A Moment in Milan

The Signora leaned over her balcony railing and flapped her hand at us.

“Spingete il campanello,” she ordered, Press the bell.

We did as we were told and she buzzed us in.  We ferried kids and luggage up the marble staircase – up and up and up to the third floor apartment, where we were greeted warmly by our floral-aproned hostess.  The salutations over with and bags stashed to one side of the living room, the Signora launched into a list of explanations and instructions (entirely in Italian), directed at me.  I nodded and clarified as necessary: So the plastics go there and the tins there and food scraps there (the recycling system seemed meticulous); and when we leave the key goes there… And then, with a cheery farewell she departed, leaving in her wake the faint but pleasant scent of lemon detergent.

The boys rushed to their large, tiled bedroom and claimed a bed each.  I popped D into his stroller for safekeeping and set up the portacot in our spacious room.  And West headed out to find something for dinner and pick up breakfast supplies for the next morning.

Almost an hour later, our stomachs were grumbling, and there was still no sign of West.  We had been on the go all day, having risen early to take the Metro from near our apartment to Gare du Nord, the RER to Gare de Lyon, and the TGV all the way down to Milan.  All we needed was some food, a quick wash, and bed.  We were hungry, exhausted – and cranky.

“When’s Daddy coming?”  “I’m hungry!”  “When do we get to EAT???” the boys complained.

“I don’t know.”  “We just have to wait.” “We’ll eat as soon as Daddy gets here!”  I replied, over and over again.

Eventually Westley returned, bearing two pizza boxes – and nothing else.

Here, in the midst of suburban Milan, finding after-hours sustenance was next to impossible.  Tucked away, as we were, in a labyrinth of post-war architecture (our own apartment for the night was one of several hundred contained in three identically depressing blocks of flats), our only options close at hand were in a small cluster of shops near the main road: a pizzeria selling thick, crispy squares of pizza-by-the-slice (the last few of which West managed to procure shortly before closing time); a pasticceria (bakery) that also served coffee; and a couple of other stores, neither of which sold food.

No breakfast supplies, but a light dinner was covered.  We were famished – and it was delicious.

Quick baths and showers followed the repast.  And then – to bed.

The kids settled quickly, tucked into cozy beds in their spacious room.  D was asleep almost before he finished his bottle.  But slumber took a bit longer to fall on us.

Our mattress was the opposite of what you long for when you’ve spent all day sitting on a train and lugging heavy bags around – hard and unyielding.  I could have sworn it was just a couple of duvets thrown over a plywood board, although when I looked I could see a proper (thin) mattress over a solid, unsprung frame.  Still, we were tired.  After a bit of tossing and turning, we fell asleep.

The next morning we rose early.  We got dressed and walked along to the bakery for some croissants and coffee, and then West returned to the apartment to pack things up while I took the kids to the playground.  We met three-year-old twins there with their Nonna (grandmother).  The toddlers and D got along famously, and my older boys clambered like monkeys over a climbing frame while the Nonna and I chatted by the little ones.  I stumbled over my Italian but I was pleasantly surprised to find that we could manage a rudimentary conversation.  I learned that this doting grandmother was about to lose these precious littlies to an international move; their family was going to be settling in her daughter-in-law’s homeland, Australia.  We dabbed at our eyes at the sadness of close family being physically distant from us.  It felt like a special connection, and we saluted one another warmly as I gathered my boys and headed away from the playground.

The boys and I returned to the apartment as West was zipping up the last of the bags.  We gathered our things, and left the apartment to catch our train to Venice.

Such was our taste of Milan, and the boys’ first night in Italy.  We didn’t get to marvel at the famed Duomo or stroll the fashion district – but we did see a little pocket of suburbia; we tasted local fare; and we met a few of the locals.  Sometimes the best thing about travel is experiencing the ordinary in another place.