So, without consciously realizing it, I set it up so I had a date in Turin on the celebration of my first thirty days here. Now, I managed to luck out and meet a British man, so at least we could speak in English and more or less understand each other.
The fact that my friend M and I (yes, I am only going to refer to him as M. I don't want to get him in trouble with his job, so I'm not giving out full names of anything, just references) managed to meet up is kind of a miracle. See, we had talked back and forth for a few days saying that we wanted to meet up and ended up planning for Saturday, but we never did set a place to meet or exchange phone numbers. All I had to go off of from his messages was that he was working in a store on via Roma and would be off work at 6. So I figured if I got to via Roma with some time to spare I would be able to find his store and hopefully pick him out.
Since I do occasionally like looking nice, I figured putting on a little eye makeup wouldn't hurt. I forgot that my makeup bag had exploded at 28,000 feet, so there was blush and glitter all over the inside of my bag. It made getting my eye makeup out and not covering my room in a pink glittery haze an extraordinary feat. Luckily, though, only a minimum of glitter and pink escaped.
So I tell the family that I'm going into Turin for the evening, because I was expecting to get back a few hours later. I caught the bus a little after 1620 and got to Torino a little before 5. I figured I would have some time to look at the map before catching the tram to head to via Roma. So I spent the next ten minutes looking at the map trying to figure out where via Roma intersected with the tram I would be taking. And, of course, I don't see via Roma intersecting. But I did remember that I needed to take the 4 to get there, so I figured I would ask the ticket inspector how to find it. I catch the next train, and when the ticket inspector takes my ticket I say the following: "Dove trovo via Roma avec... con esta--?" and pointed down to my feet. The fact that the poor man understood what I was trying to communicate was fantastic. He explained that he was also information, and stayed near me for most of my ride (except for when he had to go check tickets). When I told him I was American, we spent some time discussing Yellowstone and what he wanted to do if he ever got to vacation in America--I didn't laugh when he said that America was so expensive.
He pointed out the stop I needed and I got off, walking over the block to see that via Roma runs parallel to that part of the tram, not perpendicular.
Now, via Roma is similar to via Garibaldi in that it is a huge street full of shops and cafes. The main difference is that there is also a road running through the middle of it. So I figured I could walk around for a little bit and find the store. No big deal, right? Long story short, I barely managed to find his store before 1800--I think I had about 4 minutes to spare--and I realized I had no clue how I would be able to recognize him definitively, or if he would even leave through the doors. The store had quite a few people in it, but I decided to brave it anyway. I thought I saw him approach a couple of other associates in the store, so I called out his name. When I didn't get a response, though, I left sadly. I made the decision to stay around that store by a column for about 10 minutes and see if he left while I was waiting. Otherwise I figured I'd get dinner, wander around some, then head back to Rivalta.
About 8 minutes later the guy I had called out to reappears outside the store, looking around as if he's confused. Once again, I take a chance and make eye contact with him, saying his name. And it turns out to be M. He had heard me call out to him in the store, but he didn't think anything of it because no one he worked with calls him that, so he didn't pay any attention to it. He admitted that he realized earlier today that we hadn't finalized plans, so he had sent me a message around 5 telling me to meet up with him at a certain square. I explained that I had left the house around 1620, so I wouldn't have seen the message anyway, but I figured I could wait here and see if he showed up. We agreed that it was a good thing that I did, and proceeded to leave the store.
We wandered around for a bit--with a pit stop in the square so I could stop and enjoy the view, and apparently "insult" the entirety of Italy by saying "soccer" instead of "football" (though in Italy it's called "calcio"...) before heading off again. Neither of us had any particular ideas of what we wanted to do, but we knew that food and a drink of some sort should happen since it was around dinner time.
