15 years ago
Monday, October 6, 2008
Lago di Como
Valy picked us up at half past ten, us being myself and Javier, a friend from Spain whom I met in California. She drives us to the train station in Rho. We check the bus schedule for busses returning to Mazzo (my neighborhood) that evening, and there are several, even on a Sunday. So far so good.
Javier lives in Varese. Well, so far he stays in Varese in a Bed and Breakfast while looking for an apartment for himself and fellow students from Spain. But assuming he can find a suitable apartment, he will be living in Varese for the next ten months. Thus he needs the train for that city.
Valentina misunderstands and thinks that I too want to go to Varese, so she asks the ticket vendor, who sells me a ticket and a return (E7,20). The train is pulling into the station at that moment, so we run to meet it and there is no time to ask questions about how to actually get to my intended destination, Como.
No matter. I can visit with Javier longer while we ride to Varese. I look out the window at the Italian scenery, but I can’t say much about it; I won’t fault the country for not being picturesque along the train line. Javier is worried about missing the stop. It doesn’t matter to me, because I don’t care about going to Varese anyway. If we miss the stop, we can wait for a return train. If we make it to Varese, I will try to transfer to Como. If there is no route to Como, I will visit Varese with Javier and be satisfied.
At the end of the day I don’t care where I go so long as I go somewhere. It’s all new to me. It’s all Italy. If I insist on being happy, then I will be happy. I refuse to be anxious. Especially when I am with a friend. So maybe neither of us speaks Italian, but with his few words and my few words, and of course our English, we can make ourselves understood and, more importantly, understand what we need to understand. I hope.
Eventually we are in Varese. Javier is proud to tell me about his little city. I know the feeling. I want visitors to Rho very badly, not because I am lonely, but because I want to show off my little town. “My” little town that I have inhabited all of one week.
The ticket vendor gets the point across to us that we must go to the other train station in order to go to Como. Javier knows where it is, so he walks me there. The ticket vendor there says to take the bus instead of the train; it’s cheaper and is already at the station.
Ok, one bus ticket to Como (E2,80). Javier and I part ways outside the bus. We make plans to travel together. I will visit him in Varese once he has an apartment. We will go skiing with Concetta and Federica once it snows. We will go to Como together another time when he is not on the apartment hunt. Etc etc. He says that if I take this bus back to Varese that day to call him, but my plan is to go from Cono directly to Rho. Or at least, more directly.
I guess the bus will take an hour. It would be easy to be nervous on a bus through tiny Italian villas getting further and further away from the one landmark I know (the station), but along the way are frequent signs pointing to Como (30 km, 23 km, etc) and the bus always turns to follow the signs. Along the way are also perfect little Italian towns. I am happy to see them, and happy to watch the change in landscape and flora as we move North. Finally, the mountains! I can glimpse their snowy caps in the distance. I can feel my heart beating with their rhythm, even from this distance and through the cloudy bus window.
I count four or more languages, plus Italian, on the bus. This also puts my mind at ease. It sure is convenient to speak English, the language of common currency.
Eventually we arrive in Como, the last stop. It took and hour and twenty minutes. My first order of business is to secure the way home. Especially since it is a Sunday, and the schedules are limited, I want to make sure I don’t miss my only chance to get home. But I’m not worried, because if there isn’t a way this afternoon, I have the address of the Hostel for E14,50 a night and I can return to Milan tomorrow. Or maybe there is another bus today back to Varese and I can stay with Javier. Or catch a train from Varese to Rho.
The bus stop is at the train station. I try to decipher the posted schedule, but it’s quite complicated with strange codes and whatnot I don’t understand.
I want to ask the ticket vendor for the best route. I piece together the question in my mind. “Per andare a Rho?” I can only imagine that the grammar is atrocious, but it gets my point across. Although I can see the vendor through the curtain over the window, he does not come to help me. Obviously they want me to use the automatic ticket selling machine, but this requires that I already know where I am going. I don’t. That is, I know the “a Rho” (‘to Rho’) part, but I have no clue as to the “Per andare” (‘for going’) part. How do I get there???
An African woman starts speaking to me but soon enough it becomes evident that I have no idea what she’s saying and that I need help.
“Di dove sei?” she asks me. ‘Where are you from?’
“A Rho,” (‘To Rho’) I say, misunderstanding at first. Ah, no, I have made this mistake before. “Sono di America.”
She pauses. “You are American?” There is her beautiful African accent, like sweetened condensed milk.
