Milan: Catching Up with my Old Friend

Returning to Milan after more than 30 years felt both like coming home and returning to a half-remembered dream. The city lingered in my memory through its sights, sounds, and smells, yet somehow no longer matched the place I thought I knew. Familiar, but no longer known. I recognized streets and corners but often couldn't remember where they led.

I (Kevin) lived in Milan from 1989-90. It was a challenging, hand-to-mouth existence with money always tight in a somewhat expensive city. Yet it was also a time of discovery. I spent a great deal of time walking the vibrant streets, exploring the architectural gems, and really getting to intimately know large parts of the city.

Time has a way of transforming and reshaping memories. Returning after three decades, my recollection of the city during this trip felt fleeting, rearranged, and not quite accurate.

Thirty-three years later, our group of four arrived in Milan after leaving the Cinque Terre during a rather cold, rainy, and snowy morning in early April. We had one last precious day to spend in Italy before our journey back home. We checked our bags at the central train station and then set out to explore central Milan on foot. We walked to and through the Castello Sforzesco, a medieval fortification at the edge of Parco Sempione. It was a Sunday, and despite the chill in the air, the Milanese were out in droves, enjoying this free historic site and the surrounding grounds, a reminder that while much had changed since my time here, Milan's energy and spirit remained very much intact.

Our next stop was Santa Maria delle Grazie to see one of the world's most famous paintings-- Leonardo DaVinci's "The Last Supper". When I lived in Milan, I would stop by and spend time here quite often - it was always quiet and rarely crowded as I strained my eyes in the dark room to see the faded wall painting.

Much has changed - the infamous painting has undergone a restoration, you can't just wander in now, you need a reservation made well in advance, and the church added a visitor center to accommodate the 1/2 million people who visit every year. We nearly made a fatal error by mistaking the time on our reserved tickets and arriving late - but the sympathetic staff person was able to add us to another group. The restored painting is a true marvel, the colors more vibrant, the intricate details brought to life. It's an absolute must-see when visiting Milan. I saw it usually when I was cold and hungry and needed someplace to be out and away from things.

At lunchtime, I was on a quest to rediscover a cherished eatery on Via dei Piatti from my past, but was unable to find it. It likely no longer exists. Back then, my method for finding cheap places for a good meal was to follow old men and construction workers at lunchtime. They were mostly cafeteria-type spots that I don't think exist any longer - at least not in the city center. I could get a meal for around 2,000 lire - just over a dollar. The meal would typically include pasta, bread, meat, a selection of vegetables, a piece of fruit or cheese, and a small glass of wine. Seating was at communal benches, and I always loved sitting there, able to chat with tablemates. It was always interesting, and I would leave feeling not quite full but fed and a little wiser.

We found a spot for pizza and panini. Everything was good; it cost a lot more than a dollar, and my tablemates were my friends, which made me happy, but so did the memories of the old men I used to chat with 30 years ago. I'm sure they've all passed.

We then walked around the Navigli area - an area of canals on the southwestern part of central Milan. The Navigli area used to be a bit sketchy, gritty, and not so nice - but now it is very much a hot spot loaded with restaurants and clubs and far fewer prostitutes and pickpockets. We got a bit turned around - my mental map failing us again, I took us on a wide looping arc after buying some metro tickets to eventually get us back to the train station in time to catch one of the last trains out to the airport and our hotel for the night - our 6:30 am flight requiring a 4:30 am wake-up and shuttle to the terminal.

We walked past La Scala Opera house, and through the Galleria - a beautiful, mostly enclosed, cruciform-shaped, expensive shopping area, before visiting the Cathedral of Milan. I have stories about all of them.

