I didn’t mean to land in Turin.
That feels important to say up front.
I had planned for Rome. I had imagined Rome. I had oriented myself toward Rome in the way you do when you think you know what a chapter of your life is supposed to look like. Then, very close to the moment of departure, Rome fell through. The apartment disappeared. Prices spiked. Summer surged. I was standing in Ireland, already unmoored by bureaucratic delay, staring down the reality that I had to choose something quickly or lose the thread altogether.
A friend I barely knew said, casually, that Turin was cool. Creative. Gritty. Worth experiencing.
So I booked it.
The entire month. Sight unseen.
I didn’t research the city. I didn’t research the apartment. I didn’t even look closely at photos until the weekend before I left. When I finally did, Google Maps served up images taken on what must have been the single worst day of the year. Gray. Wet. Heavy. Rain slicking the stone. Fear set in immediately. I remember thinking, What have I done? Was I about to spend July inside, sweating, lonely, and stuck?
That fear was wrong. Completely wrong.
Turin was bright. Elegant. Lively. It was quieter than Rome, yes, but not asleep. It moved with intention. It felt lived-in. It felt like a place that wasn’t performing itself for visitors. And almost immediately, it asked something of me.
Language was the first friction point. Italian was everywhere. French followed closely behind. English was rare, or at least it felt rare to me. I had done six weeks of Duolingo. I had not taken it seriously enough. I felt that acutely. Ordering coffee became an exercise in humility. Grocery store interactions required focus. Small exchanges carried weight. And layered underneath all of it was shame.
I’m in their country. I should speak the language.
That voice was loud. It followed me through the day. It made everything take longer. And yet, slowly, it did something else too. It slowed me down in a way I could not avoid.
The heat enforced this. People warn you about an Italian summer, but you cannot understand it until you step into it. I left Ireland in seventy-degree weather and landed in ninety-degree heat. There was no air conditioning in my apartment. None. At first, it felt impossible. The air was thick. Sleep was light. The days stretched. And then, somehow, my body adjusted.
You really do get used to it.
Rain came often, but it did not cool things off. It only added texture. I used to laugh when it rained because it seemed to bring more people out into the streets, not fewer. Maybe everyone just wanted to confirm that the moisture on their skin was, in fact, rain and not sweat.
The heat dictated everything. My days found a rhythm quickly because they had to. Grocery shopping early. A stop in the park. Coffee. Yoga. Journaling. Work until dusk. And then, as if summoned, the entire city took to the streets.
From six to eleven every night, Turin walked.
Families. Couples. Teenagers. Elders. Everyone. I am not exaggerating when I say the city emptied into itself. I joined them. Night after night. I developed a route without realizing it had become one. From my apartment near Massimo and Pio, up toward the Royal Palace. Zig-zagging back through side streets. Down into Piazza San Carlo. Window shopping along Pietro Micca long after the stores had closed. A stop at Gelateria La Romana. Then home.
The people-watching was unmatched. I felt like a camera in a film. Silent. Observant. Absorbing. I learned how to kill time in Turin because I absolutely had to. There was nowhere to rush to. Nothing to conquer. The city didn’t reward urgency.
This was also where something heavier landed.
I was in Turin when I accepted that I could not save my grandmother.
I had been carrying a kind of false hope with me. A belief that if I stayed organized enough, strategic enough, relentless enough, I could control the outcome. I spent days soliciting doctors. Interviewing lawyers. Mapping scenarios. Building a plan to remove her from an abusive and neglectful living situation and bring her home to Ireland.
But reality does not bend simply because you want it to.
The moment it broke open for me is etched into my memory. I was standing under one of Turin’s porticoes, those massive stone coverings that line the city center, built centuries ago to protect royalty from the elements. It was pouring. I was leaning against the wall, too hesitant to cross the street. One ear filled with the sound of rain slapping pavement. The other pressed to my phone.
The lawyer was being kind. Direct. Unflinching.
“What’s the end goal here?” he asked.
Then, quieter. “We cannot save people.”
I stared at a crack in the cement. A small, triangular break in the stone. I listened.
“You can rescue her from this situation,” he continued. “You can protect her from the harm and neglect she’s been receiving. But the people doing this are not going to stop. It sounds like, to me, ‘four years of this’ you said, they’ve made that clear.”
I didn’t interrupt him.
After a long pause, I asked the only question I had left.
“Okay. What can I do?”
He waited. Then said, simply, “It sounds like you both need to find peace.”
That sentence followed me everywhere after that. Finding peace became the intention of my days in Turin. Not productivity. Not resolution. Peace. First for my nervous system. Then for my spirit.
