An Hour in Turin

A Snapshot

He came at me like a freight train, speaking a-mile-a-minute-rat-atat-tat, complete with flying spittle and gesticulating hands. A friend of a friend was doing me a favor, an accommodation for an essential part of my day, for my positive mental health. He dropped references to Machiavelli, Dante, and Calvino, his big brain surrounded by thinning hair slicked straight back, his wobbly chin studded with stubble. The wife down and out, I thought I could handle the meeting sola, my tenuous grasp of the language enough to make myself known, be polite and interested, and get business done. It took an hour + forty-five to reach the cafe on the far reaches of a bustling city; the drive across town frayed my nerves like the electrical wiring in an unrestored walk-up. Everything you’ve heard about Italian drivers is an absolute understatement, multiplied by one thousand when navigating a city.
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The tables were set on the large piazza, a cafe magnet for beggars. An unwashed, middle-aged man in a hippie cap had a guitar strapped to his chest. I’m guessing if I’d made a request, he would have serenaded me, but I wasn’t in the mood to be hassled. I waved him off, ordered a second coffee, and studied the architecture, imagining who lives in the grand apartments looking out onto the square, with doors open to the sunny, late-spring morning.
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Weird sucking noises emanated from the woman a couple of tables away. German? Dutch? I couldn’t be sure. She and her lanky, bespectacled husband bickered about who would sit where to be positioned equidistant from their two hideous dogs, who resembled short, scrawny Doberman Pinchers with Yoda-like faces. The sucking noises were kissing sounds they made to coax the dogs into four-way selfies, making me shudder to contemplate their hotel room antics. The words PEAK PERFORMANCE were printed in big black letters on the woman’s dirty tee shirt. After said photo session, the dogs were tied to the couple’s cafe chairs and taunted horribly by pigeons. Jumping and jerking, I was sure one of them would snap a neck to nab the birds.He came at me like a freight train, speaking a-mile-a-minute-rat-atat-tat, complete with flying spittle and gesticulating hands. A friend of a friend, he was doing me a favor, an accommodation for an essential part of my day, for my positive mental health. He dropped references to Machiavelli, Dante and Calvino, his big brain surrounded by thinning hair slicked straight back, his wobbly chin studded with stubble. The wife down and out, I thought I could handle the meeting sola, my tenuous grasp of the language enough to make myself known, to be polite and interested, to get business done. An hour + forty-five to reach the cafe, located on the far reaches of a bustling city; the drive across town fraying my nerves like the electrical wiring in an unrestored walk-up. Everything you’ve heard about Italian drivers is an absolute understatement, multiplied by one thousand when navigating a city.
-
The tables were set on the large piazza, the cafe a magnet for beggars. An unwashed, middle-aged man in a hippie cap had a guitar strapped to his chest. I’m guessing if I’d made a request, he would have serenaded me, but I wasn’t in the mood to be hassled. I waved him off, ordered a second coffee, and studied the architecture, imagining who lives in the grand apartments looking out onto the square, with doors open to the sunny, late-spring morning.
-
Weird sucking noises emanated from the woman a couple of tables away. German? Dutch? I couldn’t be sure. She and her lanky, bespectacled husband bickered about who would sit where, in order to be positioned equidistant from their two incredibly ugly dogs, who resembled short, scrawny Doberman Pinchers with Yoda-like faces. The sucking noises were kissing sounds they made to coax the dogs into four-way selfies, making me shudder to contemplate their hotel room antics. Printed on the woman’s dirty tee-shirt, in big black letters, were the words PEAK PERFORMANCE. After said photo session, the dogs were tied to the couple’s cafe chairs, and taunted horribly by pigeons. Jumping and jerking, I was sure one of them would snap a neck in an effort to nab the birds.