Turin is where I was born and on the side of the hill we pass the Po, longest river with the shorter name. The Po is a zoo without animals, there are Murazzi always desired and feared, the boys who live at night, the traders, hustlers, the police, the Heads of the culture.
In Turin, all that is called new already old: the new prisons, the New Palace, Porta Nuova. I do not know if the opposite is true, I do not think so.
Torino is still a car factory. Once those who give way to a factory was down the street and recognized by the color of the suit: blue. The workers came from the gates of compact Mirafiori, the Lingotto factory belt and were lost in the streets and avenues of the city went to take their children to school, going home by bike, like my father. Wives helped to bring the expenditure from the wires were hung to dry in blue overalls.
La fabbriche ci sono ancora: rimaneggiate, robotizzate, riconvertite, dissanguate. Gli operai non si vedono più: escono da Mirafiori e si dissolvono nella città che non è mai stata così piena di automobili ma alle automobili non vuole pensare più.
“ Le città sui fiumi sono città alate” disse una volta Thoreau , e in parte aveva ragione.
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