Torino, Italy. Week 24

A Generational Journey, Part 1.

My father attended medical school in Torino during the 1950s. My memories of his stories are few: skiing in the Italian Alps, young love, the food… but what I recall most vividly is how he looked when he spoke about that time. His eyes would shine, and his voice would turn melodic when he slipped into speaking Italian; it seemed as though he was time-traveling—transported right back into those days.

Last week, I spent time in Torino, searching for—well, I’m not exactly sure what. Maybe a connection to his past, to him, or some small clue about the life he lived there. I wandered the streets endlessly, wondering if he had once walked the same ones. I visited old addresses I’d found on tattered envelopes from a time when people still corresponded by mail.

In the seventy years since he arrived, his medical school had grown, its buildings now scattered across the city, with changed names and addresses. But with the help of my sister, we discovered that the main building where he once attended classes still stood. It was just a 12-minute walk from my hotel. I set off immediately.

When I arrived, an art installation filled the square. I spoke to a volunteer and asked if classes were still held there, and whether there might be a registrar’s office. She guided me to the archival office and introduced me to the staff. To my surprise, I was met with genuine excitement—they could hardly believe someone had come from America to search for her father's records. And I could hardly believe they were just as eager to join in my treasure hunt.

I gave them my father’s name and the years he attended. Within minutes, Marco, the lead archivist, returned with a file containing all of my father’s school records, his dissertation, and correspondence related to his acceptance. My heart pounded. I was overwhelmed with joy and tears.

That life of his, from a different time and place, had always existed only within him, long before he met my mother, before the family they created. It was a version of him that will always remain, in some ways, a mystery to me. But as I stepped out of the archive office and back into the streets of Torino, the longing for more began to fade. In its place was something deeper: a quiet sense of connection that filled my heart.

Today would have been his 95th birthday.

Records from the 1950s and Marco, who joined me in my treasure hunt.

The building my father took his classes, Torino, Italy.

The only photos I have of my father in Torino, Italy.