Milan Madness
Sometimes you just have to laugh. A five-minute visit in Italy
A five-minute visit to the megalopolis of Milan, Italy, from the March 2023 Travel Archive. We all can use a good laugh right about now, I think.
A single jazz saxophone echoes lonely up the dark spiral of the stairwell from five floors below. The acoustics are perfect, the melancholy sound is captivating — if only it weren’t three o’clock in the morning. Apparently, the musician can’t sleep. So, we all have to share in his insomnia.
It’s a cold January in Milan. I’ve won a six-month Fulbright position here, and have finally found a place to live in this miasmatic city. It’s a very small room on the fifth floor, with a sliding glass door onto a tiny balcony. If I bend out over the railing and look left, I can see two trees and the passing bright orange trams. This one-room studio in a “residence” building costs more than half of my salary, which people tell me is a hell of a good deal in Milan.
To my dismay, the floors in all the apartments are ceramic tile with no carpeting, so every footstep overhead sounds like Tock! Tock! Tock! .... Tock! Tock! Tock! Tock! It sounds like they’re wearing wooden shoes up there and trying to get their steps in for the day. Sometimes they seem to be arguing and clog dancing simultaneously.
Then there’s the marathon bed squeaking that goes on several times a day in the apartment next door. Though I am the first to agree that this world certainly can use a little more love, I do find myself wondering if all this bed-squeaking and headboard banging activity is done in shifts by different couples or if it’s one couple trying to get into the Guinness Book of World Records. Pace yourselves, kids! Please.
Milan is the fashion capital of Italy, of course, and of the seventy apartments in this building, sixty-nine are occupied by very tall, ultra-thin models and would-be models, male and female and others indeterminate. They seem to all be teenagers, and are giggly and feral, yelling up and down the hallways at all hours — thus the box of 100 foam ear plugs I purchased yesterday.
The women I meet in the elevator every day wear size 2 – intimidating for someone like me who wears size ... well ... not size 2. I am not 5’ 10” tall and I haven’t weighed 106 pounds since I was in the seventh grade. Up close in the elevator, they all seem to have a BMI of 10, have long, narrow feet and wear cool clothing. Whereas I, in comparison, have square, wide Norwegian feet in sensible oxfords, and my clothing looks as if I’ve found it on the Goodwill reject pile. In short, amidst this group, I am a different species altogether — they observe me as if I were some kind of bug.
This sparsely furnished room does have everything I need: a place to cook, sleep, study, and do laundry ( by hand in the bathtub ). There’s even a clothes line on the balcony. The room is only 20 minutes from where I work — by bus, tram or walking it is all the same. The neighborhood has a little market, a bakery ( oh dear ), a cocktail bar ( uh oh ), a dry cleaner, a fruit stand and a pharmacy. Anything I need is close by and all for only 200% more than I would pay in California.
Surprisingly, I find I can easily live without having a TV, a washer, an ironing board, a toaster, a stereo, a microwave! And, in fact, I am learning to save and re-use stuff now – incidental pieces of string, rubber bands, plastic liner bags from inside cereal boxes. On my desk, a styrofoam tray that held ripe tomatoes in the market now holds a stapler and paper clips. A glass applesauce jar is a vase, and an empty apricot can with a bright label is a repository for pens and pencils. Even my cardboard shipping box with a colorful cloth thrown over it, has morphed into a bedside table. It is amazing how much you don’t need to buy.
I walked to work in the light snow this morning — snow like gentle, white bees buzzing lightly in all directions. The temperature was 30˚F on this winter day, but I chose to walk because the trams seem so crowded right now, what with everyone wearing layers of puffy clothing to keep warm.
The office in which I am housed is on via Montenapoleone, an upmarket boulevard rife with fashion outlets that read like the pages of Vogue – Ungaro, Valentino, Benneton, Hermes, Rolex, Ferragamo, Balenciaga, Prada, Fendi, Dolce e Gabbana — all rubbing shoulders. I stopped to look in one of the windows, and I realized that if my mom would send me $600, I could totally buy her a small silk neck scarf. From the bargain table.
When you stay for a while in a large foreign city, a life tends to build up around you. In the heart of this mega-metropolis, my neighborhood has become a cozy little village. I see the same people every day and I may not know their names, but I recognize them, smile, nod, say good morning – the woman at the vegetable stand, the postman at the office, the man who sits in the covered entry way each morning, the woman who feeds breadcrumbs to the pigeons in the square near the metro stop. In the Baby Bar on the corner, I am now on a first-name basis with the barista, “Ciao, Fernando! Come stai, bello?” All feels sort of normal.
I have to admit that I’ve been a terrible grump as I try to adapt to life in this huge Italian city. I’ve been in the throes of culture shock for a couple of weeks now, and I am so disappointed in myself. I am a well-experienced traveler, and presumed I was more sophisticated than this. But Milan is tough. The polluted air is scarcely breathable, the pace is mad, and any wine less than €25 a bottle may be adulterated, according to the Corriere della Sera newspaper. Certain weeks, the air is so poisonous, that all private cars are ordered to stay off the streets for an entire day. No cars can come into the city. Everyone switches to public transportation.
However, I think I am now starting to get my head above water. For the last three days, at least, I have actually gone out, and walked through the boulevards and parks. I’ve stopped thinking about the pollution and the traffic so much. I’ve stopped comparing US and Italian prices, and, best of all, I’ve stopped muttering! FYI: A primary symptom of culture shock is constant, sarcastic muttering to one’s self.
Walking out today the air was icy and crisp, and carried the sweet smell of new snow and equilibrium. I will end up loving it here. As my best friend suggested, “Just breath out, never breathe in, and buy yourself a large bouquet of flowers from the market every week.” I’ll be fine.
**The USIA, where Fulbrighters were hosted in Italy, was disbanded in 2000, though the Fulbright program still forges on. This piece describes my experiences from that era. It seems as vivid as yesterday to me.
Bellisimo! I loved this and all its yummy, sordid, flamboyant details. I can almost feel the grit in my nose. Oh, and the aroma of fresh pastry, coffee, and diesel in the morning air.
So you got fashion sense, returned with a silk blouse 👚 and a very small bottle of wine? Memories packed full with full bright colors of dry flowers bought weekly to make a collage for your wall . Humor returns home a new story is born and you lost weight. Looking good.