I Climbed the Superga Basilica Dome at Night (and the Most Moving Thing about It Wasn’t the View)
A story about grief, football, and the places that move us.
The Basilica casts a shadow over a list of names etched into marble, the sky above blazing orange. The list of names etched in marble looks like so many others across Italy, but these caduti aren’t victims of war. Nearby, a pile of colourful scarves flutters in the breeze, emblazoned with names like Roma, Benfica, and Firenze, while two flags hang on the wall: Genoa CFC, and one with a Brazilian-looking name.
“Chap-e-co-ense” I stumble over the word, turning to Max, confused. I thought this was the Torino memorial? But his eyes are glassy, his jaw has gone slack. It’s a look I recognise, and I suddenly realise how much this means to him as a lifelong Torino fan.
This is Superga, the Basilica built high on a hill overlooking Turin by a Savoy king who made a pledge to the Virgin Mary. But since 1949, it’s also been the spiritual home of the city’s beloved football team, Torino FC. In May that year, a plane carrying the entire team, known as Grande Torino or the “Invincibili” crashed into the hill during a storm, killing everyone aboard. The memorial commemorating the football team has since become a place to honour others killed in tragic circumstances.
We’ve come for a night visit to the panoramic dome, one of the weekend openings Superga runs through July and August. As it’s the end of August, and it will already be dark by the time the church opens at 9 p.m., we arrive early to watch the sunset just after eight.
I’m surprised by the number of people up here at this time on a Friday; some are tourists and locals who have obviously come to watch the sunset. Others are young Torinesi dressed for a night out, and girls in short skirts totter across the cobblestones in towering heels, taking selfies with the sunset. On a clear day you can make out every landmark, but today there’s smog, and we can barely even see the Mole Antonelliana.
The piazza is buzzing with day trippers who appear to be pilgrims. A group of teenage girls hands me an old digital camera and asks me to take their photo. The pilgrims leave in three full coaches, and suddenly we’re left with a handful of teenage couples making out in the dusk.
It’s getting chilly, and I wrap my shawl around my shoulders. We take another loop around the Basilica, stopping at the ticket office to exchange our booking confirmation for physical tickets. The lady at the desk assures us, brightly, that the wind will clear the smog by the time we’re up top.
When we get back to the Torino memorial, it’s bathed in the light of the rising full moon. We pay our respects one last time before heading back to the Basilica. The doors are now open and we see people walking in so we follow them, but a staff member stops us. There’s a private religious ceremony taking place, and dome visitors must wait outside. We stand at the front of the queue, watching others arriving and the security officer directing them to the tickets office to redeem their tickets.
At nine, we shuffle in. The main nave is cordoned off, and people fill the first four or five pews. To our right, a wooden door warns us of the 131 steps and no lift. I’m the first one to walk through when it opens, revealing the narrow stone spiral staircase, and immediately regret the decision to wear a long, floaty skirt, which I hoist up in order not to trip and fall on the other ten people behind me.
At the top, a gentleman in his 60s with short white hair and a thick Piedmontese accent greets me with a gruff “Buona sera”. Behind him, the city lights twinkle, the mountains silhouetted in the darkness. I return his greeting, and step out onto the narrow terrace that rings the dome, moving along to make room.
Earlier, I asked Max if he’d be okay with his fear of heights. He assured me he’d be fine, but his face tells a different story. The terrace widens slightly between each buttress, and he edges away from the railing, except that means climbing higher, closer to the church wall, to get any distance from the drop. He blows air out through pursed lips every few seconds. A couple of the other visitors glance over.
We shuffle around the dome in single file, as far as we can one way, then the other, photographing the lit-up bell towers, the full moon, and the city spread out below. The lady at the ticket desk was right: the wind’s done its work, and the smog has gone, leaving a carpet of lights stretching out below. The sound of the congregation singing floats up from somewhere inside.
We don’t say much as we drive back down the hill and into the city, speaking only to comment on how many Japanese and pizza restaurants line the sides of the road and how Turin reminds me of a cross between Paris and Rome. At a red light, Max asks if I’m happy we came. I say yes, and ask him the same thing back. He answers with one syllable: “Sí”, pats my leg, and turns his eyes back to the road.