“Yes,” I say, relieved. I don’t feel guilty speaking English, because Italian is also a second language for her.
“Where are you going?”
“To Rho.”
“Ah to Rho. I think that there is not a line from here to Rho. You must go to the other train station.”
That is what I suspected. “Thank you so much,” I say, using the Italian hand gestures for gratitude.
“It is nothing.”
Ok, across town to the other train station, which is the main station (or so my guidebook tells me). I tore out the three pages about Como and folded them into my purse. Now I retrieve them and use the tiny map to direct my feet to the other station.
On the way I breathe in the warm autumn sunshine. The town seems targeted for tourists, which is fine by me, because the lake is just as beautiful, the trees just as yellow, the buildings just as old, no matter how many other pairs of eyes have seem them. I’m dressed for the cooler part of the day, so in the afternoon sunshine a gelato seems like a perfect idea.
One small cone, please, half green apple and half strawberry. Oh, how perfect. There are real strawberry seeds and real bits of apple skin and real Italian flavor bursting into my mouth. Yummmmm.
Follow the map and the signs to the station. Ask again: “Per andare a Rho?” Try to make sense of the answer. I must go first to Milano Garibaldi and then change. Ok, fine. There are numbers, repeated slowly: “due, zero.”
Repeat them, just to make sure. “Due, zero?”
“Si, due, zero, otto.”
“Ah, okei – due, zero, otto. Dove sono l’orari?” ‘Ok, 2-0-8. Where are the hours (Where is the timetable)?”
For the life of me I cannot find a line “208” listed. I go back to the window.
“Non trovo la linea due-zero-otto. Per andare a Rho??”
Yes, I must go to Milano Garibaldi. But when are the hours of the train? Ahhhh, at 14:08 (Two-oh-eight). And after? 15:08. And then 16:08 and so on? Yes, yes, of course. Now I understand. And will this ticket work? Ok, thank you.
Some mental math and I think that if I take the five-oh-eight train, I will arrive in Milan with plenty of time to make the connection to Rho and arrive in time for the bus from the station to Mazzo.
Now! To exploring Como!
The city is beautiful in true Italian fashion. Meandering narrow streets, cobblestoned and lined with antique buildings. Piazzas filled with café tables and diners. Expensive shops with intriguing window displays, mostly closed (for Sunday, I assume). An impressive cathedral with only a tiny piazza before its façade, unlike the massive Piazza del Duomo in Milano. The old stone city gates and walls, outside of which stand tables with trinkets – glass jewelry, wooden cups, leather satchels, and so on. And finally, the Lake.
Everyone in the world is walking along the lake’s promenade. The Americans pretend to be European (I heard one boy comment in an absurdly Midwestern accent: “I love how the Europeans all have, like, a fashion. Americans always wear the same thing – jeans and a tee shirt.” Ugh). The Chinese teens speak Italian (As Valy tells me, all the pizzerias in Italy are now run by Chinese people). Italian children feed the ducks and swans.
My stomach is starting to twist, so out comes the crackers and jam and nutella I packed into my bag. A bench, a snack, some sunshine. I am all smiles. I feel warm and stylish (enough) in my San Fransisco jeans, my pink Benetton sweater, my dusky blue scarf.
What time is it? Four o’clock. Maybe I should have taken the four-oh-eight train instead. Oh well, too late now. Maybe I should go back the way I cam afterall, since I know that route works, at least. But no, there must be a more efficient route, even if it is via Milan. And if there is no train, I can call Federica when I arrive in Milan and stay there until the next day.
Back in the city, the evening strollers are out. It seems even on Sundays the shops open in the evening, and the streets are filling with people. The Italian sport of choice (for those who prefer crocodile to kangaroo leather, at least): window shopping. Como is a famous center of Italian silk manufacturing, but the historic silk store I want to visit is closed despite the shopping multitude.
A parade winds through town. A procession, with a section ‘Africa’ and ‘Latin America’ and I don’t know what else. Banners and robes and singing, each group in their own language. They made their way directly into the duomo. Evening mass, I suppose. The tourists took pictures. The Italians processed in a different way – only a street away, but the sound of the holy singing was drowned – to their religious house of choice. Today in Italy, the center of the Catholic world, worship is left to the foreigners and the locals shop.
As the hour comes to an end, my feet feel like I have worn holes right through them. I’ll head to the station for the train.
The train to Milano lulls me right to sleep (0 Euros; I can use the return ticket I bought that morning). If I caught it going the other way, it would take me right to Zurich. Maybe next time!