There is an irony I still think about. One that feels too perfect to ignore. My life has always been shaped by a quiet tug-of-war between my two inheritances. Italian-American on my mother’s side. Irish-American on my father’s. As a child, my mom had primary custody, but my grandmother’s house on my dad’s side was where I always wanted to be. It was where I felt aligned. Accepted. Welcomed. At home.
So I left America to pursue life in Ireland. Thinking, perhaps unconsciously, that I could guarantee that alignment if I just placed myself close enough to it. And then, due to bureaucratic delay, I had to leave Ireland. And I landed in Italy. For a summer that would end, three months later, with the loss of the most steadfast pillar of support I have ever known.
And also, strangely, with the deepest sense of self I’ve ever had.
Turin showed me another side of myself. One that mirrored my mother’s lineage. The way people moved. What they valued. What they did not waste time on. The city was clean. Orderly. Intentional. Trash was taken out daily. Sometimes multiple times a day. You bought only what you needed. Nothing lingered without purpose. It was a culture of lightness that did not feel careless.
When the weight of my grandmother’s situation became too much, I fled for a weekend. I went to Milan to see Taylor Swift. This surprises people. I am a closeted Swiftie. She lives high on my Spotify Wrapped every year. Always in the top one percent of listeners. I needed to be inside something collective. Something loud. Thousands of people singing All Too Well badly and together.
It worked.
Milan felt electric. Fashionable. Connected. I saw the Duomo for the first time. I do not think I will ever see another cathedral like it. The hotel had air conditioning and I luxuriated in it to the point that returning to my apartment in Turin felt like punishment. That part makes me laugh now.
When I left Turin, I felt overwhelmed with gratitude. Moved by the surprise of it. I remember telling my friend Omar how lucky I felt that Rome had fallen through. How lucky I felt to have trusted a stranger. To have trusted myself. To have stayed. To have walked. To have chosen more whenever I could.
Turin was not my introduction to Italy in the way people usually mean. But I am endlessly grateful that it was mine.
Where to Find Yourself in Turin
If you find yourself in Turin, and only if you want to, these are a few doors I would open again.
Sweet Lab
Via Principe Amedeo, 39, 10123 Torino TO, Italy
A small café across from my apartment that saved me more times than I can count. Reliable coffee. A genuinely good breakfast sandwich. Comfort without fuss.
Via Roma
Central Turin
A grand, open-air shopping corridor lined with porticoes. Think American mall scale, but entirely outdoors and woven into daily life. Even after hours, it is worth walking.
Valdo Fusi Skate Park
Via Accademia Albertina, 10123 Torino TO, Italy
A surprisingly grounding place to sit with a book. People of all ages gather here. Skateboarding. Talking. Existing. It felt communal without being performative.
Caffè San Carlo
Piazza San Carlo, 156, 10123 Torino TO, Italy
An ideal afternoon pause. Coffee. Something sweet. A chance to sit still and watch the square breathe.
Real Chiesa di San Lorenzo
Via Palazzo di Città, 6, 10122 Torino TO, Italy
Architecturally striking and quietly powerful. Worth stepping into, especially if you enjoy noticing how light moves through space.
Royal Palace of Turin Art Collections
Piazzetta Reale, 1, 10122 Torino TO, Italy
The collections here are expansive and humbling. They tell a story of accumulation, power, and preservation that feels uniquely intact.
Monumento a Casimiro Teja Area
Behind Piazza delle Erbe
This small corner of the city held my heart. Casa Broglia offers sprawling patio seating and food that encourages lingering. Pizzum next door is a fast-casual fallback when things get busy. The magic is in the cluster. Stay awhile.
Passion Sport
Corso Regina Margherita, 22/f, 10153 Torino TO, Italy
A locally owned specialty retailer for hiking, camping, and outdoor gear. Knowledgeable staff. Thoughtful selection. A reminder that good retail still exists.
Osteria Al Tagliere
Via Corte d’Appello, 6, 10122 Torino TO, Italy
Casual. Cozy. Old-world in the best way. Known for cured meats, cheeses, and Piedmontese specialties. The kind of place where time stretches.
Gelateria La Romana dal 1947
Via Santa Teresa, 6/B, 10121 Torino TO, Italy
This became my go-to not just for the gelato, which is excellent, but for the warmth of the staff. It is the kind of place where service itself feels like a small kindness, and that mattered more than I expected.
The Beach Nightclub
Murazzi del Po Gipo Farassino, 22, 10124 Torino TO, Italy
In summer, this is where the city gathers after dark. Packed. Sweaty. Alive. A DJ worth listening to and a crowd that feels present.
And finally, the independent booksellers.
They line the major streets. You will find them if you walk. I can’t give you an address. That feels right.
