Milano

Milan surprised me. This is due in large part to some preconceptions I had about the city based on the experience here of my favorite author, Bill Bryson, and, to be honest, initially I shared his opinion. The only reason I ended up here in the first place was because there was a direct (and cheap!) flight with RyanAir from Gothenburg, Sweden – not that I ever made it that far north. After missing my flight out of Newark because the hell that is New Jersey conspired with bad weather conditions to ruin my trip, I cancelled the northern itinerary and flew with Aer Lingus directly to Milan. As the city forever in heated competition with Paris as fashion capital of the world, it is a very industrial place. In fact, though my hotel was only about a 30-minute walk from the city center (and only ten minutes from the train station, whoo travel planning and saving on taxi fares!), there wasn’t much to redeem the area, other than the actual Milanese who out-numbered the tourists. The city radiates around Il Duomo, the largest gothic cathedral of its kind and the third largest cathedral in Europe; this is, needless to say, one impressive church. Between the nearly 150-foot tall stained glass windows, hundreds and hundreds of statues covering the exterior, scores of flying buttresses, acres of marble, engineering taken care of by Da Vinci, and one of the nails used to crucify Jesus Christ on the cross hanging above the altar, it offered just about everything one could ask for in a European cathedral visit. That said, the interior was dark and uninviting, and was a big letdown after the stunning and vibrant exterior. That’s about all I saw on my first day in the city; the flights over were uneventful (possibly with the exception of the menu of snack foods offered, where I spied a juicebox called Jutopia – does anyone else find that funny? Sound it out…) and comfortable, since I charmed the check in lady, and she gave me an entire exit-row to myself with no chairs in front of me. The rest of my initial exploration of the city was spent walking around its labyrinthine streets, which I only vaguely began to understand by the time I left. Il Duomo is situated on the Piazza del Duomo, which reminded me of pictures I’ve seen of St. Mark’s Square in Venice – wall to wall beautifully dressed people playing with pigeons. The whole area around the cathedral was packed at every time of day, due in large part to the Galleria, said to be the oldest shopping mall in the world. It was completed in the second half of the 19th century, and is a massive and stunning open-air tunnel of glass and steel (pictures to come when I can locate the cord which connects my camera). As one would expect, it was filled with a host of glamorous shops, but the real Milanese powerhouses can be found along the streets leading to La Scala, perhaps the most famous opera house in the world. These streets are narrow, cobbled, and is home to the likes of Etro, Prada, Armani and others. At one point, in front of an ancient palace now home to some of the EU’s “Rapidly Deployable Troops,” I heard behind me what I took to be an army training exercise, owing to the perfectly in time clumping of boots. No, just about 25 immaculately dressed women out on the town with armfuls of bags. Welcome to Milan.

The language is proving frustrating for me. I can understand almost everything that’s said to me, but I can’t really respond – when people do ask me direct questions, I instinctively want to answer in Spanish, which just confuses a lot of people. But it’s fun. My discomfort with the language, though, has led me to be wary of any sort of sit-down meal, so I’ve been trying to avoid them. That first day I grabbed a panino (singular of panini) from a street vendor, and for dinner I went to this take out place which, for those of you from CT, is like a Mystic Market on steroids – it’s basically prepared foods which are heated up for you to take home. According to my guidebook, it’s the place for the Milanese on the go. After discovering that not one of my three languages would help me out with the chef who spoke only Italian and Napolitano, I managed to get a piece of beautiful meat lasagna into a to-go container. While you go pay, the man heats up your food and gift-wraps it, yes, gift-wraps, complete with paper and bow. Unfortunately for me, it was never heated up and cost a total of fourteen euro, not the budget meal I was going for. On my way back to the hotel, I realized I would never make it the whole walk without eating something, so I stopped in a touristy area for some gelato, though I should have known better, and was really disappointed by the quality. It was fortunate that I stopped, however, because on returning to my hotel room I realized that I had no silverware, so I ate my fourteen-euro cold lasagna with a little gelato scoop while Desmond Tutu kept me company on CNN International.

Should you ever find yourself in Europe, I highly recommend that you get up quite early on a Sunday morning and go out for a walk; it’s my favorite time in Granada, and that proved to hold true here in Milan. I had decided to make my way slowly towards the Castle Sforzesco, a 13th century palace which grew and grew (again, with the help of Da Vinci), and played an important role in Milan’s politics over the centuries, especially during the occupations of Spain and France. Today, it’s home to about nine museums, the most interesting of which were the musical instrument museum and the one dedicated to interior furnishings. By far, the best entry there was the automaton of a devil, a moving, life size (can the devil be life size?) figure from the 16th century which was originally a torso from a statue of Christ on the Column, complete with pointy horns, beady red eyes, and a two-foot-long tongue. The caption read “…and by applying a clockwork mechanism, the head and eyes turn, the tongue sticks out, and the beast makes an inarticulate sound.” At three euro, it was the best money I’ve spent so far.