Awaken at Milano Garibaldi. Exit. Here is the train schedule. Rho, rho, rho – here it is. Ha, it’s the same train that continues to Varese. The one in the six o’clock hour doesn’t say it stops in Rho, though. What do I do now? Plus, it came on the hour, so I’ve already missed it. Is there one next hour? 17.25. No, that’s five o’clock. 19.25, here it is. Arrives Rho at 19.44. I can just make the last bus to Mazzo. No, wait, the last bus is at 18.55. Darn this twenty-four hour clock! I’m always messing it up.
I can wait over an hour for a train that goes to Rho, but then I would have to walk, unless by some stroke of bizarre fortune there is a later bus afterall. I don’t know the way, and I don’t have a map, and I don’t even know how to ask that in Italian. Following verbal directions? I would be totally lost. Maybe I should call Federica and stay in Milan. Here is a store, maybe it will sell a map.
Do you have maps? On this stand? I don’t see them. On the other side, okay. Maps maps maps. Milan, Rho. But it’s too small! I could never use this map to find my way, even if I did pay, what, 14,90 Euro! No way.
I decide to take the Metro (1 Euro). There is a bus from the stop I used before, but I will have already missed the last run, if it’s the same on Sundays as weekdays. I could risk it. I could walk from there, but I certainly don’t know the way, and I think it’s far.
Finally, here is a useable map – the map for the metro. I can actually see the roads in Rho on this one. Here is Via Amendola. If I take the Metro to the very last stop, that’s a much closer walk back to Rho. I draw the map into my little notebook, and then take a picture of it (my big brilliant idea). I can make it! I can walk.
Of course when I arrive at the stop, it’s a complete construction zone and it’s impossible to orient myself. But there was a bus stop and – thank goodness, a stroke of luck! – there is a bus coming in fifteen minutes that will take me right to my neighborhood.
When the bus comes I board it right away. The driver wants to know why I’m waiting inside the bus for the ten minutes before it departs.
I’m tired, I say. He starts talking to me more, and I must tell him I’m not Italian.
“Oh! No speak-a English,” he says to me. He shows me how to punch the ticket (0 Euro; I already had the ticket from another day when I bought one for the wrong bus). He wants to make conversation, however broken. Another passenger boards who speaks English, so we start a strange three-way conversation. The bus departs, and the English speaker wants to know more about my stay in Italy. He is a photographer, lives in Rho but has a vacation house on Lake Como. He gives me his telephone number because he wants to take me touring. (Suspicious?)
I don’t know if I should be suspect of such friendliness. If I were Kerouac, such a meeting would be the start to a complex adventure. But the bane of female existence is the necessary suspicion of all other people, especially of all males.
“Via Amendola!” the bus driver announces, stopping at the crossroads nearest my street even though there is not a bus stand there.
“Qui?” ‘Here?’
“Si!”
I descend, shouting Grazie! to both the driver and the friendly photographer, and walk the last little way back to my apartment. My feet are especially grateful for the bus. By the time I arrive home, I am ready to drop. Leftovers and a night in front of the TV. What a day!
Javier lives in Varese. Well, so far he stays in Varese in a Bed and Breakfast while looking for an apartment for himself and fellow students from Spain. But assuming he can find a suitable apartment, he will be living in Varese for the next ten months. Thus he needs the train for that city.
Valentina misunderstands and thinks that I too want to go to Varese, so she asks the ticket vendor, who sells me a ticket and a return (E7,20). The train is pulling into the station at that moment, so we run to meet it and there is no time to ask questions about how to actually get to my intended destination, Como.
No matter. I can visit with Javier longer while we ride to Varese. I look out the window at the Italian scenery, but I can’t say much about it; I won’t fault the country for not being picturesque along the train line. Javier is worried about missing the stop. It doesn’t matter to me, because I don’t care about going to Varese anyway. If we miss the stop, we can wait for a return train. If we make it to Varese, I will try to transfer to Como. If there is no route to Como, I will visit Varese with Javier and be satisfied.
At the end of the day I don’t care where I go so long as I go somewhere. It’s all new to me. It’s all Italy. If I insist on being happy, then I will be happy. I refuse to be anxious. Especially when I am with a friend. So maybe neither of us speaks Italian, but with his few words and my few words, and of course our English, we can make ourselves understood and, more importantly, understand what we need to understand. I hope.
Eventually we are in Varese. Javier is proud to tell me about his little city. I know the feeling. I want visitors to Rho very badly, not because I am lonely, but because I want to show off my little town. “My” little town that I have inhabited all of one week.
