“Turin, dear friend, is a discovery of the first importance… the first place in which I am possible!” ~ Friedrich Nietzsche

When someone tells me they’re planning their virgin visit to Turin, I offer a bitter warning: Turin is a shrewd mistress. An addiction. A voice that keeps calling your name, and directing your hand to type words like ‘Singapore Airlines’ or ‘Etihad’ or ‘Lufthansa’ in your web browser when you’re supposed to be, ironically, working hard to earn the money you’ll need to be visiting websites called Singapore Airlines, Etihad, or Lufthansa.

It wasn’t always like this. I was happy once. Looking forward to a Saturday or Sunday or Monday or Wednesday. Setting the alarm in decreasing decibels for 2.25am, 2.30am, 2.35am, 2.40am – and knowing exactly when the clocks change (30 October, FYI) because the alarms need to move by an hour too. I would watch these little men in black and white stripes on TV in the dead of night, cheer with friends over text messages, screaming silent screams at referees, goals, trophies. (Stay with my flashback sequence here, and let’s pretend all nights were celebratory nights.)

Then, I went to the Juventus Stadium.

That compact, cosy Stadium where every seat makes you feel like you’re close enough to leap onto the pitch. Where the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as the first beat of ACDC’s Thunderstuck booms overhead. Where you let everything go and shout at the top of your voice the name of every player on the day’s team sheet – saving the loudest for your favourites. (“BARZAGLI!”)

Where you look around to see 41,500 people from all over the world, of all colours, from all languages, stop to hold up their Juventus scarves and sing “Simili a degli eroi, abbiamo il cuore a strisce” in perfect unison.

Where you shamelessly wave your “JUVENTUS CLUB SINGAPORE” scarf specifically at the elder cameraman (because old men love me – don’t ask why); grinning like the overzealous teenager you’re way too old to be; knowing full well you’ll go on the giant screen at the Stadium (because a Singaporean in Turin – come on, that’s pretty cool, right?); yet no one at home will ever see it; but hey, for half a second, your stupidly-grinning face was created using a reconfiguration of the same pixels that made Buffon’s face a few minutes ago.

I could never watch a Juventus match on TV the same way again. I was left gazing longingly at the TV, squinting to find the section where I was, and reminiscing the time when it was me on that seat.

That Stadium ruined my life.

But not as much as Around J ruined my life.

You see, my virgin visit to Turin was in July 2013 – long before Maurizio Giovanelli decided he was going to make a family out of 180 million Juventini from all corners of the earth. It was two years before I returned, and I stayed at a hotel on Via Principe Amedeo.

But as anyone who had visited Turin ‘Before Around J’ and ‘After Around J’ will tell you, something just clicks when Maurizio comes into your life in Turin.

In the summer of 2015, he and I agreed to meet at 12.30pm at Via Lagrange, three steps away from the famous One Apple Concept Bar. One overpriced drink there, one overabundant lunch at Casa Slurp, and one oversized gelato at Grom later, we were family.

After two off-season visits, I knew it was time for a game. So I returned in November for Milan and Manchester City. This time, I decided to stay at the Hotel Ponte Sassi.

Yes. That, too, ruined my life.

I met Luca Carpi, the one-of-a-kind hotel-owner who deserves a sitcom of his own. I met Zdenka and Zoran, the sweetest couple who takes care of everything you need around the hotel – from feeding you (too well!) in the morning, cleaning your room while you’re out gallivanting, and making the WiFi work when you’re about ready to throw your phone into the Po River.

I met Gabriella, Luca’s mother, who didn’t speak a word of English while I didn’t speak enough Italian beyond ordering food or swearing – yet we spent hours altogether during my week there, just ‘talking’… about Singapore, about Turin, about weather, about food, about Juventus, about Luca, about planes, about trains, about the film festival, about the chocolate festival, about Buffon leaving his wife. (Mama Carpi judges you, Gigi.)

I met Adam Digby, the Juventino extraordinaire who took me on a personal walking tour of Turin and narrating all of its Juventus stories – an experience that all Juventini visiting Turin must have at least once in a lifetime.

I haven’t even started to tell you about the hotdog-and-beer cart not far from Entrance C of the Juventus Stadium, where a world of Juventini (literally) meet some two to three hours before each home game. It’s called ‘Pamela’ because, as the story goes, there used to be a life-size photo of Pamela Anderson on the side of the cart, but it has since been changed to a creepy-looking baby. ‘Creepy Baby’ isn’t the best of reference points, so Pamela kept her calling name.

I haven’t even started to tell you that, at this very cart, I alone have made Juventini brothers and sisters from USA, Canada, UK, Cyprus, Georgia, Poland, Estonia, the Netherlands, and of course, Italy. You can only imagine the myriad other nationalities Maurizio, Luca, and their Curva Sud friends meet at Pamela’s every other week.

I haven’t even started to tell you about the after-game parties with pizzas as large as the tables, endless flows of beer and wine (and juice for me), chattering in Ital-English that we all seem to understand perfectly, and enough laughter for Monsters Inc. to power Monstropolis for a year. (Yes, I just made a Disney reference. No, I won’t grow up.)

What I will tell you is that this trip was when the addiction took hold of me. I was strolling in Piazza Castello on the Wednesday morning of the Manchester City game, my last day in Turin on that trip, when I caught myself mentally doing the math for the next round of airfares and expenses.

I hurried to Caffè Mulassano (thanks, Adam), ordered an espresso and a giandiuotto, and pulled up the calculator on my phone. I hadn’t even left yet, and was already making plans to return.

Turin is a city that grips your heart with the ferocity of a lioness looking to feed her starving cubs. She does not let go. She will make sure that you miss her every minute of every day you are away from her, until your bus from Malpensa goes by that Egyptian Sphinx sitting in the middle of a roundabout – telling you that you are, truly and finally, home again.

I blame Juventus. I blame Around J. I blame the Hotel Ponte Sassi.

They ruined my life – by completely spoiling me.

They spoiled me with the opportunity to experience Juventus in ways I had only previously dreamed. They spoiled me by putting this introverted, socially-awkward girl-from-across-the-world completely at ease. They spoiled me with a sense of home that, in all my travels, I have never found in any other place on earth.

I have not watched a Juventus match on TV the same way again. I scarcely eat Italian food in Singapore anymore. And after the first bite of giandiuotto, any other chocolate isn’t good enough anymore. These days, I spend a lot of my daydreaming time calculating numbers – the finances it will take and how to achieve it, and the number of days it will be before I can be home again.

It was Umberto Eco who wrote, “Without Italy, Turin would be more or less the same. But without Turin, Italy would be very different.”

If I may be so bold, let me paraphrase that just a tad for you: Without Turin, Around J would be more or less the same. But without Around J, Turin would be very different.

Yes, my life is ruined. But I cannot think of a better way to live. Now, go ruin yours. It’s worth it.

Farah Bagharib-Kaltz (from Juventus Club DOC Singapore)
https://www.facebook.com/JuventusClubSG/

All you need to know about visiting Turin with Around J, here: https://around-j.com/plan-trip-turin-juventus-time/