Torino, the first time of LaFrancese. Piedmont, Italy

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Friday, Saturday and Sunday.
A full day (Saturday) and two halves.
Five hours by train to the French need to get there.
A lot less for me.
Two long nights for us.
Turin is the city of my university years, the metropolis that subverts the habits of life of the province, the great suggestion for a limited twenties grew over the small town. But a metropolis confidential and discreet, until the past decade, resigned in a post industrial stems did not know where to find a way out. I remember the winter evenings of his avenues left to the domain of eighty cars per hour, the zombies sucking wine carton Caracolla from the sidewalks of Via Nizza, the arcades, which is emptied after eight, the only corners conquistatati from the animated ones festive reminders of the pusher or dall'antagonismo underground culture of squatters. I remember the trams that went from end to Mirafiori turn, those faces squashed against the window by the weight of the fatigue of eight hours of work.
I recall a Turin case. A city that now seems to be no more, deleted by years of urban renewal, cultural revitalization, of injections of optimism, investment capital and moral restoration. The Turin depressed the nineties no longer exists, or it was just hidden under the thick layer of make-wise.
Turin is the capital of culture, the seat of a University and Polytechnic, the city of books and its Fair, the Egyptian Museum, the glittering Palazzo Madama, the Gallery of Modern and Contemporary Art, the 2006 Winter Olympics, that great shot kidney who entered the city in the international tourist circuit.
My weekly appointment with the French could not even come here.
All'una are on the esplanade of chioschetti, newsstands and bars close to the tracks of the station of Porta Nuova. Browse to find the newspaper in front of a door magazines, my French, my failed attempt to surprise the shoulders to kiss on the neck before you notice of my arrival. Close in its canvas padded jacket and connected in frog metal. Without hat, without glasses. Shows me his books of architecture that encumbers the bag, I pitted his notions on Juvarra the Guarini, Liberty of the late nineteenth century, between a kiss and the other, in a long embrace.
And we go, my backpack and his duffel bag with me, her hand in mine, my gaze in his, the lips on the lips, through the great hall and then outside in the light of Corso Vittorio Emanuele.

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