The ticket vendor gets the point across to us that we must go to the other train station in order to go to Como. Javier knows where it is, so he walks me there. The ticket vendor there says to take the bus instead of the train; it’s cheaper and is already at the station.
Ok, one bus ticket to Como (E2,80). Javier and I part ways outside the bus. We make plans to travel together. I will visit him in Varese once he has an apartment. We will go skiing with Concetta and Federica once it snows. We will go to Como together another time when he is not on the apartment hunt. Etc etc. He says that if I take this bus back to Varese that day to call him, but my plan is to go from Cono directly to Rho. Or at least, more directly.
I guess the bus will take an hour. It would be easy to be nervous on a bus through tiny Italian villas getting further and further away from the one landmark I know (the station), but along the way are frequent signs pointing to Como (30 km, 23 km, etc) and the bus always turns to follow the signs. Along the way are also perfect little Italian towns. I am happy to see them, and happy to watch the change in landscape and flora as we move North. Finally, the mountains! I can glimpse their snowy caps in the distance. I can feel my heart beating with their rhythm, even from this distance and through the cloudy bus window.
I count four or more languages, plus Italian, on the bus. This also puts my mind at ease. It sure is convenient to speak English, the language of common currency.
Eventually we arrive in Como, the last stop. It took and hour and twenty minutes. My first order of business is to secure the way home. Especially since it is a Sunday, and the schedules are limited, I want to make sure I don’t miss my only chance to get home. But I’m not worried, because if there isn’t a way this afternoon, I have the address of the Hostel for E14,50 a night and I can return to Milan tomorrow. Or maybe there is another bus today back to Varese and I can stay with Javier. Or catch a train from Varese to Rho.
The bus stop is at the train station. I try to decipher the posted schedule, but it’s quite complicated with strange codes and whatnot I don’t understand.
I want to ask the ticket vendor for the best route. I piece together the question in my mind. “Per andare a Rho?” I can only imagine that the grammar is atrocious, but it gets my point across. Although I can see the vendor through the curtain over the window, he does not come to help me. Obviously they want me to use the automatic ticket selling machine, but this requires that I already know where I am going. I don’t. That is, I know the “a Rho” (‘to Rho’) part, but I have no clue as to the “Per andare” (‘for going’) part. How do I get there???
An African woman starts speaking to me but soon enough it becomes evident that I have no idea what she’s saying and that I need help.
“Di dove sei?” she asks me. ‘Where are you from?’
“A Rho,” (‘To Rho’) I say, misunderstanding at first. Ah, no, I have made this mistake before. “Sono di America.”
She pauses. “You are American?” There is her beautiful African accent, like sweetened condensed milk.
“Yes,” I say, relieved. I don’t feel guilty speaking English, because Italian is also a second language for her.
“Where are you going?”
“To Rho.”
“Ah to Rho. I think that there is not a line from here to Rho. You must go to the other train station.”
That is what I suspected. “Thank you so much,” I say, using the Italian hand gestures for gratitude.
“It is nothing.”
Ok, across town to the other train station, which is the main station (or so my guidebook tells me). I tore out the three pages about Como and folded them into my purse. Now I retrieve them and use the tiny map to direct my feet to the other station.
On the way I breathe in the warm autumn sunshine. The town seems targeted for tourists, which is fine by me, because the lake is just as beautiful, the trees just as yellow, the buildings just as old, no matter how many other pairs of eyes have seem them. I’m dressed for the cooler part of the day, so in the afternoon sunshine a gelato seems like a perfect idea.
One small cone, please, half green apple and half strawberry. Oh, how perfect. There are real strawberry seeds and real bits of apple skin and real Italian flavor bursting into my mouth. Yummmmm.
Follow the map and the signs to the station. Ask again: “Per andare a Rho?” Try to make sense of the answer. I must go first to Milano Garibaldi and then change. Ok, fine. There are numbers, repeated slowly: “due, zero.”
Repeat them, just to make sure. “Due, zero?”
“Si, due, zero, otto.”
“Ah, okei – due, zero, otto. Dove sono l’orari?” ‘Ok, 2-0-8. Where are the hours (Where is the timetable)?”
For the life of me I cannot find a line “208” listed. I go back to the window.
“Non trovo la linea due-zero-otto. Per andare a Rho??”
Yes, I must go to Milano Garibaldi. But when are the hours of the train? Ahhhh, at 14:08 (Two-oh-eight). And after? 15:08. And then 16:08 and so on? Yes, yes, of course. Now I understand. And will this ticket work? Ok, thank you.
