A Gianduja weekend

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.

This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s