TURIN, Italy — The Italian word of the day is "ChocoPass." For most of the Olympics, the big Italian word was "Prego," which, in addition to being a flavorsome spaghetti sauce, roughly translates to mean, well, anything you want it to mean.

It's true. "Prego" is more versatile than LeBron James. It can mean "You're welcome," or "Hurry up," or "I will now cut in front of you in line" or "Do you have any pins?" Prego can be a curse word, a blessing, an order, a prayer.

Prego got me through these Olympic Games for a long time. On Wednesday, I learned the word "ChocoPass," and nothing will ever be the same. ChocoPass is now officially bigger than "Prego," bigger than "Sasha," bigger even than "Costas."

I go up to complete strangers all over the city and say "ChocoPass?"

Many of them promptly give me chocolate. What a word.

To explain how I found out about the ChocoPass, I must first explain that for the last two and a half weeks, I have eaten pizza just about every meal. All of us have. See, journalists work in a building called the "MMC"— Italian letters that stand for "Folsom Prison" — and the MMC has no apparent exit. It's like a Las Vegas Casino. We stagger around the MMC looking for sunlight, and occasionally we bump into each other. Then we go to the one pizza joint in the place and get another slice.

As every college kid knows, eating pizza every meal for three weeks will do something to you. Journalists have been complaining about weird dreams. I've heard from at least a half dozen who have had bizarre dreams ranging from dead people reaching out of the crypt to, more improbably, Bode Miller winning a medal.

And our taste buds have died. Water tastes like pizza. Gum tastes like pizza. Air tastes like pizza. For weeks, I've been dying for anything sweet, a Kit Kat, a Rolo, anything. Then, one day, a friend walked into the MMC with dozens of the most amazing chocolates. I'm sure I felt the way people in Portugal felt when Vasco de Gama returned with spices and silk.

"Where did you get those?" I somehow managed to ask.

"ChocoPass," she said.

That word. See, it turns out Turin is famous for its chocolate. I can't believe I didn't know this. In fact, people in Turin sort of feel like they are the Bobby Abreu of chocolate nobody appreciates just how good they have been.

According to the official chocolate literature heaved at me by overzealous Turin tourist people, they started making chocolate here around 1500. Turin chocolate historians feel certain that the city is responsible for (among other things): the first chocolate eggs, the first chocolate ice cream bar and a much-copied chocolate treat called a Gianduiotto.

"Switzerland, really, learned to make chocolate from people in Turin," the woman at the tourist booth said.

All this time, I've been in the underrated chocolate capitol and had no idea. Apparently, this is pretty common. That's how the ChocoPass happened. In an effort to inform people about Turin's chocolate legacy ("Turin is chocolate" is the official slogan of the movement), they decided to offer ChocoPasses. For only a few Euro, you get coupons and a map and get to walk the city in search of chocolate.

After two-and-a-half weeks of pizza, the ChocoPass was almost too much, like sending a starving man into the all-you-can-eat buffet at Sizzler.

I was almost dizzy before eating the Gianduiotto at Caffe Torino. Then there was a marshmallow and wafer chocolate there.

Next, we went to Confeterria Stratta, where they gave us three chocolate balls, one dusted in chili pepper. Yeah, apparently chili pepper and chocolate are supposed to be two great tastes that go great together. I didn't see that. Of course, I ate it.

Then it was to Pepino for a hot chocolate drink. That sent me over the edge. They don't make hot chocolate in Italy the way they do in the States. Imagine the best chocolate you've ever had melted into a mug. That's what it tastes like. I expected Augustus Gloop to fall into it my mug.

I had so much more chocolate, I could no longer tell the difference. Hazelnuts. Liqueur. Jelly. Whatever. They were all chocolate. I wobbled down the streets, my face covered in chocolate, like a trick-or-treater looking for the next sugar rush.

And for a moment the Olympics and pizza seemed a million miles away. Someone said that Bode Miller, already the bust of the games, had twisted his ankle playing in a pickup basketball game before his last race.

"Prego," I said.

Joe Posnanski is a columnist for The Kansas City Star.