Some mental math and I think that if I take the five-oh-eight train, I will arrive in Milan with plenty of time to make the connection to Rho and arrive in time for the bus from the station to Mazzo.
Now! To exploring Como!
The city is beautiful in true Italian fashion. Meandering narrow streets, cobblestoned and lined with antique buildings. Piazzas filled with café tables and diners. Expensive shops with intriguing window displays, mostly closed (for Sunday, I assume). An impressive cathedral with only a tiny piazza before its façade, unlike the massive Piazza del Duomo in Milano. The old stone city gates and walls, outside of which stand tables with trinkets – glass jewelry, wooden cups, leather satchels, and so on. And finally, the Lake.
Everyone in the world is walking along the lake’s promenade. The Americans pretend to be European (I heard one boy comment in an absurdly Midwestern accent: “I love how the Europeans all have, like, a fashion. Americans always wear the same thing – jeans and a tee shirt.” Ugh). The Chinese teens speak Italian (As Valy tells me, all the pizzerias in Italy are now run by Chinese people). Italian children feed the ducks and swans.
My stomach is starting to twist, so out comes the crackers and jam and nutella I packed into my bag. A bench, a snack, some sunshine. I am all smiles. I feel warm and stylish (enough) in my San Fransisco jeans, my pink Benetton sweater, my dusky blue scarf.
What time is it? Four o’clock. Maybe I should have taken the four-oh-eight train instead. Oh well, too late now. Maybe I should go back the way I cam afterall, since I know that route works, at least. But no, there must be a more efficient route, even if it is via Milan. And if there is no train, I can call Federica when I arrive in Milan and stay there until the next day.
Back in the city, the evening strollers are out. It seems even on Sundays the shops open in the evening, and the streets are filling with people. The Italian sport of choice (for those who prefer crocodile to kangaroo leather, at least): window shopping. Como is a famous center of Italian silk manufacturing, but the historic silk store I want to visit is closed despite the shopping multitude.
A parade winds through town. A procession, with a section ‘Africa’ and ‘Latin America’ and I don’t know what else. Banners and robes and singing, each group in their own language. They made their way directly into the duomo. Evening mass, I suppose. The tourists took pictures. The Italians processed in a different way – only a street away, but the sound of the holy singing was drowned – to their religious house of choice. Today in Italy, the center of the Catholic world, worship is left to the foreigners and the locals shop.
As the hour comes to an end, my feet feel like I have worn holes right through them. I’ll head to the station for the train.
The train to Milano lulls me right to sleep (0 Euros; I can use the return ticket I bought that morning). If I caught it going the other way, it would take me right to Zurich. Maybe next time!
Awaken at Milano Garibaldi. Exit. Here is the train schedule. Rho, rho, rho – here it is. Ha, it’s the same train that continues to Varese. The one in the six o’clock hour doesn’t say it stops in Rho, though. What do I do now? Plus, it came on the hour, so I’ve already missed it. Is there one next hour? 17.25. No, that’s five o’clock. 19.25, here it is. Arrives Rho at 19.44. I can just make the last bus to Mazzo. No, wait, the last bus is at 18.55. Darn this twenty-four hour clock! I’m always messing it up.
I can wait over an hour for a train that goes to Rho, but then I would have to walk, unless by some stroke of bizarre fortune there is a later bus afterall. I don’t know the way, and I don’t have a map, and I don’t even know how to ask that in Italian. Following verbal directions? I would be totally lost. Maybe I should call Federica and stay in Milan. Here is a store, maybe it will sell a map.
Do you have maps? On this stand? I don’t see them. On the other side, okay. Maps maps maps. Milan, Rho. But it’s too small! I could never use this map to find my way, even if I did pay, what, 14,90 Euro! No way.
I decide to take the Metro (1 Euro). There is a bus from the stop I used before, but I will have already missed the last run, if it’s the same on Sundays as weekdays. I could risk it. I could walk from there, but I certainly don’t know the way, and I think it’s far.
Finally, here is a useable map – the map for the metro. I can actually see the roads in Rho on this one. Here is Via Amendola. If I take the Metro to the very last stop, that’s a much closer walk back to Rho. I draw the map into my little notebook, and then take a picture of it (my big brilliant idea). I can make it! I can walk.
Of course when I arrive at the stop, it’s a complete construction zone and it’s impossible to orient myself. But there was a bus stop and – thank goodness, a stroke of luck! – there is a bus coming in fifteen minutes that will take me right to my neighborhood.
