ever to exist.

Chapter Fourteen—A Juventus Game: No Wonder Cicero Was Italian

Max and I were walking around the outside of the stadium to our section. We were going to see Juventus, Turin’s Series A soccer team. It was the coldest day since we had been in Turin. It was raining. We’d had difficulty finding which gate we were supposed to enter. My shoes were wet, my hands were cold, and Juventus wasn’t all that good this year. We could see the lights, shining through the thick fog that the Po Valley offers in the winter, but we weren’t inside yet. Up ahead we could see the ticket-checkers scanning IDs. (Side note: bring, once again, photocopies of your passport—you should always have them.)

And then we heard the voice of something like a small army bellowing in unison from the arena. Max looked at me with bright eyes through his glasses. “This is awesome!” he said. I smiled. Indeed, Max was right.

Judging from the intensity and volume of the chants and songs we’d heard on the outside, I’d have guessed the stadium was full. But it was only at about 60% capacity. We got to our seats as the players were being introduced. I wondered if I’d be disappointed. The announcer broadcasted the first name of the player, something wonderfully Italian, and the crowd bellowed back his last name. My eyebrows rose. Each name filled the stadium as if it were sold out.

Most of the noise came from the two sections behind the nets, the equivalents of student sections in American college football. Those were the cheaper seats, but the fans sitting there sang the loudest. Indeed, they sang the whole game. They sang throughout the scoreless first half, they sang when we scored, and they still sang when we lost. It was admirable. It made me a little ashamed of our own student sections, where only the suspiciously loyal student knows the words to the five different school songs, where most people are drunk. But the Italians, like American college students, can be unforgiving with their players during the game when they make mistakes. Several times a Juventus player would blunder and then, feverishly, a handful of people would stand up in their seats and deliver a Cicero-esque speech of what the player ought to have done. Exceptional rhetoric. The energy of the two sections is comparable, but the Italians cheer with consistency, with style.

I think Max and I felt a good deal more Italian after that game.

Chapter Fifteen—La Mole: The Symbol of Turin

A culture is full of symbols, and so is a city. When the Winter Olympics came to Turin in 2006, the logo was an abstract outline of the top of the Mole drawn in blue and white crystals.

In a beautiful, towering building that had originally been built to be a synagogue, the Mole is located near Via Po on Via Montebello, and you’ll see it at random spots walking through Turin, high up in the air. For Turin, the Mole represents a physical mark that distinguishes the city, that labels the city.

Aside from being a beautiful structure, the Mole houses the cinema museum of Turin. Another intricate museum, another beautiful museum. Italian cinema largely found its beginnings with companies based in Turin, so the museum is yet another ode to Turin’s influence.

What you can also do is take a (moderately scary if you’re afraid of heights like I am) ride up to the top on an elevator. Even if you don’t like the heights, it’s one of the best views in Turin.

Part Two—Trips: You’ve Earned Vacation Time

I strongly urge you not to travel often on the weekend in the beginning. Most people will not, however, heed my advice. Most people will read this and think, I’m in Europe—shouldn’t I always travel?!

Yes, but no.

Turin, as has been said many times, is your home. Be here, and then you can go other places. Get to know your apartment, then the closest café, the closest restaurant, your favorite aperitivo nearby, then your favorite major piazza, your favorite spot in Parco Valentino, your favorite place near the city center, your favorite gelateria (it ought to be Siculo), and after you’ve done all these things, you can take a vacation.

It’s true that not many people study abroad. But if we take that amount of people and examine what they normally do, we’d probably see that many—especially many that have chosen Turin—have traveled nearly every weekend. That’s the typical experience.

What’s not typical is taking the time, the effort to get to know a town well. And Turin is worthy of getting to know. Don’t feel the need to take every trip on every weekend. Don’t let someone con you into taking a trip because they insist anything that sounds like traveling is better than staying in Turin.

Turin Turin Turin. Get it into your head.

But now, let’s travel out of town.

Still, though, we’re not going far.

Chapter Sixteen—Genova: Oh Yeah, Christopher Columbus

From the train station, I went straight to the port. I’d first thought it’d be a dismal day; riding the train from Porta Nuova to Genova, a couple-hour ride, the sky had been thick gray and layered with clouds, and indeed that had been the story all week with the weather, but as we had continued along toward the coast the clouds thinned and whitened, and at one point we had gone into a long tunnel and come out the other side with the sky completely changed, like something from a movie.

Genova is built on the hill that ascends up from the ocean, so I just walked downhill toward the water. I badly wanted to see the water. And it didn’t take long before I reached the main street that divided, essentially, the port from the city. I crossed this street, started one direction along the port, failed, and turned around, then finding myself in the tourist area of the port. There was a museum that had things about Christopher Columbus in it. There was a submarine you could pay to go inside. There were gelaterias. There were cafés with outdoor seating that looked out to the docked yachts, the cruise ships, and the other industrial ships behind these. The water was blue-green.



