[continued from previous entry]
And that display of major dining contrast was my last evening in Merate.
Next morning: a far more restrained breakfast, me wanting to give my bladder a chance to calm down, not make the trip to Milano more exciting than it needed to be. Like the mensch that he is, B. carted me to the train station, stood with me on the platform until the train showed. The weather had turned gray and cold -- I, however, having gotten used to the previous days' golden weather, went out dressed for warmer conditions. By the time the train pulled in, my little body had begun to shake, my nipples standing painfully at attention. I gave silent thanks for heated transport all the way into the big city.
Among the abundant grafitti seen spray-painted on train stations along the way (in English):
EAT THE RICH
(This being northern Italy, I assume the rich would be served with a white sauce instead of red.)
Other English-language signage seen in Merate and Milano, all names of businesses:
HAPPY DOG
TRUSTY GARAGE
PINK FLOYD PUB
(That last was shuttered, dark, locked up, looking like it may served its last beer.)
Milano: Big, crowded, cold, gray. Took far longer than I expected to locate my flop for the night, tucked away on a gated side street so neatly that I walked by, completely oblivious, not spotting it until a slower, more painstaking search, 20 minutes later. The hotel: more of a hostel -- basic, small, tight, the room wildly austere. Bit of a shock after the more hotel-like hotel in Merate. A 20-something woman was the sole desk person (a glorified term in this case, the desk more of a cubbyhole), fielding both Spanish and English pretty well, her manner easy, good-humored.
Check in, shlep luggage up to room, head back out into the chilly air to get an eyeful of Milano.
It's an industrial city, with heavy traffic, dirty air. Not overlain with the kind of beauty that can be found in Rome, Florence, Como. But loaded with life, and peppered with eye-catching examples of the old colliding with the new. For instance: Il Duomo, the spectacular cathedral located in the heart of Milano's downtown. Huge, impressive, undergoing renovations that have completely covered the piazza end of the structure with scaffolding. As happens here in Spain, the scaffolding has been put to use for oversized advertising, providing a strange, jarring visual -- what some might describe as the sacred meeting the profane.
The Church gets down with the youth market, yo!
It's a company town for the fashion industry the way L.A. is for the film industry, its influence could be seen everywhere, from the local women's dress sense, to individual examples -- both male and female -- of out-there street attire, to individuals pushing handcarts stacked with clothing, to enclaves of high-end stores dealing in clothing and furnishings, from the quirky to the slick, many trading in fare both quirky and slick.
Wandering around the area north of Il Duomo brought me to a narrow east-west street -- lined on both sides with high-end shops dealing in clothing, accessories, furnishings, jewelry, its length crossing three or four main drags. A few access portals led to courtyards which housed production businesses, either designing their own fare or servicing the industry in some way, the folks walking in and out dressed sleekly, men often sporting ponytails. A steady stream of people walked along in the fading late-afternoon light, staring into display windows, young Asian women comprising a major element, carrying bags of purchases, visible inside some shops trying on items of clothing. Some windows drew steady attention, groups of passersby pausing to stare and comment.
Others showcased items outrageous enough that strollers passed silently by, staring, perhaps murmuring a comment to a companion. Briefly slowing their pace, but only briefly, before moving right along, as if unnerved, intimidated.
Later, back at the hotel, I got a suggestion for a place to eat a short walk away, headed back out in search of the trip's last dinner. Folks passed carrying bags of groceries, heading home, moving in and out of supermarkets crammed into the street level of otherwise residential buildings. As with many other areas of the city, grafitti covered the first floor walls of most structures. Many of the locals seemed to be immigrants, clusters of young men -- Middle Eastern, African -- stood outside long-distance telephone shops, talking loudly.
An attractive 20-something Italian woman walked quickly by at one intersection, a group of 20ish Italian male knuckleheads stared with no pretense of subtlety, making loud comments, one or two whistling.
Some bars were open, but not many eateries. The one suggested to me was closed, dark. I continued walking until I found an open joint with a good-looking menu, went inside. The owner appeared to be Middle Eastern, dealt well with me speaking Spanish. I took a seat, ordered, began to eat as other diners entered and the place got busy. Three males sat at the table in front of me -- one Italian, two Middle Eastern types -- ordering a sizeable platter piled with slabs of sizzling meat and grilled vegetables. One cut into the meat, decided it was too pink, they called the owner over for an extended conference. Several animated minutes later, the diners accepted his shrugging explanation, the meal got underway.
The space had been hung with a variety of art so bad that the more I studied it the happier I became. I hadn't seen a collection of visual muzak like this since spending far too much time in certain Indian restaurants in Central Square, Cambridge, Mass. One painting in particular caught my attention, a portrait of an extremely sad female clown in front of what looked like a rendition of one of Monet's paintings of the British Houses of Parliament. She sported a teeny black top hat (adorned with two of the perkiest daisies one could wish for) and a gigantic, floppy bow tie of an indefinable color -- mauve? Fuscia? Got me. Whatever it was, the neck ornament alone would be sufficient grounds for depression.
The food: pretty good. The artwork: easily worth the price of admission.
Back at the hotel. Each little floor had two or three little rooms and a little bathroom. An intense little bathroom, in my case, completely done up in its intense little way.
I had my first encounter with the bathroom on my floor during the wee hours. One shouldn't have to deal with something like that at 4 a.m. Simply being up at that hour is punishment enough.
That last morning in Milano dawned sunny and cold. I got out early to see a couple of things before heading to the airport, the first being the museum of modern art. Which turned out to be undergoing major work, so that only small groups of people were allowed entry, at two assigned times each day. Museum personnal herded us from gallery to gallery, allowed us to see one room at a time, allowing no one to wander. Kind of oppressive. One piece made it worth it: a clay pitcher by Picasso, decorated with a black bull. Beautiful.
Went through the public gardens, groups of schoolkids passing by, on their way into the museum of natural history. Got something to eat. Called it a day.
Among the abundant graffiti seen on the trip to catch the airport bus, written by someone who apparently didn't get the contradiction:
GUERRA SOCIALE
PACE MUNDIALE
[Social War
World Peace]
After I'd gotten settled on the bus (as comfortable and body-friendly as it had been on the trip into town a few days earlier), I noticed a couple that had shown up, standing just outside the door engaged in a long, lingering good-bye. Him: a slender, silver-haired, mid-40s bookish-looking type. Her: looking 20 years younger than her partner, wearing a stylishly-cut suit, skirt falling to just below her knees. The slightest bit zoftig, in sunglasses and high heels. They talked, kissed, held hands, remaining there until just before the bus pulled out, when she gave him one last, long smooch and he got on board. She waited until he found a seat, waved, turned away, walked off into the afternoon.
The sun was dropping below the horizon as our plane lifted into the air. We followed it toward Spain, touching down in Madrid just as the last light in the western sky had begun to fade.
Back home, Spanish being spoken all around, its music so different from that of the Italian I'd been surrounded by in previous days.
Madrid, te quiero.
rws 8:20 AM [+]
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