Naked in Dangerous Places - Cash Peters [111]
While the camera was being dismantled from its tripod, my microphone was removed from inside my shirt. A watershed moment of sorts, demoting me to civilian status once again. As of this minute, I'm a free man. Nothing to do, no scripts to write, no meetings to take, no plans to make, just an entire day to myself in which to embrace and admire one of Italy's most precious jewels: Turin.
Now all that remains is to figure out what I'm going to do with it.
I didn't realize this, but at one time Torino—the Italians have a sexier way of saying everything, don't they?—used to be the capital of Italy. Then the government had second thoughts and moved to Florence, and, when it tired of that, Rome. Finding itself stripped at a stroke of all political clout and at a loose end, Torino decided to reinvent itself, becoming a major industrial hub instead, famed especially as the home of Fiat cars and Pirelli tires. Also, some of the world's greatest wines are produced in the fertile soils of the Piedmont region around it. And perhaps most important, during the eighteenth century, it was in this city that hard chocolate was invented. “Hard” in the sense that it could be carried in your pocket. Before then, it was only available as hot drinking chocolate, which meant it was continually seeping through your pants.
However, what Torino is most high-profile for, bizarrely, is the very least of its achievements: the Turin Shroud, a strip of linen that Jesus was supposedly wrapped in after his crucifixion (circa Ancient Historical Times). They know this because it bears his image. Although, before you get carried away with excitement, be warned; according to Science, the image is not of Jesus at all, just some guy who looks like him (very possibly Hulk Hogan—the resemblance is uncanny). The herringbone fabric of the Shroud, scientists insist, was woven much later (circa Historical Times), and is therefore a complete sham.
Sadly, nobody's had the heart to tell the people of Turin yet.
Hm. Now, there's something I could do today.
Consulting the front desk of my hotel, I find to my delight that the Shroud is nearby, preserved in conditions of heightened security to prevent you trying it on, inside the royal chapel at the duomo, the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist, which the receptionist assures me is within walking distance, but only if you enjoy walking for a very, very long time, which, it just so happens, I do.2
Accordingly, I set off, following my nose through a circuit-board of eighteenth-century streets, most of them little more than deep stone shafts that shrink the sky to a strip of blue floss above my head.
Torino looks like Paris. A lot like Paris, actually. In fact, if Paris ever gets destroyed, it's comforting to know we have a backup. Both cities share the same love of baroque grandeur and pretension and a similar clutter of side streets opening onto magical squares and arcades. Yet Torino manages to outparis Paris in certain key ways. Anyone can do tree-lined boulevards, cute patio restaurants, and cake shops, their windows piled high with extravagant tarts and fruit pies in storybook colors. That's architecture-by-numbers. It's the larger-scale spectacles—the blissfully photogenic mansions, bridges, and ornate bell towers, often dating back to the birth of the city in the 1500s—that elevate Torino from your average two-bit civic pageant into an all-singing, all-dancing parade.
Before getting down to tackle the serious subject of the Shroud, I decide to fortify myself with a spot of lunch, and, a couple of blocks farther on, come across a lovely sunny restaurant that is very clean and inviting. Nearly every table is taken, a sure sign that the food is good. Or that they didn't buy enough tables. Better still, the menu has convenient little photographs of each dish that you can point at to save time. This spares visiting American yokels the sheer inconvenience of learning such complicated exotic