The castle abuts the Parco Sempione, which was really where I began to appreciate the city. It was an unseasonably warm and unusually sunny day in Milan, and only the locals were out and about that early. The very first thing I noticed was the formality of everyone – not in a stuck up, pompous way – but rather how TV commercials for expensive clothing companies like to portray the world. Twenty-somethings were out playing soccer, dads were running behind their little girls on bikes, older couples strolled along with their dogs, and everyone had on ties or flowing scarves, beautiful leather gloves, polished leather shoes and heals, draping coats and capes, even a few parasols. I needn’t mention the kids, who were by far the best-dressed little ones I’ve ever seen, all in little furs and suits and vests. The thing was that, yes, this was a little bit of a fashion show, but that didn’t stop people from enjoying life. These weren’t just church clothes; people were out to play soccer on a Sunday morning, and if they got a little muddy doing so, so be it – at least they looked good. This might come across as somehow superficial or vain, but I didn’t get that impression. These people just always look good! Even the runners I saw had matching track outfits. Bikes are a big deal here, though I didn’t see one made before about 1952. The combination of the curving pathways lined with gnarled trees, ponds, the wedding across the lawn, the beautiful people (and there are scores of them – I’m sure I saw a supermodel or two) rolling along on their antique, basket-fronted bikes made it a great way to start a morning. I had a quiet moment when I happened upon a dad with his two kids standing on a bridge over a quietly babbling stream; the little girl couldn’t have been more than four and the son about two, she in a little white, floor-length coat and he in a suit, the two of them dropping leaves into the water while the dad sang quietly in Italian. The bridge was covered, and I mean I almost couldn’t see the bridge, with locks, locked onto the railings, inscribed with the names of couples. I was a little apprehensive to come back to Europe, home being so comfortable and this being a rather long trip on my own, but I had just forgotten how much I love Europe. I feel that, in many ways, a way of life has been maintained here that we lost somewhere along the way in the US. It’s slower, yes, there’s no instant gratification, your internet might not be connected for two weeks after you call the company, and (thank God), there’s nothing like Walmart, but, to me, life would be the better for it.

I also stopped by La Scala and, because I couldn’t see a show (sold out), I paid four euro to poke around their museum and pop my head into one of the boxes in the main auditorium. Words can’t really describe how beautiful this place is, just not from the outside; originally, it was constructed in a very densely packed area, so the architect didn’t do anything interesting with the outside of the building. That wasn’t a problem until the city tore down houses to make a nice little square in front of the building. I happened to pick the box right next to the triple-sized one reserved for royalty, and could just imagine seeing an opera there, even if I would never have been seated where I was looking in – it would cost somewhere around $2000.

Walking around, I happened upon a museum called La Brera, which is apparently one of the most important in Milan (I had no hope of getting in to see The Last Supper, which requires reservations two weeks in advance). I had no idea how popular it was when I found myself in line for an hour and a half, the only English-speaker in sight. From what I could glean from conversations, there was a travelling Caravaggio exhibit. Little did I know that, after pretending to be an EU citizen from Spain with my green card and paying the reduced rate of 7.50 euro, I would have had to have paid 17 euro and waited in another line to see the exhibit. No thanks. The museum offered an impressive collection of (almost) exclusively religious art; I’ve yet to find a museum which I like half as much as the Met. That night, not able to face another panino, I went into the department store where Armani got his start as a window dresser, Milan’s equivalent of Saks or Barney’s, La Rinascente; I figured they would have some sort of food court. They did, in fact, and one overlooking the top of Il Duomo, the roof being almost as impressive as the rest. I justified eating at the restaurant because I hadn’t paid the money to climb the stairs to the top of the cathedral, and ate my raw tuna salad (not that I knew it was raw when I ordered it, but I had contemplated ordering sushi anyway) and had my glass of wine outside, under a heat lamp, gazing at the Madonnina, the little gilded statue emblematic of Milan on top of the Duomo’s dome. I should have known that it would be way more expensive than I wanted to pay, especially since my waiter provided me with the luxury of about four words of English, but I was happy simply not to have mozzarella.

The next morning, after another serviceable breakfast in my lovely little hotel, I walked over to the train station, which I had located the day before on my run. The rail services in Europe continue to amaze me. I walked in, asked for a ticket to Venice, and was placed on a gorgeous, new train, which left in 15 minutes. So, here I sit, comfortably passing through little towns with those tall, pointy trees that one sees in pictures of Tuscany (not that I’m anywhere near there) on one side, snow-capped mountains on the other, next to a plug for my laptop and coffee service every few minutes. Everything is lovely except for the construction worker covered in asbestos who just plopped himself down next to me, showering my laptop in dust. In another hour, I’ll be in Venice. Thanks for listening – as you might be able to tell, I haven’t talked to anyone in a while.