F***ing awesome Friday!

Oh to wake up refreshed for once…. I keenly felt the loss of my 8 hours sleep.

But Today was THE day. Today was the day that anyone with testosterone had anticipated throughout the week. Today was the visit to the Fiat Factory. The hub of car production, the global giant of imposing car-dom, the master of car-iness. I tried all day to remember what the acronym actually stood for, but could only think of “Fix It Again Tony”.

I couldn’t keep my eyes open on the bus there, and it was with desperate disappointment that I discovered we had arrived and I would have to remove myself from the uncharacteristically comfortable seat. Then to my joy we were moved into another smaller bus, and I had a blissful five more minutes of sleep while we trundled through the enormous grounds of the “Millefiori” factory. Actually, I think Millefiori is a type of pastry? But the word was similar…. I was asleep so I have an excuse for not remembering.

First up an amazing tour of the production line. The kind of thing I used to draw large and complicated pictures of when I was about five. The kind of pictures that required multiple pieces of paper sticky-taped together along the edges. A machine that presses the metal, a machine that stamps the plastic, a machine that rivets everything together. Men with power tools, sparks flying as they performed painfully dental looking operations on the suspended cars. All while the cars go trundling by hanging from conveyer belt hooks.
But it was very warm in the factory. Oh so very warm. And once again I was seated, in a little cart that went trunding by all the assembly lines. The rocking motion of the cart was rather soothing. “I CAN”T BELIEVE YOU FELL ASLEEP IN FIAT!!”. I suffered much abuse from a flabbergasted Nico upon exiting the factory. Astonished that I had the gall to do such a sacrilegious thing as fall asleep inside the holy of holies.

It wasn’t the first time though. Later we were ushered into a dark theatre, where the worlds most amazing CAD system reposed. From a view of an entire car you could zoom in to just one detail, for example the locking mechanism. Backlit so that you could walk up to the screen and point things out without doing something so heinous as casting a shadow on it. Just looking at it was enough to inspire terror, as I imagined what would happen if it was my Solidworks model. I would change one thing, say the texture of the tyre, and that little box would pop up on the screen “You have one or more rebuild errors”. The little box of doom. Suddenly half my solidworks model would be sucked into some kind of black hole and no longer exist. In my panic I would somehow save over all my backup versions. Parts that previously were connected together would instead float by themselves in a bemused manner. A car seat, entirely purposeless as the rest of the car vanishes.

The theatre was really very dark… and much much to warm. And I was sitting behind Guido, who is very tall and was conveniently blocking the direct line of site between me and the company representative. I allowed my eyes to shut and spent the next twenty minutes dreaming about endless lists of rebuild errors.

The next room held yet more FIAT treasures. Some ‘models’. It seems the definition of a car model differs somewhat from the pathetic wood block thingies I have to endlessly produce in my degree. I opened the door and got inside, did up my seatbelt. All it was missing was an engine. A nice little ‘model’ to the tune of 10,000 euros. I’ve driven real cars that cost half of that. Fortunately this room was better lit, and I didn’t have to endure the ultimate embarrassment of falling asleep inside the car model, although the seats were tremendously comfortable.

Next came my own long-awaited Torino event. The Salone del Gusto… a world of endless eating. What could be better than a world food fair, hosted in Italy? Perhaps a world food fair hosted in France would be a close competitor… but nothing else could even hope to rival it. We paid our 12 euros and, brandishing our toothpicks, perused the fair like vultures. If something looked edible, in went the toothpick, and a quick plate-to-mouth transfer took place. Salami, parmesan cheese, fresh bread, breadsticks, fish, olive tapenade, jams, chocolates, ham. Soon I had also gained possession of a little cup. So then came the wine, spirits, and ciocolatto (worlds most indulgent drink). I’m afraid the salone del gusto didn’t really make their money’s worth out of me that day. I was too flabbergasted by the endless range of delicious foods to decide what I wanted, so instead didn’t buy anything save a little tub of the world’s most orgasmic hazelnut gelato, which I ate on the spot.

As the sun set we retired to the roof of the complex, where the former FIAT testing track was, and basked in the warmth of the evening. A tremendous open space, with a beautiful view over those jagged mountains of Torino, between which the sun carefully descended so as not to impale itself on their peaks.

For me Salone del Gusto counted for lunch and dinner. And possibly the next days worth of meals as well. So I sat idly by in the restaurant while all those who hadn’t over-greedied at the festival ate a light dinner. Wilmer ordered a breathing calzone. Whenever he poked one end with his knife, the other end sighed with despair. Meanwhile I amused myself by stealing noodles off Bart’s plate, and attempting to arm-wrestle Thomas (losing miserably).

After everyone was adequately fed we returned once again to quadrilatero romano, somehow avoiding the cruel clutches of fate and going to a bar other than 5km. We lost two in the struggle however… Agnes and Bart were drawn inexorably to 5km to meet the Italians, while I optimistically said I would join them later.

But several hours and a numble of drinks later I still hadn’t moved out of my chair. Even to the point where I decided it would be a good idea to change out of my pants and into my stockings without getting up. The time to meet Bart and Agnes had been and gone, and the clock was approaching two. Eventually half the group lost the battle against sleep, and returned to the hostel. We gained some substitute party-goers, as Bart gave up on my joining them in 5km. Instead he returned, with the white-haired Italian Swede Par in tow.

The bar was closing and we had to move on. With only the five die-hards remained, Par, Thomas, Marco, Bart and myself. The fortunate addition of Par allowed us to find a nice little Irish pub, several blocks away, winding after him through the narrow streets of Torino while he rode ahead on his bike. It was empty but for us and an Italian couple, who were smooching in a booth while their dog sat regally on the couch beside them. Apart from that my defining memories are mainly of telling Irish jokes whilst wearing a bicycle helmet, and encountering yet another unfortunate Torino toilet. Alas our stint in the Irish pub was all too short, as they too decided to close at around 3:30.

It is testament to our inebriation that we then decided it would be a good idea to return to the discos on the river Po. But one more beer and a pancetta sandwich later, the weakest link had begun to break, and the night was wearing thin. At 5am it was time to say goodbye to those mojito-strewn evenings, once and for all. We took our last taxi of the week, zooming with true Italian chaos through the cobbled streets and back to our beds.