Suited Up in Milan

It’s day four of my stay in Milan and as it happens, I’m still jet lagged. However determined I was to fall asleep, my brain remained restless and as hour after hour passed, I soon judged that sleep was not in the cards.

To pass the time, I video-called my sister (which eventually became a family affair) and read numerous chapters of George R.R. Martin’s fifth book in A Song of Ice and Fire (related: Game of Thrones). Having slept through my complimentary breakfast everyday so far, I gave in at 07:00 and got out of bed. Side note: what kind of place closes breakfast at 09:00? Seeing as the cleaning crew was certain to wake me up if I went back to bed, I helped myself to an espresso shot and filled up on cereal.

As I returned to my room, wide awake as ever, I had a ‘Pinky and the Brain’ moment and decided what I’d do today. I showered, checked Facebook a dozen more times, and dressed in my suit and tie. I had been feeling guilty about not yet having taken a hundred photos of Milan, but if truth be told, I hadn’t yet visited any place worth the embarrassment of standing alone and snapping selfies. And so, that’s how I decided I would go visit the one thing in Milan I was truly excited to see: the Bosco Verticale.

I decided to make a day of it (hence the suit) and two subways later, I was at the foot of the world’s first vertical forest. Now, of course there’s something to be said for the buildings that took 600 years to complete (e.g. the Duomo di Milano), but I find the greatest appeal to be when modern architects can successfully incorporate new infrastructure among the historic sites. The Bosco Verticale is just one of many developments in the Porta Nuova district and the inner businessman in me totally geeked out on the swanky high-rises!

Unfortunately, soon after taking some shots of UniCredit headquarters (the tallest building in Italy), the weather turned sour. Thinking I could wait out the rain, I took to the subway and headed towards the Parco Sempione. As I emerged from the underground though, I found that the rain had picked up, so I waited at the exit for fifteen minutes, ignoring the umbrella salesman who set up beside me. Wanting to get on with my day, I followed the outside of buildings where overhangs had kept the sidewalk dry. With the rain picking up even more, I went inside a small cafe and ordered an early lunch.

To make things easy, the menu was colour-coded. I picked viola: a sandwich, coffee, and Coca-Cola. The server, sensing I spoke English, listed off the types of paninis, but despite his efforts, the “beef” sandwich turned out to be peameal bacon. No complaints! My next struggle was the coffee. I stood awkwardly to the side, looking at the bartender and not knowing how to order anything other than a Double-Double. To my benefit, the server intervened again and I took my Coke, sandwich, and miniature coffee to the patio for some people watching.

Two Frenchmen sat along the outside wall and performed the greatest re-enactment of a civil I-like-to-discuss-my-travels-and-political-issues conversation that I have ever witnessed. I’m ashamed to say that my French est un peu négligé and their Parisian était un peu trop vite, but I was just glad to understand a few words that other people were saying.   

Another umbrella salesperson passed by (they were on their game, I’ll give them that) and more people entered the cafe to escape the rain. I watched, with all the other men out on the patio, as beautiful women walked the street and tried their best to avoid getting wet. When I was all set with another caffeine fix, I brought back my tray, thanked the bartender, and went out to brave the light rain once more.

Just like the umbrella vendors, the rain was persistent. I walked the cobbled streets, now lost as to the direction of the city park, and found myself among more men in suits. Many took a look at me and quickly glanced down at my shoes as though they were the ultimate indicator of my legitimacy. The rain had disguised any scuff marks on my brown leather shoes and so I can only hope that I passed inspection. Now, judging by my rain soaked, blistered feet, I must have the best fitting pair of leather dress shoes I am ever likely to own.

Continuing along the high-end shops and bistros, I pretended to belong. My disguise was only revealed to those who approached me to ask for directions (though to my credit, I was able to point in the direction of the closest metro terminal). For the umpteenth time this week, I found myself on the Via Manzoni, one side to the Quadrilatero d’Oro (hosting the most elite names in fashion), but some of the other streets continued to evade me.

Finally, in some stroke of pathetic fallacy, the rain died down and I found the Parco Sempione. The public park does the old architecture justice and still provides space for the locals to walk their dogs and go for runs.  First, I was drawn to the Arco della Pace where some homeless (maybe?) men and women were blasting Buffalo Soldier on a radio. From there, I followed the sandy path along the inner contour of the park, passing the Arena Civica and into the Castello Sforzesco. 

The red-bricked castle was perhaps the most interesting of the old buildings, but it also had the highest tourist traffic. Inside the walls, I was able to catch a few words of American English, but I lingered only long enough to take some quick photos. At the front gate, I was immediately surrounded by men claiming to be from Sudan and offering free bracelets. Of course I knew the spiel, but before I knew it, I had three bracelets on my arm (a Jamaican one being out of place) and one man with a bright white smile asking me how much I would give to Africa. I told him that I only had one-fifty, enough for a metro ticket to get me back home and, amid his reassurances that he had change, further clarified that I meant one Euro fifty. He unlaced the Jamaican bracelet and let me off with a high-five and the two other charms.

The two bracelets came in handy ten steps farther as I was stopped by another man giving “free” bracelets. I showed him my wrist and he was all smiles, asking me where I came from. When I told him I was from Canada and that I too spoke French, he offered to find me a girlfriend, though I graciously declined. I couldn’t help but feel she would have the same selling technique.

And with another two subway lines, there ended my day’s adventures. I hope you enjoy the pictures and the story. Also, my apologies if I don’t write anything this long for the next few posts. I got carried away and had the afternoon open. I’m sure the Italian espressos had something to do with it. Seriously, what else is in this?