We ended up on what M said was via Rizzoli (turns out it's not Rizzoli, it was Vittorio Emmanuel II), which according to one of his other British co-workers is the longest street in Torino. As we were walking down the street we saw a pub that claimed to be an "Authentic English Pub", but the writing on the outside of the building made little sense. So we decided to go in, because M wanted to see if they had any British beer. They didn't, but we decided to stay anyway. We each ordered a pint of McFarland Red and sat there talking about random things. At one point we were discussing how Italians dried their clothes in winter. M figured they didn't, because I had been saying earlier that the little boys generally feel really hot to the touch. He was guessing that they just wore the clothes and they warmed up. Hypothermia didn't seem to make any sense for him.
After ordering a second round, we started discussing what we wanted for dinner. M wanted something a little more Italian since the "authentic" English dishes offered were only fish and chips or English breakfast. While looking over the menus I joked that I could make a killing going around to the various restaurants and offering to edit their English versions of the menus. M agreed, telling me that even the menu in his 5 star hotel had multiple errors and made little sense. Not seeing anything that sounded good for dinner, we paid our bill (and by "we" I mean M. He decided that he wanted to pay for the food since he had an expense account with his company while he was here) and received a discount of one euro because M was from Britain. We made our way back out into the evening.
Now, each of us has just consumed at least a quart of beer, so snarkiness starts to run rampant, and we feel comfortable enough to tease and joke with each other about anything our minds come up with or we see. I can't remember all of the topics of conversation we hit.
M remembered that he wanted to take me to a gelato shop that he claimed was better than Grom. But to do that, we needed to get back to via Roma, since that was where the shop was located. The name of the place was "Paradice", which M anglicized to "Paradise". I got a cone with "limone" (lemon) and something else that I can't remember the name of. It was light green with random little sprinkles and associated sweets in it. M teased me that it looked like the store assistants had taken yesterday's leftover gelato and additions and thrown them into this container. It tasted fantastic, though, so I didn't care. M got a cup with two scoops of "English cream" (I don't remember what it was called in Italian) and a scoop of something else I don't remember. We sit at a table outside and eat our gelato.
I ended up crashing at M's hotel that night because I was tired and didn't trust myself to get back to the tram (especially since I felt kind of lost as to where I was). The next morning he had to check out because he and his British coworkers were flying back that evening. I got a firsthand look at the difference between how guys pack and how girls pack. When I packed for Italy, I made sure that everything fit in my suitcase and still ended up having a couple pounds to spare. M had to leave things in the hotel (mostly toiletries) because they wouldn't fit in his bag. I was forbidden from helping, which is probably why he had to leave things.
While this was going on I got two calls on the cell the family is loaning be. I ignored the first one because it happened at 0900 and because the screen said "chiamata bloccata" (caller blocked) , and I wasn't sure who it was. The second time this flashed up on the phone, I answered. Turns out it was the family; they wanted to make sure I was all right. Apparently the middle child had gone upstairs to make sure I was home, and when I wasn't he got very worried. After assuring them that everything was OK, M and I went out to meet up with one of his coworkers and go find lunch after M checked out.
We ended up making our way back to the store so M could get some things shipped, then went out to get brunch at a restaurant down the street. Neither of us could decide what kind of pizza we wanted to split, so we asked our waitress what she would suggest. With her help we ordered the Fume, which turns out to be pizza with tomatoes and bacon. Now, this isn't cheap bacon bits sprinkled over lukewarm cheese. No, this bacon covered most of the pizza with 8 slices (the kitchen was nice enough to slice the pizza since we were splitting). Despite not having eaten any substantive food for about 24 hours, I could barely finish my second piece. I honestly can't remember most of what we talked about, except that he was adamant to make sure I made it back to Rivalta OK--since I wouldn't let him pack me into his bag to take back to the UK so I could pull my own version of Victor, Victoria by being an American impersonator--and he gave me 100 euros to cover the cab fare. The restaurant boxed up our remaining pizza and I took it with me.
We went back to his hotel once again where we got a couple drinks at the bar while waiting for the rest of his coworkers to show up. I ended up getting a cab back to Rivalta from there shortly after 1430, because I figured that I should show the family that I was in fact all right.
And that is how I spend my weekend of my first month in Italy. Don't ask me how I managed it; I just did... ^^;;
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