Lonely Sunday in Milan
The Missing Reel
A very short adventure in the megalopolis of Milan, Italy
I bought prunes in the market today. I don’t even like prunes, really, but to tell you the truth, I was feeling a little homesick. I have been working in Milan for a few months. It is a nice enough city — if you are a hopeful fashion model, or an elitist purveyor of expensive Italian roadsters … or a pigeon. I am in none of those categories. But why prunes? Well, these prunes are California prunes. “Packed in San Jose” is printed on the bag. I thought anything from home would help get me out of this funk. Anyone who has ever worked out of the country, away from home and family for a while, understands the comfort that could be found in a bag of prunes.
It is a drizzly Sunday and I have been wandering listlessly — first, through a small dark bookstore, then a busy flea market arcade, then a gelato shop. I’m thinking that if I could hear some English, it might dispel this weepy mood. The neighborhood English movie theater is only a couple of blocks away. It’s raining anyway, so, why not?
The Sunday matinee offers an ancient Robin Williams film, The Fisher King. It is an unusual movie, one that I’ve seen before, but what the heck — my native language is calling. I pay the exorbitant price of €12, and enter a small theater with red and gold Art Deco patterns on the walls. Only a pocketful of people are here this afternoon.
About an hour later the film abruptly stops, the lights come up and people start wandering out. But.. hey! Wait! That wasn’t the ending! What happened to the rest of the film? What happened to the last reel? What the hell … has no one even noticed it was cut short? Have they been napping for the last hour, or do they just not care? Bewildered, I shamble out into the drizzle, too, shaking my head.
There are so many things I don’t understand about Italy. I am still learning the rules. I don’t know, maybe you had to buy the €15 ticket if you wanted to see the entire film? Walking back to my fifth-floor, tiny one-room apartment, I stop in at the neighborhood hangout, the Baby Bar, and order a Manhattan. Two Manhattans, actually. And, no, I have no idea why it is called the Baby Bar. Un altro mistero della vita.
Very nice, Sharron! I think I can identify with your travel funk. At the train station in Rotterdam I found an RC Cola and a Hershey Bar. I needed something familiar. Just sat down and took my time. It tasted great.
I would love to visit Milan. I have no desire to eat a prune though. Or a date. Those items bear too close a resemblance to a dead cockroach.