Dinner (Mis)adventures in Milano

I wake up from my short nap in a slightly pissy mood. Its our last night in Milan, we promised The Pharmacist we would meet him and a friend for dinner, and its too late to flake. Id been walking around all day and had ended my night at the Cimitero Monumentale, which was an interesting experience to say the least, and to top it off, I had gotten lost trying to get back to the hotel, since the Cemetary was at the end of the world. The last thing I wanted to do was get out of bed and throw some clothes on, especially bc we were planning to be on a 725am train to Venice, which meant we would have to wake up at the ass crack of dawn. No thank you to a late night out.

But I have no choice so, I grumpily get out of bed, try on 3 or 4 outfits until I find one that is acceptable (I am totally going for warmth and comfort, not cuteness), throw some important stuff in my purse, and head out, sans make-up, hair in a loose pony tail.

We meet up and have to stop by the friend’s office to pick him up. The friend, we are told, works in Politics and Culture. Im not sure exactly what that means, but I dont think it really matters. They give us some beautiful books as a gift to remind us of Italy, they say, which is very sweet. If ever there were 2 girls who loved books, Monet and I are them; granted these are in a language neither of us understands, but it’s the thought that counts. Never mind that they are from a shelf that holds 20 copies of each title on it – the kind of thing you give everybody who comes to your office, basically. Never mind also that we will now have to carry these books around Europe for the next 2 months, and that neither of us will throw them away to save ourselves from this extra weight, bc thats just not something you do to books. Dammit.

But I digress.

We walk to the restaurant, a place we are told is very authentic and non-touristy. Awesome, I think. Ive woken up at this point and Im not grumpy anymore, which is a plus for those around me. I cant wait to have some authentic pasta! I have one rule I must follow in Italy, and that is to eat pasta every day I am here, since I refrain from regularly eating it at home. So far, Ive had overpriced rubbery pasta, beautifully-presented but only OK-tasting pasta, and tonight will be the 3rd attempt – I am hoping for something exceptional. High hopes I have, high…

We start with prosecco and antipasti. The prosecco is fabulous. The antipasto is new; Ive never tasted prosciutto in my life, and the serving dish arrives w/ thin slices of some other type of meat at the very top, the prosciutto draped over the sides of the first tier of the dish, with salami, mozzarella, cherry tomatoes and pickled onions on the second tier. I decide today will be the day I try this meat that Ive successfully avoided for so long.

I sample everything. The mystery meat at the top is delicious, I wish I could remember what its called. The salami, eccellente. The pickled onions, awesome. The prosciutto. Hmmm. Its sliced so thin and its so tender that it forms a mushy, salty glob in my mouth. I try the rest of the piece on my plate. Still don’t like it. The Italians are appalled.

We move on to another type of wine, drier than the prosecco. I hope this doesn’t cause a migraine tonight, as it usually does. We’ve been here a while at this point, and no one seems hurried. “When the hell are we ordering dinner,” I wonder. Neither one of the Italians look concerned. Im not used to a meal being such a drawn out affair. I am truly enjoying myself and my surroundings, but as time goes on, Im running out of conversation topics… This would be a good time to mention that The Politician doesnt speak any English. So we have to guess everything he’s saying. And we speak zero Italian. So Ill let you imagine how fun it is trying to communicate. I had done enough of this in Spain, the speaking slowly and enunciating every syllable, the trying to find simpler ways to get a phrase across, the having one person (in this case The Pharmacist) translate everything. I am mentally exhausted.

Finally we order. The menu is in Italian, of course. The Politician explains some dishes and I go with one that is pasta w/ fish and potatoes. Sounds great and I cant wait! I imagine a plate w/ a fillet of fish on it, potatoes on the side, pasta noodles right next to them. Yum.

Theres more talking, guessing, and conversation pulled out of my you-know-what. Slowly but surely, Il Politico is getting on my nerves. The food arrives what seems like hours later, and I dig in. Im not sure what kind of meat is mixed in w/ my pasta and potatoes, and I forget what I ordered and assume its chicken. I look at it from time to time and think it looks a little funny. I take a few bites of it. I don’t remember what it tastes like.

I move in for another forkful, a quarter-way thru my meal at this point. And then I see it. It cant be. Oh, God, say it isn’t so. I gently pick it up w/ the flat of my fork, as I cant bear to spear it w/ the prongs, and hold it up for all to see.

“Is this octopus,” I say dryly. No one answers. “Is this octopus,” I repeat.

It is. I am gingerly holding on my fork a baby tentacle. Good Lord. This is what I get for allowing a non-English speaking person to translate a menu for me. Serves me right, I think. I had tried to go outside my comfort zone, figured the restaurant was wonderful, and that whatever I ordered would be delicious. But I was not expecting suction cups.

I play w/ my food and try to pick around the 8-armed creature on my plate. Ive completely lost my appetite, tho I try to fake it. No one is fooled. I am being a good sport tho; I manage to eat roughly half of the plate before I give up. If it weren’t for our tentacled friend, I would never leave that much pasta on my plate, uneaten. As if.

