The tips of the Alps, sprinkled with icing sugar-like snow, stand enormous over the clear sky, blue as the ribbon of a baby boy, smooth as a satin vest.
The doors of the city open to the generous embrace of the arcades over boundless squares, ball rooms of a royal palace en plein air, celebrating all of its greatness.
Here it is. Turin. An elegant old lady, enwrapped in the warm wood of antiquarians and in the subtle fragrance of chocolate, embellished by curvy wrought-iron jewels. Gaping over the shore where she quenches her thirst, riverbanks of a dynamic vein which upsets the order of her streets. She smiles with austerity, as she reflects on the windows of liberty-signed boutiques, tying her past to the dusty bow ties of old cafés’ waiters.