The first day we visited Alberto's mom and then drove up to their mountain holiday flat. She treated us to some caffé, homemade limoncello, and pastries. Yes, homemade limoncello, the good stuff—a perfect combination of 100% alcohol, special lemons from the south, sugar, and water. His parents are from the south of Italy, where this drink is popular, and they have certainly perfected their homemade brew—it wasn't syrupy like some versions we had down there. His mom knows as much (or less) English than we know Italian. Since our translator, Alberto, was preoccupied with some other things, we had a conversation based mostly on charades. It was very entertaining and we discussed everything from vacation spots in the south to bull seals eating geckos and sunburn on the mountain.
The homemade goods—limoncello, red wine (with a handwritten "2006" sticker label), and olive oil.
The next day we headed out to the slopes. Since I have never skied before, I spent the day exploring the mountain town of Sauze d'Oulx (Italian mountain with a French name and Swiss-inspired chalets) with my camera while Pat signed me up for ski school.
Newer chalets.
Old, twisty cobbled streets.
Dried sunflowers over doors.
Nice little artistic details—this is all hardware for a shutter.
Great stone roofs everywhere. It might be slate, but each piece is usually 1" thick or so which I think pushes it into a new category.
Both days we were on the mountain, we had beautiful weather with brilliant blue skies, a beaming sun, and warm enough temperatures during the day that I felt like I should have brought a short-sleeve shirt i.e. actual sweat. I dare say it was as warm as many of the English "summer" days last year. I enjoyed spending some of the afternoon soaking up the sun on the porch while reading a book.
Meanwhile, Pat had brushed the cobwebs off his snowboarding skills and was enjoying the snow. He really enjoyed being out in the mountains again, but found the laissez faire Italian approach to skiing frustrating. Unlike American slopes, they don't mark the runs really at all and the maps don't help so you don't know where you're going or if you're on a blue slope or a black diamond.
The next day they dropped me off for a 2 hour individual lesson at ski school and hit the slopes again. I started on the bunny hill using a cool conveyor belt to get back up the hill. There I learned the essential snowplow—stand tall with legs wide. That progressed well so the instructor took me to the top. From there, we took switchbacks back down the mountain that crossed the regular runs. It went pretty well and I really enjoyed it. Now don't get the wrong idea—this wasn't the swish-swish of real skiing, but the chhhr of snowplowing down a mountain. I only fell once when an oblivious 4 year old and I were snowplowing right towards each other. I panicked, since I figured I would do more damage to him than him to me, and lost my balance trying to avoid him.
I met Pat for lunch and we headed back to the top. We had hoped to go down together, but you have to be a good skier to keep up with a snowboarder. Snowboarders need more momentum to keep going. I was just too slow and the paths I was taking were too flat for him so we met up at various points as our paths crossed. Being on my own, without an instructor to follow, was a whole different ballgame. I tended to fall more on my first solo run, but nowhere near as hard as I did on a snowboard. With the slow pace and previous day's workout, Pat was exhausted so we headed to the flat for a little R&R. Now I can say I learned to ski in the Alps—I sure never thought those words would come out of my mouth! So, in summary, sore, but not broken. I'm happy to report that the ambulances going up the mountain weren't for us.
That's me trying to figure out how to get up after a fall.
That night we headed back to the city to have dinner with Alberto's parents and got to sample mom's cooking—a genuine Italian dinner with the antipasti (salami, cheese, bread, and spreads), primi (a creamy porcini mushroom pasta), secondi (veal and what I think was a spinach/egg omelet), and a digestive (raw leek dipped in homemade olive oil and balsamic vinegar). Excellent. We were all thoroughly impressed. Alberto told us later that his mom apologized that she didn't make sides since she hadn't had much time that day. It's just an entirely different perspective on cooking.
After dinner Alberto's Aunt and Uncle came over to visit. They don't know much English either, but there was a lot of wild gesturing and passionate talking. I did have a limited political discussion with his uncle. He asked if I liked Obama or Clinton. Of course, I said Obama. He emphatically agreed with me saying simply "charisma." I kind of got the feeling that he didn't like Hillary since he thought she should be busy in the kitchen or something, but I let that go because I like Obama, I was a guest, and he's Italian and they tend to have old-school gender roles. In case you're interested, he doesn't think McCain should be elected because he's too old.
Polly told us that when this group gets together, there's usually singing and music. Between them, they play the piano, accordion, keyboard, guitar, etc. Alberto and his uncle both have CDs. Unfortunately it was too late to use instruments because it would disturb the neighbors. That would have been something to see! I was overwhelmed by their genuine welcome of us into their family and their patience with our pathetic Italian. I think an old teacher of mine would have described them as "ebulient," just bubbling over with happiness. It was a great experience.
The happy family... Top row, left: Pat, Aunt, Uncle, Dad, Mark. Middle row: Jamie, Alberto, Polly. Front row: Mom.
The next day we took a quick tour of the Torino city centre and, on the way to the airport, did a mad dash through the grocery to pick up some essential Italian food at bargain prices (for us that means olive oil good enough for dipping). Downtown Torino is very beautiful. There are some similarities to Rome with some traditional building materials and lots of shuttered windows. Like the old part of other Italian cities, the exteriors are nice, but somewhat repetitive. Where they open up into entrances and courtyards, it's very grand and makes you feel like you've discovered a jewel. Polly said the city's been referred to as "little Paris" and does have some elegant large-scale features with arcades that stretch blocks and blocks in front of shops. We'll have to see if that's really a fair comparison once we actually get to Paris :)
One section of the arcade.
Courtyard off of the arcade.
La Mole Antonelliana with its landmark spire.
Piazza Castello
Things we learned in Torino:
- Courtesy of Mark, Paul Hogan (of Crocodile Dundee fame) started out as a painter for the Sydney bridge and was "discovered" when he gave a TV interview about his work. He's well-liked for being a genuine, down-to-earth guy who's pretty much like the character he played.
- There's a parking garage designer in Italy that is a genius. In the underground city centre lot, there are motion sensors attached to LED lights on the ceiling above parking spaces. When the space is occupied, the light turns red. It's so easy to glance down an aisle and know if there are spaces, you'd never have to be disappointed by the short car again!
- Seeing references to the winter Olympics years after they are gone is a little bit like visiting a ghost town.
- Moms are usually right. We got rosso (red) from the sole (sun) and are now peeling in spots.
- Ski boots are really hard to walk in. If you want to sink a body in the river, don't bother with cement blocks, slap those bad boys on.
- If I had a helmet with stuffed animal ears stuck to it, like the 4-year old skiers, I'm sure I'd be an awesome skier. It sure seemed to work for them.
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