When the bus comes I board it right away. The driver wants to know why I’m waiting inside the bus for the ten minutes before it departs.
I’m tired, I say. He starts talking to me more, and I must tell him I’m not Italian.
“Oh! No speak-a English,” he says to me. He shows me how to punch the ticket (0 Euro; I already had the ticket from another day when I bought one for the wrong bus). He wants to make conversation, however broken. Another passenger boards who speaks English, so we start a strange three-way conversation. The bus departs, and the English speaker wants to know more about my stay in Italy. He is a photographer, lives in Rho but has a vacation house on Lake Como. He gives me his telephone number because he wants to take me touring. (Suspicious?)
I don’t know if I should be suspect of such friendliness. If I were Kerouac, such a meeting would be the start to a complex adventure. But the bane of female existence is the necessary suspicion of all other people, especially of all males.
“Via Amendola!” the bus driver announces, stopping at the crossroads nearest my street even though there is not a bus stand there.
“Qui?” ‘Here?’
“Si!”
I descend, shouting Grazie! to both the driver and the friendly photographer, and walk the last little way back to my apartment. My feet are especially grateful for the bus. By the time I arrive home, I am ready to drop. Leftovers and a night in front of the TV. What a day!
Friday, October 3, 2008
more longwinded proof that i am, indeed, in italy
I now have a working BBC decoder, so I have been eagerly soaking up news of the VP debate and continuing financial saga. And last night I found CSI in Italian – hooray for CSI. The episodes were from season one, so since I’d already seen them, I could follow along fine. I’ve noticed that all the dubbed Italian voices sound the same. I don’t know if they only have ten people who do all the voice-over or what, but I can tell that’s going to get pretty darn annoying.
The other day I went into the city of Milan – how absolutely drop dead gorgeous. I had to ask the nice men at the bus stop where to go, but soon enough I made it to Il Duomo via autobus and metro. I didn’t linger too long in the Piazza del Duomo. They were filming some screaming teen girls for MTV Italia (I didn’t know what they were doing at the time, but later I actually saw the footage on that channel).
I made my way through the city, soaking in the architecture and discovering gorgeous cathedrals and chapels quite unlike the famous gothic Duomo, but more to my taste. I felt so embraced by the city somehow, like I was welcome there, especially as I got away from the more touristy piazza. Tourists make me nervous, even when I am one. Actually, it’s the industry marketed at tourists that makes me nervous. I would rather be in a store where I know they only speak Italian than in one catering to foreigners where they might try to use English with me.
Later, I got thoroughly lost and had to forcibly remind myself how much I love walking through the city as my stomach grumbled and feet ached. I sat on a bench in one piazza (that is, a square – it can be anything from the grand courtyard before il duomo or the area in the middle of a traffic circle where there is a news stand and some benches). People in Milan apparently love to sit on benches. The baby and his grandmother on the other end of the bench waved and said “Ciao Signorina” to me. Lots of the requisite old Italian men sitting around and enjoying each others’ company. Lots of people reading newspapers. Lots of teenagers being, well, teenagers. And lots of dogs too (but not strays).
I should have bought a coffee or a pizza, as much for the experience as the nourishment, but I stubbornly set my mind to spend no money.
As I made my way back to the metro, beautiful business people were leaving work, and the many cafes and bars were setting up apperitivi, the Italian version of happy hour. I can’t wait to partake in that ritual.
I didn’t take any pictures while in Milan this time. I was stubbornly trying not to stick out too much. Next time I will have to just get over myself….
The other day I went into the city of Milan – how absolutely drop dead gorgeous. I had to ask the nice men at the bus stop where to go, but soon enough I made it to Il Duomo via autobus and metro. I didn’t linger too long in the Piazza del Duomo. They were filming some screaming teen girls for MTV Italia (I didn’t know what they were doing at the time, but later I actually saw the footage on that channel).
I made my way through the city, soaking in the architecture and discovering gorgeous cathedrals and chapels quite unlike the famous gothic Duomo, but more to my taste. I felt so embraced by the city somehow, like I was welcome there, especially as I got away from the more touristy piazza. Tourists make me nervous, even when I am one. Actually, it’s the industry marketed at tourists that makes me nervous. I would rather be in a store where I know they only speak Italian than in one catering to foreigners where they might try to use English with me.