After the main meal, there is more wine. There is a tiny shot of something which I dont like, but it’s paired w/ a sweet cream dessert in a tiny cup, which I do like. There is laughter and, unfortunately, more talk. More conversations pulled out of my you-know-what, had in broken English and broken Italian. Some French and Spanish thrown in for good measure. There is espresso for them, authentic Italian macchiatos for us. There is Mirto, a god-awful after-dinner liquer that smells like perfume and tastes like ugh. Monet and I take 2 small sips. The Italians finish the bottle. I think theyre pretty tipsy by now, which makes The Politician even more annoying. I am completely sober, as I suspect Monet is.

I look around. The restaurant has emptied out. We are the only ones still sitting there, oblivious, while the waiters clean the other tables and shut down for the night. I reflect that, if The Politician hadn’t been steadily getting on my nerves as time progressed, this would have been a perfect night. I have learned the true beauty of what it means to have an Italian dinner. It is about the company and the conversation, as much as, if not more than, the food. Its about taking the time to taste what you are eating, really have an eating experience, as opposed to throwing the food down our throats, which is what we do in America. It is about friends and family and laughing and, believe it or not, enjoying life. I love the concept.

Eventually the bill is settled and we are dropped off at our hotel. Monet & I enjoy recapping the adventures of the evening as we get ready for bed. We agree that theres no way in hell we’ll be able to wake up in a few short hours to catch our train, and decide to take the following one at 525pm. Tomorrow, Venice! Tonight, blissful, sound sleep…

Day 1, Milan

Our first stop of the day is a cheap clothing store in the area where Mo needs to find some long sleeved layering tees, since we are starting to freeze our asses off in Europe. On the way, we stop at a neighborhood pharmacy for cold medicine (another annoying aspect of winter travel).

The pharmacist notices we are tourists and tells us “Milano issa beautifulla! Soa mucha to seya!” and how can we only be staying for 2 days?? This is a surprising declaration, since every travel website we have read says that 2 days in Milan is more than enough, and that theres not much to see… He gives Mo her medicine and circles a million must-visit things on our map. His accent is endearing and just the way he pronounces the intersection of Via Fiori Chiari and Via Fiori Oscuri makes me melt. Ah, this language!

We all exchange email addresses and plan to hang out later today or tomorrow. We head off in search of the clothing store, which we don’t find, tho it allows us to explore our neighborhood, which is cute. We jump on the Metro and head to Il Duomo. Ive read online that it’s the only thing worth seeing in Milan, and that you can walk on the roof amongst the spires, which sounds very cool to me. I haven’t seen any pictures of it, tho, so Im not really expecting much. At this point, I feel like “You’ve seen one church, you’ve seen ‘em all”, and God, do the Europeans love them some churches! So when we take the last step up from the Metro and I turn around slightly and see Il Duomo for the first time, my breath is absolutely taken away. It is a massive, bright white structure, so full of intricate details I am amazed that something like this could ever even be built by mere humans. I take a bunch of pictures. I stare up in awe. I am dumbfounded by how beautiful it is.



We find out it costs 8€ to walk on the roof, so we pass. I am pleasantly surprised to find that touring the inside is free tho, so we head in. No Camera signs are plastered everywhere, so I pack my mammoth of an apparatus in my backpack. The inside of Il Duomo is massive (I hate to use that word repetitively, however, that’s the one that keeps coming to mind). The vaulted ceilings are ridiculously high, the stained glass windows are huge and made up of a hundred separate panes, the belly of the church is gigantic. I notice someone taking pictures and I comment that he’s gonna get in trouble very soon. Then I see more and more people taking pictures. I tentatively take my camera out, sneak some quick photos and deposit it back in my bag asap. We are in the back of the church and theres no official-looking people around, but I wonder if theyre watching me on the security cameras, and are gonna swoop down on me and kick me out any minute now.

We keep walking and end up in the center area of the church. I see cameras clicking left and right. Oh hell no, I want some pictures too. I take my baby back out and snap away. I semi-sneak, semi-don’t-care. When I walk off towards the exit tho, I hide the camera inside my open jacket and hold the flap protectively over it. An old man in a suit walks up to me and starts speaking in Italian. “Oh shit, Im in trouble” I think, a split second before I realize he’s just a tourist, too. I apologize that I don’t understand what he’s saying and he smiles and walks away. I take some more photos. Click, click, click.

“Ziggy, this shot is beautiful, see if you can get one of these if you wanna try to get away with it”

We are in the very front. I look around. Oh, whatever. I lift my camera. Click, click… Click.

Finally Im done, I am all pictured-out. After we light a candle each and say a prayer for loved ones, we leave Il Duomo, all the while amazed by how beautiful it is. Those of you who know me well know that Im not a big fan of organized religion and everything it encompasses. But some holy places just give me a sense of peace, regardless of what religion or denomination they are. Il Duomo has invoked a sense of awe in me, more than anything, and I find that even as Im walking away from it, I keep turning back to admire it.

