Far From the Madding Milanese Crowd

There are a few different ways one can travel from one end of Italy to another. I chose to take the overnight train once again, mostly because I love trains, but also because they load the train from Sicily onto a huge ferry and float it across the strait to the mainland. The cool factor was too high; I got my ticket in Siracusa, wailed a bit at leaving such a gorgeous place, and boarded.

For the first hour or so I was alone in my little berth. A suave-looking ticket agent with long, thin fingers punched my ticket and moved on, but no one else bothered me for a while. When we hit Catania, though, the door slid open and three old folks with an incomprehensible amount of baggage piled into the cabin. Why, I ask, do old people insist on traveling with so friggin' much luggage? I know they take pills and perhaps need to pack extra pairs of compression hose, but the seven large duffels these codgers lugged into our tiny compartment really gave me pause.

Someone dressed as Santa played the hurdygurdy.

Conversation ensued. I have been having this exact same conversation for the past three months: You a student? No, I finished school a long time ago (surprised looks). Where are you from? The United States. Ah! I have a cousin/nephew/friend/son living in New York! It's beautiful there! What kind of work do you do?....and so on. Through repetition I've gotten pretty good at this idle banter. They were impressed with my Italian. They veered off into more complex Italian and I got a bit lost, thus causing the granny to shake her head and tell her daughter and son-in-law that I didn't understand anything. Though vexed, I ignored this comment, as I did her constant burping and the stinky stockinged feet she wedged up under my tush as she reclined on the seat.

I ignored this and disregarded being awoken the next morning by the sound and nose-burning smell of hairspray being liberally applied to the coifs of both ladies because they fed me. Yes, some people pimp themselves for money, others kiss up for praise...I pander obsequiously for food. I discovered that one entire duffel bag had been packed with grub. They started eating and in seconds I had a sandwich in one hand and a chicken leg in the other. A cup of wine was poured for me. One woman even peeled and cored a pear for me. I protested and was told "Mangia!" in such severe tones that I meekly nibbled my roast chicken to the bone and drained every drop from my cup.

Lucky for me, old people fall asleep early, so I stayed up reading in relative silence for several hours. I drifted off...the train shuttled and rocked and blasted through tunnels. I had strange dreams.

But I arrived in Milan refreshed and relaxed. Again, I had no place planned to stay and no real agenda, but I figured things would work out. I had decided to experiment with this organization called couchsurfing.com, which has members that offer travelers a free place to stay. You read their profiles, send them an email, and see if you can arrange a visit. I ended up crashing on the couch of the person who organizes the coouchsurfing group in Milan--a wonderful visit and a wonderful host (who cooked for me and plied me with wine and Russian vodka and chocolate).

But not before I roamed for the afternoon around the Golden Quad, a series of pedestrian streets lined with shops proferring the wares of high-end fashion designers: Dior, Dolce & Gabbana, Armani, Prada, etc. The women strolling past the windows wore furs and dark sunglasses; the men who offered them their arms smelled of expensive cologne and had manicured hands. Lots of bling, as they say.

I, having little bling and much distaste for ostentatious displays of wealth, fled to the duomo. The streets and piazza surrounding it were crowded with holiday shoppers and merchants and beggars and buskers. Someone dressed as Santa played the hurdygurdy. A man with stunted legs kept a ball dancing in the air with the arm braces he used for walking. Bored-looking men who had immigrated from Africa displayed CDs and laser pens and robot puppies that barked and flipped on sheets spread out along the sidewalk. Not much different than New York right now, I thought.

Oh, but climbing to the terrace of the duomo is much much different and better than scaling the Empire State Building for a view of the city. I could peek between the church's ornate flying buttresses and webbing of intricately carved stonework to watch the people milling about below, to see the strings of lights dripping down the stone fronts of the surrounding buildings. In the piazza was a concert stage, and a crowd had gathered to listen to a gospel choir. Gospel in Milan. Christmastime in Italy. Commercialized charm. Perhaps the mixing of these elements was fortuitous, making it a bit easier for me to accept the idea of going home.

Which is where I am now, back in Minnesota, watching a fine cold downpour from the windows of my brother's apartment in St. Paul. The culture shock, however, is worse. Everything from coffee to accents to cars to hairstyles is catching me off guard. There is much more space here, the buildings are new and plasticy looking. I went curling with my brother last night and was nonplussed at how strange a sport this was, how particular a part of Minnesota culture, and how ridiculous the reindeer antlers looked on the head of a woman sitting in the bar, from which we watched the games being played down below. I sipped a beer. My eyes followed the great round stones as they slid and slowly spun down the ice.