Seedy Saturday

Someone was banging in the corridor. Not just any old banging, but really hammering. My sleep-drugged mind envisioned a football being kicked around the common room. “Why are they playing football at 4 in the morning?” I thought hazily. But then it came back to me.
It was impossible that they could have woken me up at 4 in the morning by playing football, because I hadn’t gone to sleep until 5:30. Memories returned of endless four-euro beers, a race against the clock to find a pub that wasn’t closing, road-side stall sandwiches, the filthy disco on the river Po, several disoriented taxi rides.

Which made it what time? A glance at the clock revealed to my horror that it was in fact 9:00, and the bus was supposed to be loaded with our luggage at 9:30. Furthermore there never had been any football involved in the proceedings, it was merely our deaf next door neighbors, pounding on each others doors to be heard. The first morning we saw them everyone was commenting on how many gestures the Italian’s used when they talked. But no, they were just deaf. I stumbled from my bed and into another day.

Through a superhuman feat of hungover exertion I managed to be showered, dressed, and packed by 9:35. The bus was parked just around the corner from the hostel. Only ‘just around the corner” has an entirely different meaning when you have a very large suitcase. We dragged our luggage across an endless desert of paved roads, cigarette-filled puddles, and enraged Fiat drivers. Eventually depositing them, with no small amount of relief, in the undercarriage of the bus.

Ten minutes later found me drinking cappuccino in a café, gradually returning to some semblance of wakefulness. To my joy I discovered the phenomenon of breakfast aperitifs, convincing me even more what a civilised culture I had entered. How very considerate of them to provide me with free food.

A second cappuccino and I was ready to rejoin the human race. Aranea and Koen elected to explore medieval torture devices in an old castle. Thomas, Marnix, Maureen, Kirsten and I chose to dodge pickpockets in the market square. For several hours we wedged ourselves between swathes of animated Italians (who seemed to be composed entirely of elbows at rib height), buying cheeses, pastas and anything else that took our fancy. The Porto Palazzo market revealed shoe heaven; rows and rows of Italian leather shoes in all different sizes and configurations. For once the men had as good a selection as the women (love those fashion-conscious Italians).

Soon our stomachs were calling to us, and we split for lunch. Thomas, Marnix, Kirsten and Maureen retired to the park with a large bag of tasty objects. I trundled back to Piazza San Carlo to meet Agnes and Geertje for the long-anticipated lunch at a restaurant we had seen on the first day. We were not disappointed. 16 euros saw our plates piled high with delicious buffet treats, quiche, roast chicken, marinated zucchini, rice salad. Then the dessert, a selection of cakes, pastries and fruit salad. All accompanied by fresh orange juice.

Together we returned to Porto Palazzo, and after engaging in a brief screaming match with an Italian market-owner who didn’t like us trying on clothes before we bought them, found ourselves for the umpteenth time in Hafa Café. Finally joining another half of our group, just as they were leaving.

The last few hours passed in a haze, as the endless tiredness once again took hold of my mind. I remember a cup of mint tea (tasting rather like toothpaste), a marching band suddenly and unexpectedly stampeding past, and then later a rather watery spinach and ricotta pizza. But soon we were back on the bus, ready to endure another fifteen hours of sleep deprivation.

Bus rides are a peculiar kind of torture. Allowing you to go to sleep for just long enough to be really relaxing after finally getting comfortable, and then waking you up for rest breaks “HAHA! It’s time to stop again! Bet you didn’t see that one coming?” Fortunately, due to my carefully planned sleepless night of the previous day (or course, I did it on purpose), I slept like a log for 10 of the 15 hours. It didn’t seem that long before we were pulling up at the bus station in Delft.

And saying what was, for me at least, a sad goodbye. Knowing that the clock is ticking onwards, its only another three months, and then I might never again see these people that I have gotten to know so well in the last week. Goodbye Torino, the city I fell in love with.