Later, I got thoroughly lost and had to forcibly remind myself how much I love walking through the city as my stomach grumbled and feet ached. I sat on a bench in one piazza (that is, a square – it can be anything from the grand courtyard before il duomo or the area in the middle of a traffic circle where there is a news stand and some benches). People in Milan apparently love to sit on benches. The baby and his grandmother on the other end of the bench waved and said “Ciao Signorina” to me. Lots of the requisite old Italian men sitting around and enjoying each others’ company. Lots of people reading newspapers. Lots of teenagers being, well, teenagers. And lots of dogs too (but not strays).
I should have bought a coffee or a pizza, as much for the experience as the nourishment, but I stubbornly set my mind to spend no money.
As I made my way back to the metro, beautiful business people were leaving work, and the many cafes and bars were setting up apperitivi, the Italian version of happy hour. I can’t wait to partake in that ritual.
I didn’t take any pictures while in Milan this time. I was stubbornly trying not to stick out too much. Next time I will have to just get over myself….
Thursday, October 2, 2008
ITALIAN PEOPLE ARE SO NICE!
First, of course, is Valentina and her family and how nice they’ve been to me.
Next, is the simple fact that everyone seems to greet each other on the street. Not all the time, but certainly if I pass someone inside the gates of my apartment complex, we greet each other.
On the Metro, when a seat opens up, people offer it to the others around them before sitting, or insist that their friend sits. Walking around the city, I felt welcomed even though nobody said a word to me.
And another example: today I had to ask two men on the side of the street to help me find the correct bus stop to reach the Metro stop. These men were so nice that even though I could barely express myself in their language, they stopped whatever they were doing to help me figure out the correct place. One eventually called another friend to ask for the information. Then they walked me down the road to the proper place and looked at the time table with me, pointing out the next expected bus.
I don’t think that would happen in America. Not that people are unfriendly, but the person would either point out the correct place or else say something like, “I’m sorry, I don’t know.” I am really intrigued by this drop-everything-and-help-a-fellow-human attitude. I wonder if it will persist, or if I have so far gotten lucky.
Next, is the simple fact that everyone seems to greet each other on the street. Not all the time, but certainly if I pass someone inside the gates of my apartment complex, we greet each other.
On the Metro, when a seat opens up, people offer it to the others around them before sitting, or insist that their friend sits. Walking around the city, I felt welcomed even though nobody said a word to me.
And another example: today I had to ask two men on the side of the street to help me find the correct bus stop to reach the Metro stop. These men were so nice that even though I could barely express myself in their language, they stopped whatever they were doing to help me figure out the correct place. One eventually called another friend to ask for the information. Then they walked me down the road to the proper place and looked at the time table with me, pointing out the next expected bus.
I don’t think that would happen in America. Not that people are unfriendly, but the person would either point out the correct place or else say something like, “I’m sorry, I don’t know.” I am really intrigued by this drop-everything-and-help-a-fellow-human attitude. I wonder if it will persist, or if I have so far gotten lucky.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Edible Mushroom of the Day
I found these gorgeous mushrooms in the supermarket that is close to my flat. You can only imagine how excited I was.
There they were, just chillin with several different varieties that we would never see in an American grocery store - maybe in a specialty shop at $15 dollars a pound. I got 500g (about a pound) for the sum total of 2 Euro!
I didn't know if there is a special way to prepare them or what, so I just cooked them with plenty of garlic and olive oil (I didn't have any butter) and some coarse salt. They were delicious, with a more mushrom flavor than the normal white button variety but not as overpowering as shitaake can be. I cooked the whole cluster, but the bottom part of the "stem" was too tough to eat, so next time I will leave it out. I still have two-thirds of the package left!
benvenuti a milano
It’s the end of my first full day in Milan. My apartment is beautiful, and seems very big for one person. I have two balconies, all for me. My second suitcase (my beloved backpack) arrived today, so everything is here.
After cooking dinner tonight and sipping my second glass of wine, I lit the candles I found in the flat and a stick of incense I imported from California. It already feels like home.
I taught my first English lesson today and sat in on a class with the kids I will be teaching next week. I loved both – not hard at all!
Valentina has been very helpful in getting me set up with a telephone (still not programmed), internet (haven’t received the adapter yet), directions (I got lost walking to the school), tv (BBC decoder should work by tomorrow), and groceries (the supermarket is a two minute walk). Really she, and her family, have been wonderful and I am so thankful for their help.