I kept walking this way until I came upon the aquarium. My Italian teacher, a Piedmontese named Davide, had told me that it was an excellent aquarium. “Bellissima,” he had said. I asked the woman at the ticket counter how much it would cost for a student, showing her my Italian student ID, but she said they did not give discounts for students. I thought this was a great crime, but I paid the 18 Euros all the same and went up the stairs inside the building.

I’d been to some nice aquariums in my life before, and didn’t expect to be impressed here, but I certainly was. It was very intricately laid-out, like a guided maze, with turns and staircases and optional things, like a 3-D movie about two little turtles that I watched. After the movie I saw the tanks. African fish, European fish, fish from the Americas, fish from dark places, light places, cold waters, warm waters, fresh waters, salt waters; there were sharks, manatees, penguins, seals; there were stingrays you could pet, piranhas you could not; there were poison dart frogs, crocodiles; there was a snake; there were works in progress; there were two gift shops; and there were Italian children who ran up to the cages, pounded on the glass saying ciao ciao ciao to the fish.



I stayed at the café for quiet a while, then took a walk, and returned for dinner. Initially, I thought the waitress had been a bit cold. But now she was a little more ready to talk. I think she thought I would not return for dinner, but now I had, and she brought out the bread and a cold glass of white wine. It was very refreshing and when the pasta with clams came out, it accented my meal perfectly. Eating seafood by the sea.

Genova is a great trip to take to see the Italians and to see the sea. It is not, like Cinque Terre, sprawling with tourists. The aquarium, though expensive, is, as Davide said, bellissima. And so is this city.

Chapter Seventeen—Bardonecchia: Skiing in the Alps

I took a train from Porta Nuova straight to Bardonecchia early one Friday morning. It was only an hour and a half. Directly across the train station in Bardonecchia there is a free bus that will take you to Campo Smith, one of the base camps for skiing. Near there, a modern-looking building houses several companies where you can rent skis. You’ll buy a lift ticket from a different building, a brown, cabin-looking building near the ski lift, past the restaurant. Once you arrive in Bardonecchia, it’ll probably take a good hour to catch the shuttle, rent skis, and buy your lift ticket. Make sure to bring your student ID and a photocopy of your passport. With your student ID you’ll get a discount—something unique, I believe, to Bardonecchia, making it the cheapest place to ski, about 40-50 Euros for the day (that price includes round-trip train tickets, rentals, and the lift ticket).

Everything that a city is, the mountains aren’t. There’s no graffiti. There’s not the chemical-smelling exhaust from the cars, and buses, and trams. There aren’t buildings walling you in like a mouse in a maze. The mountains are wide open, the air is crisp and clear, and you can see for miles.

Getting off the train at Bardonecchia, I hoped that my lack of preparation wouldn’t hurt me too much. I’d read that there was a free bus, but I didn’t know where it was. I’d read the rental stores were near the lift, but I knew where neither of those places were. I’d gotten some maps on my computer, but I hadn’t looked them over. I counted on it being easy.

After getting off the train I crossed the street and I saw a place that said something about ski tickets. There was a giant map of the ski runs. There were two Italians standing there, on the icy snow. Using my broken Italian, I asked if they knew where the rental places were, and it turned out they spoke English. They told me I could go with them if I wanted, and I sort of became their adopted American son. It was a husband and a wife, in their thirties probably—Lucca and Stefania. We split up after we rented our skis, but I appreciated their help.

Skiing that day was something I needed. Moving to a new town, a new country, a new continent, a new culture, all this moving was stressful. And I didn’t know anyone. But these mountains, and the crisp sound of the snow cutting underneath the skis, and the surrounding peaks, and the quiet of the snowy forests going up the lift—I knew these things, and I returned to Turin with new vigor.

Chapter Eighteen—Courmayuer: Is This Heaven? No, It’s Courmayeur

It’s time for another Alpine excursion. Skiing in Bardonecchia was fun, but let’s go to the Alps and just look at the mountains.

Getting to Courmayeur isn’t terribly difficult, but it takes some time, about three and a half hours total. Go to Porta Nuova first, where you’ll take a train to Aosta; that train is about two hours long. It’s a fine train and Aosta is a fine enough town to visit by itself, there are some fine Roman ruins there, so we can stop for a while in Aosta if you want, but I think we ought to go straight for the Alpine gold.

Out of the Aosta train station turn immediately to your right. You’ll see a bus station across the street (to the left), and that’s where you’ll buy your bus ticket and catch your bus. Both the train tickets and bus tickets, roundtrip, together, should cost about 25 Euros.

The bus ride from Aosta to Courmayeur is a treat. If it’s winter, the further up the mountain you go the more you’ll be surrounded by snow. If it’s not winter, you’ll be surrounded by cliffs, wonderfully green trees, and you’ll pass some lovely mountain towns and constantly be looking up to the sky-scraping peaks of the Alps.

When you get to Courmayeur, if you’re only taking a day trip, you should probably go inside the ticket office and check the return times of the buses, which, in the evening, should be hourly and should run until nine or so at night. And, of course, you also ought to know the times of the trains returning to Turin from Aosta.

Now let’s get started with this town. As you’ll see, Courmayeur is a very clean town, and my favorite part is the little pedestrian street that runs from a small piazza on one side until it stops at a street. From the bus station, just walk uphill; it’s easy to find, the main street in Courmayeur.

