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.