Milano, Schmilano!
Milan is a big city, indeed. Indeed. About as big and city-ish as you can get. I think I realized this when I walked off the train and into what Kathryn (of Varenna fame) calls "Mussolini's mausoleum to fascism." And when I hopped on the Metro (or subway) and found the lines numbered and color-coded. And when I got off at my potential hostel location and found that the entire street was covered in graffiti. And when I found out that the hostel was full. And when none of the pay phones worked. And when nobody understood what I meant when I said I wanted a hostel. And when I wound up at a terrible little one star hotel, paying far too much, just to make sure I had a roof over my head. And, speaking of heads, my World Cup hat (which I procured in Frankfurt after watching Germans parade down the street, celebrating their success over Sweden) decided to walk away. And, to make matters worse, at the Duomo, a pigeon pooped on my shirt. Needless to say, Milan was not starting out too well.
So, in the eternal words of Rick Steves, "If things are to your liking, change your liking." And that is just what I did. After thoroughly disinfecting my shirt (and half of my hotel room, whose light burned out after the first three minutes), I decided that Milan would redeem itself (especially if I was spending €33 a night for this dumpy room!). My first discovery was that the hotel was a family owned and operated establishment. My friendlyproprietorr, who claimed only to speak 10 words of English, is in fact a grandfather, and his three year old grandson has the run of the place. So, we played tag in the halls for a little while, until he got scared of what his grandpa called my "monster face." With that set of entertainment done, I pulled out my trusty Let's Go guidebook (Rick Steves, it seems, does not consider Milan to be the "Best of Europe") to figure out what the local, "hip", trendy Milanese do for fun in the evening. It seems, the go to hang out on the (get ready for it...) canals. Yes, Milan has canals. They're hidden, but they are there. So, being young and (at times) "hip" and (when I can muster it) "trendy," I decided to do as the Milanese do and go clubbing. Well, not clubbing. More like canal-bar-hopping-with-more-strolling-less-hopping-and-very-little-drinking.
My final resting place (if you can call it that) was a little joint called Scimmie. On a barge. In the canal. The place is reputed in the guidebooks to be a nifty joint to have a glass of wine. And, it appears, it is also a hot place to catch the France-Brazil World Cup quarter final game. Which I did. Surrounded by Italian romantics and frenzied French hooligans, I sipped red wine with one eye on the game and the other on the beautiful urban sunset. The game was a major upset for Brazil, which has some obscene number of World Cup victories under its belt, but I didn't really care. Milan, for all its heat, sweat, stink, graffiti, pigeon poop and terrible hotel rooms, had redeemed itself in the strangest way. With this newfound sense of the city, I decided to give Milan another day (after I reserved a hostel room).
If my goal is to understand different European cities, I think I get Milan. It's Manhattan pre-clean up mixed with today's East Village and a little bit of Venice for spice. Two days (and a trip to La Scala) won me over. And, as I raced to the train station on Monday to get to Florence, a little part of me smiled. Milano, you're my first success!
So, in the eternal words of Rick Steves, "If things are to your liking, change your liking." And that is just what I did. After thoroughly disinfecting my shirt (and half of my hotel room, whose light burned out after the first three minutes), I decided that Milan would redeem itself (especially if I was spending €33 a night for this dumpy room!). My first discovery was that the hotel was a family owned and operated establishment. My friendlyproprietorr, who claimed only to speak 10 words of English, is in fact a grandfather, and his three year old grandson has the run of the place. So, we played tag in the halls for a little while, until he got scared of what his grandpa called my "monster face." With that set of entertainment done, I pulled out my trusty Let's Go guidebook (Rick Steves, it seems, does not consider Milan to be the "Best of Europe") to figure out what the local, "hip", trendy Milanese do for fun in the evening. It seems, the go to hang out on the (get ready for it...) canals. Yes, Milan has canals. They're hidden, but they are there. So, being young and (at times) "hip" and (when I can muster it) "trendy," I decided to do as the Milanese do and go clubbing. Well, not clubbing. More like canal-bar-hopping-with-more-strolling-less-hopping-and-very-little-drinking.
My final resting place (if you can call it that) was a little joint called Scimmie. On a barge. In the canal. The place is reputed in the guidebooks to be a nifty joint to have a glass of wine. And, it appears, it is also a hot place to catch the France-Brazil World Cup quarter final game. Which I did. Surrounded by Italian romantics and frenzied French hooligans, I sipped red wine with one eye on the game and the other on the beautiful urban sunset. The game was a major upset for Brazil, which has some obscene number of World Cup victories under its belt, but I didn't really care. Milan, for all its heat, sweat, stink, graffiti, pigeon poop and terrible hotel rooms, had redeemed itself in the strangest way. With this newfound sense of the city, I decided to give Milan another day (after I reserved a hostel room).
If my goal is to understand different European cities, I think I get Milan. It's Manhattan pre-clean up mixed with today's East Village and a little bit of Venice for spice. Two days (and a trip to La Scala) won me over. And, as I raced to the train station on Monday to get to Florence, a little part of me smiled. Milano, you're my first success!
posted by Ethan at 11:29 AM
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