Modesty Covers in Milan
Don’t forget to read part one in Greece here!
The first twenty minutes in Milan proper, I said something only a New Yorker would say: "Milan is...cute."
I suppose I couldn't—and shouldn't—judge it in August when the Italians were on vacation and most small businesses were closed. But still, it felt livable, not chaotic, nor dense, maybe even quiet? We passed by beautiful buildings in the Italian style, whole thoroughfares under a canopy of trees. I loved the little yellow streetcars. I saw a coffee shop nestled in a dense garden, I said it was beautiful, but the driver laughed.
"That's a Starbucks," he said.
"Oh," I said.
We were supposed to be in Milan just one night, as a long layover for a cheaper flight back to New York. Time was of the essence: check in, go to the Galleria, quick lunch, tour the Duomo, see Sforzesco Castello. We were staying at the Room-Mate Giulia, a boutique hotel right outside of the entrance to the Galleria. I calculated in enough time to ohh and aww at our hotel room, but then we began to get e-mails. A hurricane was due to hit New York when we were supposed to land. Our flight could be cancelled, but we decided to wait for more information.
We went to the Galleria, just five steps away from the hotel. I don't think photos do it justice, the ceiling seems to go on forever. We went to the mosaic of the bull-without-his-balls, which Italians spin on their heels for good luck. We had lunch in the galleria, which made for good people watching.
It was a hot day, 90-something degrees. Sun beat down on the Piazza del Duomo and my shorts and t-shirt felt like too much. We queued up for tour tickets to climb the rooftops and interior. A clerk looked Alistair and I up and down.
"You will need to buy a modesty cover," the woman said. For two euro we had to buy a paper gown to cover our immodest knees. I grumbled as we ascended by elevator, me, who had twelve years of intense Catholic education and very long shorts being forced to buy a modesty cover.
But, ah, to be up above! To feel like you're doing something illegal, walking the narrow little paths, looking down at the piazza and up at the details of the pinnacle (a statue at the top of each), the many carved curls, each gargoyle that leans down looking over, meant to scare the "peasants" into church.
We left, tossing our modesty garments in a bin and heading toward Sforzesco Castello, or Sforza Castle, another beautiful structure of magnificent size. We poked in then decided to tour Parco Sempione, the green park around it. The Milanese were enjoying their Saturday afternoons. People jogged, picnicked, and strolled. It was lovely. We returned back toward the Galleria and had drinks at a rooftop bar overlooking the Duomo, one Aperol each. We tried to make a plan for our flight, if it was cancelled, we'd need to book another night, we'd need to alert the office, we'd need to make plans. At the hotel we learned that it was cancelled, so we re-booked, got an extra night at the hotel. We were too tired and hot to go out again. I ordered a pizza to the room and we went to bed early.
The next day was never meant to happen, so we quickly put together an itinerary based off the Milan episode of "Travel Man" (we both love Richard Ayoade) with a few additions: walk, then lunch at Bar Luce, Wes Anderson's restaurant. It was hotter than the day before. We had gelato at 11 o'clock in a square first, even under a tree beside La Scala, I watched it puddle in the sun. We slowly made our way to a plaza, sweating. Our sunscreen dripped off of us and we stuck to the shady side of the street, crowding the entrances of courtyards, which, as the sun moved across the sky, were protected in their own way. It made the lush entrance of the 10 Corso Como, a department store, art gallery, restaurant and bookshop in a multi-story building, like an oasis. If only all department stores were as unique and intimate! I couldn't afford a thing.
We ended up cabbing to the Prada Foundation for a boozy lunch at Bar Luce. We toured the museum and took a cab to the Da Vinci museum. I can't remember if we walked back to our hotel, or at what moment we stopped in a garden at the Sforza, but either way we made it back to the hotel, hot and ready to change for dinner. The Navigli, a district on either side of a canal, was our only place left on the list. The sun set by the time we arrived there. Our chosen restaurant was closed, so we picked the second choice recommended by the hotel. The Navigli was alive. Young people dressed to be out until 4 am or later, groups laughing at sidewalk tables with cigarettes, and at each one, a host or hostess telling you to come inside. There were little bridges across the water to the other side, the light from the restaurants reflecting off the water.
After dinner we had the moment we have on every trip the last night, where you stare a choice in the face: stay out or go back to the hotel? Going back to the hotel is a type of defeat, to end the vacation, to pack. Staying out is to become what every traveler wants to be: adventurous, taking advantage of life and every moment. We stood on the edge of the Navigli and decided to go to the hotel. The next morning we flew directly back to JFK. Bad news awaited us in New York.