Italian Impressions

Trying to understand the soul of Turin

An open balcony with wooden shutters overlooks this alley of Turin. The damp air is soft and warm. Noises of the street: cars passing, Vespas revving, conversation in Italian and French from the pizzeria to the right. The sky is painted with clouds, navy and iron. An unexpected moment away from the others allows me this moment of reverie. An aging building with worn metal, iron-wrought balconies I see from this vantage, and wonder at the lives of those behind these shutters. A line of children’s clothes, jeans, a small bright orange bathing suit, lie stagnant on a laundry line.

A sign of life that brings a smile to me now: the next balcony over, with potted plants in the sill, forgotten junk, and a faded Italian flag stirring now and then, as if also in contemplation. A strong statement of life and belonging, that which I’m looking for. What does it mean to live here? A discussion across the street, animated and lively, with kitchen staff from the pizzeria. Who are these people? How do they spend their days?

The building facades, although now faded with time, remain impressive and perhaps even more so, now. Time has not been easy, yet they stand still, and bear the grime and dirt of the years with grace and elegance. A yellowish light is cast over the street, cars, and buildings. It will not lift until the sun rises.

Drops of water still lay on the cars, and the streets are still splotchy as they dry. I wonder if the summer rains will come again. A neon sign, steady in its orange glare, beckons me to Hotel Nizza, three stars. A competition for survival, to win the ignorant transients. Who do they think they are? They cannot know the soul of Turin as they move their worlds with them, appearing worldly and wise, yet afraid to actually connect with those of this place. A sad commentary, but a business model nonetheless.

Wooden shutters, doors, brickwork arches and supporting balustrades above. The buildings themselves are works of art. How would it feel to live in a work of art? Would you feel beautiful too?

And all too suddenly I realize the yellowing night light reflected on this paper, and it’s dancing with the shadow of my hand as the pen lays these words. A romantic setting, yet what does it mean for one who doesn’t claim to be a writer? Is the answer reflected in the open window to my left, or just the deconstructed shutters and shops? Glance to the mirror in the darkened room, and I see the slender silhouette of a man, with a touch of the street-light on his angled cheek and nose. Deconstructed indeed, thank you Picasso. Hair swept back, Bohemian, a dark striped shirt and the faint outline of pale underwear. Such contrasts. Singularity, longing, strength, and beauty. But this is just a reflection, never forget. Narcissa is smiling.

A sigh, and a glance outside again. People leaving restaurants, conversations picking up, a bag of empty bottles clinking and clashing as they are dropped in a bin. The cars pass. These rhythms continue.

Restlessness in the night seems a futile thing. Best wait until the morning to continue on, and achieve your alchemy.