I already understand so much Italian, but I really need to speak it for goodness sakes! I think I have not said a single sentence in Italian yet. It runs through my mind constantly though. It’s so easy and fluid. I tried to take a nap (jetlag fighting with two or three espressos) and realized after twenty minutes that I was processing Italian grammar the whole time. I love this part of the process. I can see, too, that I have matured since (and largely because of) my experience five years ago in Romania. I am not afraid to step out of my apartment, not afraid that someone will say something to me I don’t understand, not afraid of making a huge grievous error and receiving angry foreign reprimands. (Remember the ice cream, Sarah?)
Tomorrow I will go into the city of Milan. Where I live is actually a suburb called Rho. Actually, I live in a sort of suburb of the suburb, called Mazzo di Rho. As far as I can tell, Mazzo di Rho is a small shopping center (supermarket, café, flower shop, beautician, tabaccheria, etc) and public school surrounded by apartment buildings and some houses extending out from the shopping center in rings (that’s where I live, and where the English school is). The outermost ring has a lot of industry and connects to the highway. (The lesson I taught today was in one of those companies – they sell ball bearings.) It really is a beautiful model for a tiny suburb. A nice change from my suburb of Boston, where the closest industry is the pizza shop a mile away – and another mile to anything of substance or usefulness.
The supermarket, though tiny, carries pretty much everything I could want or need. I succumbed to its temptation today and bought, aside from the essentials, several luxury items: a bottle of wine (3,49 euros, delicious), a block of cheese (called Nostrano val Lesina, 1,92 euro), and the most amazing mushrooms I have ever laid eyes on (1,99 euro, the same price as their boring old white button mushrooms). So none of those things were bank breakers, and they make me very happy, but I must remember that I am on a budget, at least until I start making money.
One more observation: supposedly all Italian people do is smoke! but I have yet to see a single Italian person smoking. Maybe that will change tomorrow when I go to the city. I’m holding my breath! (haha, pun. ok, i’m sad.)
Now I must try to sleep, even though my body and mind think it’s only seven in the evening. Hoping the two glasses of wine will help…
After cooking dinner tonight and sipping my second glass of wine, I lit the candles I found in the flat and a stick of incense I imported from California. It already feels like home.
I taught my first English lesson today and sat in on a class with the kids I will be teaching next week. I loved both – not hard at all!
Valentina has been very helpful in getting me set up with a telephone (still not programmed), internet (haven’t received the adapter yet), directions (I got lost walking to the school), tv (BBC decoder should work by tomorrow), and groceries (the supermarket is a two minute walk). Really she, and her family, have been wonderful and I am so thankful for their help.
I already understand so much Italian, but I really need to speak it for goodness sakes! I think I have not said a single sentence in Italian yet. It runs through my mind constantly though. It’s so easy and fluid. I tried to take a nap (jetlag fighting with two or three espressos) and realized after twenty minutes that I was processing Italian grammar the whole time. I love this part of the process. I can see, too, that I have matured since (and largely because of) my experience five years ago in Romania. I am not afraid to step out of my apartment, not afraid that someone will say something to me I don’t understand, not afraid of making a huge grievous error and receiving angry foreign reprimands. (Remember the ice cream, Sarah?)
Tomorrow I will go into the city of Milan. Where I live is actually a suburb called Rho. Actually, I live in a sort of suburb of the suburb, called Mazzo di Rho. As far as I can tell, Mazzo di Rho is a small shopping center (supermarket, café, flower shop, beautician, tabaccheria, etc) and public school surrounded by apartment buildings and some houses extending out from the shopping center in rings (that’s where I live, and where the English school is). The outermost ring has a lot of industry and connects to the highway. (The lesson I taught today was in one of those companies – they sell ball bearings.) It really is a beautiful model for a tiny suburb. A nice change from my suburb of Boston, where the closest industry is the pizza shop a mile away – and another mile to anything of substance or usefulness.
The supermarket, though tiny, carries pretty much everything I could want or need. I succumbed to its temptation today and bought, aside from the essentials, several luxury items: a bottle of wine (3,49 euros, delicious), a block of cheese (called Nostrano val Lesina, 1,92 euro), and the most amazing mushrooms I have ever laid eyes on (1,99 euro, the same price as their boring old white button mushrooms). So none of those things were bank breakers, and they make me very happy, but I must remember that I am on a budget, at least until I start making money.
One more observation: supposedly all Italian people do is smoke! but I have yet to see a single Italian person smoking. Maybe that will change tomorrow when I go to the city. I’m holding my breath! (haha, pun. ok, i’m sad.)
Now I must try to sleep, even though my body and mind think it’s only seven in the evening. Hoping the two glasses of wine will help…
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