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On My Way To Tuscany: Part II

My train arrived in Torino the following morning. The sun was just rising with that morning glow that all writers write about at some point in their career, sometimes a little too often. At this hour the train station was empty, and the city was barely, if at all, awake. My first impression of Torino was of its architecture – complete with a vision of God dropping large blocks of stone with a thud from the sky. Torino had the appearance of being bulky and boxy and dense. Leaving the station with the intention of finding an open cafe for my morning coffee, I walked through the cubed porticos of the city center until I could smell the aroma of the liquid I was looking for. I forgot my words and ordered my au lait in French. The barista gently reminded me that I was now over the border and in Italy and that they served cappuccino for breakfast. Would that do? Yes. Yes it would.

Torino was not my final destination that day. Although there was no clear agenda or idea in my head of where the final destination might be. Torino was my intended entrance into Italy. The first place that the train had stopped after crossing the border. My aim was to reach points further to the south, to see the places and people that really piqued my artistic interest and had brought me here. Pisa. Firenze. Siena. Roma. Napoli. Michelangelo. Botticelli. Caravaggio. Bernini.

But for that first day, I think my only requirements may have been that the destination was inexpensive and on the beach and that there was a hostel to stay in. Watching the day get brighter from my table on the sidewalk, I sipped my first *real* Italian cappuccino of my life, full of strong Italian roast coffee covered in steamy, milky, fluffy, foam. Pulling my guidebook out of my bag, I thumbed through the Italian beach towns. It seemed that there was a do-able place just to the south of Torino, called Finale Ligure.

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