Torino

Knowing our children, an overnight pitstop was precisely on time as we crossed the Italian border. Their little faces were starting to turn green. Their ears annoyed by the descent through long automobile tunnels leading to Turin.

At first look, I was not instantly taken with the city. Replacing our sluggish French country lifestyle with the busyness of urban life was shocking. Nearly every building seemed tagged with street art from the waist down. The ratio of people in a block radius grew the deeper we drove into the city.

However, once recovered from a jolt of judgement, we found this little city to be quite charming. We stayed in a lovely two-bedroom apartment near the piazza. I strung the wet laundry we hauled for hundreds of miles on a line in a well-heated sunroom that would make for an impeccable solarium.

The host had a darling little sign on a bistro table next to a compact washing machine that read: travel; noun; the only thing you can buy that makes you richer.

After the last few weeks, challenges and all, I nod agreeably to note of wisdom.

We maximized our time in Turin by setting off straight away to browse the streets. Our bellies ready for pre-dinner amusements. Our eyes feasting on the interesting array of high end shops and neat little hole-in-the-wall vintage bookstores.

In the square the girls ran through fountains. We turned down a side street where our happily soaked girls aired out over popcorn and colored pencils. The rest of us tickled our tummies with cured meats or aperitivo. The cheap and cheerful enoteca pumping American rap and hard rock tunes from the nineties was our first appreciation of Italian economics. The food was filling yet our pocketbook was at ease. We couldn’t believe we spent a couple euros on such feast.

While we wait for our dinner reservation we walked along the Po and sat on the steps of a cathedral watching the orange glow of the sunset grow richer against our skin as it dropped below the skyline.

We were the first reservation at Almondo Trattoria. With littles we eat early but in Europe. Since many restaurants close at lunch and reopen after seven for dinner. At home, by seven, the boys would be getting second dinner and the girls in the bath on their way to bedtime stories.

Not in Europe.

We are learning new rhythms and the importance of finding ourselves at a pre-dinner cafe somewhere about five-thirty in the evenings. Osteria’s and bars quickly became a highlight; what with its promises of sweet sparkling grenadine drinks, cheese, and bread baskets.

We had Almondo’s to ourselves the first half hour upon their opening. They barely had overhead music on before crunchy breadsticks landed at the table. The conversation was lively as we compare countries and reviewed our days. The food went fast. Zachary ordered a bottle of Barberesca we were far from finishing; our bellies too full of pasta. We left with smiles and only one broken tiramisu jar.