THE GALLERIA

I used to wander through the Galleria quite often; it was en route from my room near the public gardens to most of the places I frequented and was always good for people-watching. I had more than one pigeon poop on me while I leaned against a pilaster, looking at and envying people having their Camparis, aperitivos, and their snacks. I eventually learned to move about rather than lean. One evening, I was watching a street performer doing a bit of magic under the center vault when I noticed Eric Clapton, standing just across from me - he gave me a strange and pained look as if to say, "Why the fuck are you following me?" I shrugged my "what?" kind of shrug and just looked away. To be fair to Eric, can I call him Eric? It was the third time I had seen him, and he'd seen me that day. The first time was in the little zoo inside the public gardens near my room. I was sitting on a bench in my usual quiet spot on an October or November day (memory), and he was there, watching his young son riding the little train that circuited the children's zoo. He wore a long coat and a light gray scarf. His hair was longish and stylish. He nodded at me. I nodded back. The second time was later that afternoon - I was walking after unsuccessfully trying to find work - when we passed each other, and he noticed me again - there weren't too many people wearing a black and white houndstooth checked and frayed coat, I suppose - and we nodded at each other again. Anyway, I'd like to tell you that we spoke when we saw each other again at the Galleria - but we didn't. Less than a year later, his son Conor died falling from a window on the 53rd floor of a New York apartment building. I had moved to London by that time, but I wept for the little blonde 4-year-old boy and his father.

I sometimes walked behind the Galleria, through the wet and grimy alleys behind it, to save some time when I was in a hurry. One gray day after rain, I came upon three young gypsy kids - beggars - counting the money they had found, taken, or been given that morning. It was a bankroll worthy of any gangster. It was far more money than I had seen or could earn in a month. I suddenly felt immensely sad and questioned if my desire to be there was worth the hunger and sacrifice. I think it was. Maybe.

THE DUOMO di MILANO

We had purchased tickets for a rooftop tour of the cathedral. I had visited the cathedral frequently when I lived there, but had never been on the rooftops. My fear of heights and having little money prevented me from doing that. The cathedral's interior is breathtaking - marble upon marble upon sculpture after sculpture. The rooftop is the same - but with commanding views of all of Milan, well worth the queasy stomach I felt while strolling around way up high.

Several memories of my visits to the cathedral came back to me. Some nights, in the piazza in front of it, La Scala (the opera house) would project whatever concert or opera was being performed that evening. I’d stand near La Scala’s red-carpeted entrance and watch limousines pull up—elegant men in tuxedos, and even more elegant women in evening gowns and jewels—pause briefly for the paparazzi, then disappear into the yellow, round opera house.

Afterward, I’d walk through the Galleria and, if I had a couple thousand lire, buy a cone of roasted chestnuts. Then I’d find a spot on the cathedral steps and watch and listen as the performance played on the screen in the piazza, eating the chestnuts slowly, holding them for warmth. I remember once spotting a black-haired woman with red lipstick in a red gown—the same one I’d seen step out of a limo earlier—as the camera panned across the audience. She must have been someone famous, or perhaps simply beautiful. I don't know who she was. It wasn't Eric Clapton's wife, I can tell you that.

After our visit and tour of the Duomo, we went to the Santuario di San Bernadino alle Ossa, a thirteenth-century church that holds an ossuary with frescoes lined with countless human skulls and bones. Lots of bones. Lots of skulls - all somehow smaller than one thinks they should be. There's a certain musky smell to the place, so be warned. It's worth a visit, though, especially if you're a bit hungry.

After the bones, we high-tailed it to the metro to bring us back to the train station to catch our train to the airport and our hotel. We needed to take our remote COVID tests online so that we could get back into the US. There was little room for error, but we all tested negative, got a few hours of sleep before waking and taking the shuttle 10 minutes to the terminal, and bought a gift or two at the already open Duty-Free shop before boarding our plane and making the journey home.

I liked returning to Milan, though I felt I had lost much of it. So much joy, so much heartache, so much yearning and trying. Memories are fleeting and tenuous things that we try to make permanent. Things collide and shift. Memories are attached to emotions and are either sharpened or dulled by time. What can we make of time? What can we come back to, and what should we leave behind? Answer me that, dear reader.