Porta Palazzo

Oh, the Porta Palazzo! It's kind of nice just to say it. Porta Palazzo, Porta Palazzo, Porta Palazzo. I like the way it just rolls off my tongue, sexy-like, and liberated from the clench of the jaw; like the way most Italian words just enter the world uninhibited and gorgeous. For those who are not in the know, Porta Palazzo is a giant food market situated, almost plopped, in the middle of the suave city of Turin. I have been hearing about it for some time, and so I decided to discover it all by my lonesome. It was a beautiful Saturday morning in late November, and I was bright and excited to experience the market to end all markets. Vegetables, fruits, fish, cheese, olives, awaited my arrival. But the beautiful Saturday morning morphed into heavy rain and below zero temperatures, but I was determined. I had a cappucino at my favorite cafe, and a toast. A toast here at least, is a pressed sandwich, sort of like a panino, with ham and cheese oozing out. I felt pretty good after that duo, and sort of waltzed out into the rain, towards the train station. Trains were delayed, as they always are in Italy, it was an hour and a half before the next one, and so I called my friend for a chat, and maybe yet another coffee. She was game, but she wanted something more substantial. I said I would accompany her, but only have a water. Who am I kidding? We went to one of Bra's most venerable eateries, virtually unchanged in decades. The owner is a funny but grumpy middle-aged man, and he sort of just gets by muttering half-truths out and into the heads of customers. My friend had her heart set on egg noodles with truffle shavings. It's still high truffle season here. I tried to be resolute and only stick with water, because I was full, damn that toast, but I could feel my will crumbling. I heard myself say, "I'll have one too." My friend cackled at my lack of discipline. She said, well, Clover, you're only in Italy for a few months, why not indulge, and so I did. If there's a heaven, and I don't think there is, this was it. I mean, I could have made love to that dish. I could have spent a life with that dish. I could have worn that dish around. Anyway, after the orgasmic offerings, I got on the train, stuffed and happy. I emerged a little plumper in Turin, and searched for the market in the rain. And then I arrived. And it was too much. Overwhelming, endless rows of vegetables and fruits, greens, olives, smoked fish, cheese, I was paralyzed, and my umbrella broke. So now here I was a rapidly becoming plump tourist with a broken umbrella and eyes full of wonderment. I only bought three things at the market that day, and one of the purchases proved to be, perhaps the most inconvenient, and stupid. A woman from Sicily was selling her wares, and because she was wrapping up her day at the coliseum, she was selling two kilos of clementines for one euro. What a deal! I'll take them. I had no foresight about what it would be like to carry 2 kilos of clementines in the rain, in the crowds, in the sheer pandemonium of a Saturday evening in Turin. Note to self and reader: two kilos is heavy. It's something like six or seven pounds. And then for added comic effect, the clementines found a way out of the thin plastic bag, and they began to plop themselves here and there and everywhere around Porta Palazzo, leaving a trail for a pack of Arabs that started to follow me. This is not fiction, I swear. In the last ten years or so, Porta Palazzo has become more and more infiltrated by other cultures, and now the market houses a majority of Arab vegetable and fruit purveyors. Anyway, they must have sensed a sister among them, apparently they could smell that I had some middle-eastern in me, and began to follow me. We're not talking a dribble of men, but hoards, throngs, almost as if I was a bitch in heat, and a pack of dogs were on my trail. The thing is that I could not lose them, because the clementine trail afforded them a supreme advantage. I started to walk briskly, and entered the indoor part of the market, that is really comprised of meat and cheese. I hid behind a giant carcass, and managed to buy some walnut gorgonzola, and then some olives. If pushed, I could perhaps use the gorgonzola to smother the offenders, and the olives to stone them. The meat and animal parts started to depress me, so I exited quickly, pulled my pathetic, broken umbrella almost over my face, and ran towards the center. At this point, my clementine bag was light - I think only one remained. I ran to the train in the rain without getting slain but in significant pain, as I stubbed my toe at the ticket booth. Finally I managed to get on the train, and sat down all sweaty. I looked at my sad purchases, one runny gorgonzola oozing out of the wax paper, one sad heap of olives, and one clementine. It was then and there that I ended the clementine's reign over me. I ate it. It was satisfying. Oh my darling, oh my darling clementine.