The street, Via Roma, is lined with shops, restaurants, cafés, and everything else Italian. As I said, there is a wonderful piazza—though small—at one end, with a gelato shop and some benches. The view from this piazza is stunning. With a gelato or espresso, it’s quite peaceful to sit at the benches with a book, or with a friend, and just be still. Read a book. Or do nothing. Just look at the mountains. Watch the Italian boys kick the soccer ball. Strike up a conversation with a stranger (when I went, I got involved in a conversation with an Englishman who had moved to a little French town just across the border). There’s a fine wine shop too, near the piazza, run by two middle-aged women who are very kind.

Soak up the Alps. We don’t have them at home.

Chapter Nineteen—Ivrea: Oranges

Ivrea is a wonderful town that is only a short, one-hour train ride away from Turin. If you study abroad during the spring you will be—if you so choose to go (I hope you choose to go; you really ought to go)—privileged enough to attend the carnival in Ivrea, a carnival that dates to the 12th century, a carnival during which there is an orange fight, one of the largest food fights in the world, a fight in which groups of armored men in horse-drawn carriages brave the narrow streets of the town while being pelted by oranges. There were hundreds of thousands of oranges. There were thousands of citizens and visitors. So many oranges that the streets were covered thickly with spliced and splayed chunks and fragments. So many horses that all of the orange shrapnel was held together by the light-brown paste of horse droppings. It was quite an interesting mixture, and quite an interesting town.

If you are not so fortunate to go to Ivrea for the orange festival, it is still a city worth seeing. It is very old, there are some very wonderful streets—narrow and winding and rising up with graded inclines on small hills, cobble-stoned and shop-lined—and there is the river running through the city is well. You walk across a nice bridge and down below the river runs. It’s a good place to go even for an afternoon trip, maybe for dinner, and then come back. Sometimes you have to leave Turin and return to realize how much you loved her truly. This happened so many times to me. it was always exciting to leave. To see another place. To be in another city, another region, by the mountains or by the sea, to be in another country sometimes, but—always—when the train started clicking to a stop at Turin, I became very excited. Very happy. Very satisfied.

Filled with the knowledge that I had chosen the best city for study in Italy.

Chapter Twenty—Lake Maggiore: Refined Tourism

Lake Maggiore is a moderately touristy spot, but it’s mostly European tourists. I went for Easter Break, during April, and I heard Americans maybe once the entire weekend, and that was on Isola Bella, one of several islands in the lake that you can take a boat to.

Lake Maggiore is about two and a half hours by train from Turin. You’ll have to change trains twice, but there are no difficulties besides that. The main attraction city is Stresa—a pretty famous town. Ernest Hemingway spent some time there to recuperate his injury during World War I, and part of his famous novel A Farewell to Arms takes place there. When I went for Easter, though, I stayed in Baveno, just one town past Stresa on the train. I stayed at Hotel Eden, and I highly recommend it. The prices vary on the season (they charge more during peak season), but when I went I believe it was 45 Euros a night, breakfast included (it’s not a shabby breakfast either). It is a family-run hotel and the people who work there are very kind.

My room, room 45, was one of the only rooms with a balcony—albeit a small one, but large enough to fit the desk chair and allow me space to read as I looked out to the stunning view of Lake Maggiore. From my window I could see Isola Pescatore and, past that, Isola Bella. The weather was nice and there were several cafés near my hotel that I frequented. One of the cafés closest to my hotel had aperitivo—though meager—for only 4 Euros. Ristorante Posta is also worth mentioning—it is in the main (very small) piazza of Baveno, it is reasonably priced, and it is absolutely delicious.



Lake Maggiore is a place to go to get away and to enjoy some nature. It was a perfect place to go for Easter, too—no expensive airfare, not an overwhelming amount of tourists. And besides these things, it was interesting to watch European tourists. There were Germans, Swiss, French, and Italians. Probably others. I even met two Germans at Ristorante Posta, on the evening of Easter, when I had been eating alone, who joined me at my table and eventually ended up paying for my dinner. I’ll be staying with them in Frankfurt next week.

Epilogue—Back in the States: Where’d Turin go?

You will miss Turin.

You already do when the end is in sight.

You’ll miss the great piazzas—San Carlo, Castello, Vittorio. You’ll miss Parco Valentino, and you’ll miss the joyful difficulty of speaking Italian (however much you know) with the Torinese, who smile profusely and praise you for your impeccable language skills.

You’ll miss Via Genova, Via Nizza, and you’ll miss Via Roma and Via Garibaldi. You’ll miss the metro, and you’ll even miss the buses (okay, maybe not). You’ll surely miss Eataly.

You’ll miss the way Torinese window-shop. You’ll miss how frustrating the Torinese can be. You’ll miss how brash they can be. How smart they can be, clever. How funny they can be. How kind they can be.

You’ll miss the bar near your house, and you’ll miss the baristas more. You’ll miss the woman who dry-cleans your clothes. You’ll miss the family that sells you bread.

You’ll miss it all, but now it’s yours.