When Nietzsche arrived in Turin in April 1888, he found a city diminished. In the 16th century, it had been the grand capital of the Duchy of Savoy and later served as the political and intellectual centre of the Risorgimento, the movement for Italian political unification. However, when the newly unified Italy moved its capital to Florence, Turin's industrial resurgence was still several years away. Unsurprisingly, Nietzsche, a refugee from modernising Europe, fell in love with the city immediately.
"This is a city I can use now," he wrote to a friend. "What a worthy and serious city! Not at all a metropolis, nor modern, as I had feared. Rather, it is a city of seventeenth-century royalty, characterised by a singular commanding taste in all things—the taste of the court and the nobles. Aristocratic tranquility has been preserved in everything; there are no unpleasant suburbs."
I remember reading this letter in India in the late 1980s, before I had visited Europe. To me, Nietzsche's last years had a tragic grandeur—the solitary genius wandering anonymously across the continent, filled with dire premonitions of the disasters awaiting it as it entered the nihilistic age of nationalism and industrial capitalism. Among all the places where Nietzsche had lived, I longed most to visit Turin, the location where, one winter morning, his clear-sightedness finally became a disease.
In 2003, when I finally travelled to Turin, the city had clearly changed. Before and after the Second World War, it had been Italy's industrial capital, largely due to the Fiat factory located just outside the centre. Its suburbs, though not unpleasant, appeared as bleak as those of any European city. Much of the city had been heavily bombed during the war, which serves as the backdrop for Cesare Pavese's great novel The House on the Hill (1949).
However, it wasn’t difficult to see in the Baroque centre— with the Alps forming a romantic backdrop—the city that Nietzsche had known: opulent palaces built by the House of Savoy, long arcaded avenues of hard stuccoed yellow and brown buildings, flagstone pavements, and piazzas that were spacious yet retained a sense of intimacy.
The city had retained some of its confident aristocratic air and an oddly placeless quality—unlike most Italian cities, Turin seems little touched by the Renaissance—but it was also uniquely European. Almost miraculously, it appeared to have avoided being overwhelmed by the signs of global consumerism that now blight not only the cities of "Free Europe" but also those of the formerly unfree world, such as Prague, Beijing, and Calcutta.
On my first day in Turin, I walked to Via Carlo Alberto, where Nietzsche had spent a few months in a room in a four-storey building called the Galleria Subalpina. On Via Roma, the city's main shopping street, there were outlets of Armani, Versace, and Gucci, but there were also smaller shops selling leather goods and clothing—products of Italy's family-owned small businesses and industries. Remarkably, the city centre seemed free of Starbucks, McDonald's, and other multinational brand-name stores that lend a dreary modernity to so many old European cities.
Old-fashioned bookshops—often tucked away in little alleys—were still ubiquitous in Turin. The elegant little volumes by Einaudi and Adelphi conveyed the impression, if not of a still flourishing and deepening European culture, then of a heritage steeped in reflection and complexity.
The city had been in decline for some time, even while the Italian economy was booming, and it now had a rapidly ageing and diminishing population. Old Italian couples wandered through the piazzas. Turin was free of the bus-loads of tourists that render Florence, Rome, and Venice both exuberant and uninhabitable in summer. However, it was untouched by the desolation of Lisbon, to which Turin initially reminded me—the desolation of a city that had lost its imperial glory too early. Instead, it possessed an un-Italian melancholy, and as I sat in a dark café while rain fell outside on the cobbled streets, it was not hard to imagine how the city may have influenced its famous writers, who either went mad (Nietzsche) or took their own lives (Pavese, Primo Levi).
I returned to Turin this year, shortly after spending a few weeks in China. The city had hosted the Winter Olympics in February, but the renewal I had been reading about seemed confined to a few parts of the city. Fiat's old factory now houses a long shopping mall and the city’s first five-star hotel. A trendy new café occupies the site of Nietzsche's lodgings. However, its attempts to attract foreign tourists don’t seem to be working. Faced with the smorgasbord of pleasures in Italy, tourists are unlikely to choose Turin.
In any case, much larger changes are overtaking not just Turin but also Italy as a whole. Travelling through China, the momentous process of globalisation became clearer to me, and no place in Western Europe seems more adversely affected by it than Italy. The country's family-owned small and medium-sized businesses, which I had so admired, are simply unable to compete with the factories of China.
The mood of the young man who drove me from the airport was grim. Italian companies, including Fiat, were seeking cheap labour in other parts of the world, and unemployment was likely to rise. Italy had registered zero economic growth in the previous four years, and neither the recently elected Romano Prodi nor his rival Berlusconi seemed able to address the situation.
But Turin, with its old couples shuffling through the arcades, seemed as serenely indifferent as ever to the rise and fall of Italy's fortunes. One afternoon, I visited the National Museum of Cinema, which is housed inside the Mole Antonelliana, the historic synagogue with a distinctive spire that served as the backdrop for many Olympic-inspired images of Turin.
I sprawled on a red-silk upholstered chaise lounge and watched clips from Fellini and Godard projected onto the ceiling. As the young Marcello Mastroianni and Jean-Paul Belmondo strode across the screen, I felt an odd pang of nostalgia—strange, because that past of Europe, the 1960s, was never mine. I couldn’t help but reflect on how swiftly the innocence and energy of postwar Europe vanished, replaced by an economic unit overseen by bland businessmen and politicians.
It is not easy to see how Europe’s cities will cope with harsh changes. However, walking out of the dimly lit film museum and down the empty Via Po—where Nietzsche once threw his arms around a horse and collapsed—I felt optimistic about Turin. The city had long rejected the gloss of modernity and perhaps would continue to wear its decay with the same dignity it had a century ago when Nietzsche sought refuge from an aggressively modern Europe.
To reach Turin, Italy, you can fly into Turin-Caselle Airport (TRN), situated about 16 km from the city centre. Many international flights connect through major European hubs such as London, Paris, or Frankfurt. From the airport, you can take a taxi or the SADEM bus to the city centre. Alternatively, high-speed trains from Milan (about 1 hour) or Rome (approximately 4 hours) connect to Turin's Porta Susa or Porta Nuova stations. Driving is also an option, as highways link Turin to France and Switzerland. The city's central location makes it easily accessible via public transportation or car from surrounding European cities.
The best time to visit Turin is during the spring (April to June) and fall (September to October). During these months, the weather is pleasant, with mild temperatures and fewer tourists. Spring features blooming gardens and various festivals, while fall showcases vibrant autumn colours and the truffle season in the nearby Piedmont region. Summers can be hot and crowded, especially in July and August. Winter (December to February) is colder but ideal for those interested in skiing in the nearby Alps or enjoying the city's Christmas markets and winter festivities.