Italia

The stewardess greets us in Italian, though we are still on Spanish tarmac. I stop whatever it is Im doing to give her voice my undivided attention. This generic “Welcome to EasyJet, blah blah blah” airplane greeting is the most beautiful thing Ive heard in my life. “Music”, I think. I understand nothing, but for 30 seconds I am captivated by the lilt in her voice and the way her words flow together seamlessly. Her message in English has the same waves of up and down. With the accent, it sounds so similar to Italian (tho not as pretty) that I cant understand a word here either.

Its to be a short flight to Milano, about an hour and a half, and I hope to sleep thru it. I also hope that everybody remembers its early in the morning and keeps quiet. I didnt get much sleep last night and Im not in the mood.

“I haven’t seen any kids or babies yet,” Mo says

“No, I was referring to the adults. They never know how to shut up”

I start reading my book while we taxi. The Spanish couple sitting behind me, who also happen to be the ones who felt it was their right to cut in line at the gate, are talking. A lot. Actually, the man is babbling like words are gonna go out of style in an hour, and the woman can hardly get a word in. “Oh, God, shut it,” I say in my head. I consider turning around and shooting daggers with my eyes. Within 15 minutes, tho, I am in a fairly deep sleep and the annoying chatter behind me falls away…

An hour later, the same incessant chatter wakes me up, of course. I give up on sleep and wait to land.

* * *

On the bus that takes us across the tarmac, I get to see close-up what Italian women look like. Mo had told me to expect a lot of lip augmentations and fake tans.

“So they all look like Donatella Versace.”

“Basically.”

Man, she wasn’t kidding. I see some specimens that scare me. I observe one lady close up on the bus; her skin is pulled so taut from one or 3 face lifts that it looks like its about to crack. Her fake baking results in leather skin, and whatever make-up she decided to use that morning gives her an extra shiny sheen. Im assuming she was going for glamour, but instead, I find something oh-so-sad and unnatural about her face.

Wrinkles are really not a bad thing. Especially when the alternative is this.

* * *

2 buses, 2 hours and 8.50€ later, we are finally at our destination. This is one of those places that cant decide if it’s a hotel or hostel. We share the room w/ a stranger so it’s a hostel in that respect. But I am delighted to announce to Mo the next day that “This is like a real hotel! They made our beds and everything!”

We are checked in by a short, little red-headed man with some hardcore body odor. He is nice enough, tho he seems a little strange. I detect an Arabic accent in his English, but I debate whether I want to divulge that I grew up in Syria and speak Arabic. I have found that sometimes this has the opposite effect of what Id like, and the person in front of me becomes annoying and thinks they can take certain liberties with me that they would never dream of taking with a straight-up American. So I don’t say anything while he checks us in and helps us up to our room with the bags. He goes back downstairs to check someone else in, a Finnish girl we met on the street who looked equally as lost as we were, and was looking for the same place.

“I bet you he’s Arabic,” I tell Mo.

Five minutes later he brings Finnish Girl up to the room and disappears. We start settling in, leaving the door open. He pops back in and leans against the table by the door, arms crossed; very casual and at-home. I don’t like it. I consider again that he seems a little strange. Mo tells me later he looks like the kinda guy that would sniff our underwear while we’re away, and I cant shake the idea.

He starts telling us about Milan and what we should do and see, so on and so forth. We ask him what his name is.

“Ahmad”

Monet and I look at each other and laugh.

“I told you,” I say in her direction.

Over the next few days, we learn that Ahmad from Beirut has lived in Milan for 5 years. He owns this hostel/hotel with a friend of his who owns another hostel/hotel a few blocks away. He seems to be doing well for himself, which is commendable. I always feel pride for any immigrant who can go to another country, learn a new language and a new culture, and make something of themselves. The feeling that he is a little strange lingers here and there, and I just know that one day we are gonna return to our room to see him kneeling over our luggage, our panties at his nose. I stay cautious and make sure to lock the door when we’re in the room, etc. But all is fine and he is actually a very nice guy. On Friday night we decide, last minute, that we want to stay another day, and tho the hotel is booked, he shifts people around so that we can have a bed to sleep in. The body odor lessens day after day, too, which doesn’t hurt.

* * *


We go to get some nasty lunch. It seems to be normal in Italy to have pre-made food sitting on a shelf that a customer points to, which is then popped into a microwave, and served to said customer. Not exactly my idea of good Italian food. We eat our chicken sandwiches, the least nasty option on the shelf at an Asian restaurant, and go back to the hotel for a nap. The beds are blissfully comfortable and huge in comparison to the crap twin-size mattresses we’ve been sleeping on for the past month. Theres even 2 pillows, a true luxury! Next thing we know, its 830pm and Finnish Girl is coming back from a long day of sightseeing. Pointless to wake up now, I concede, and go back to sleep. I decide we’ll just have to make Day 2 in Milan our official Day 1.