My Trip to Milan / Israel / Athens Travelogue November 1998 Chapter Three Milano After My Nap I had looked at the clock, it said 2pm, and I had laid down, in my clothes, and then immediately opened my eyes and it was 4:30 and starting to get dark outside. I was still sleepy, but just slightly refreshed, and now I was hungry since I hadn't eaten since the airplane meal as we left New York at 7pm (15 hours ago). I tried to call home, only to learn that while my telephone had push buttons, it actually generated pulses and had no switch to allow me to send the tones needed by AT&T. I figured that they would have to "just know" back home that I was O.K. I put on my jacket and stuffed my pockets with my camera, extra film and my GPS. I headed back to the tiny lift and talked to the same desk attendant one more time. I asked about the phones and was told the same as the lady from Hertz, that telephones in Italy were unreliable and unavailable. I asked directions to the subway, and how to use it. I asked for advice and everything sounded straightforward. I consulted the GPS and learned that the sun was due to set in 30 minutes. I guess my nap had run long. I walked the one block to the subway. I walked by McDonalds, and took a picture, and some street pix. I headed down into the subway with my map and found that the ticket booths and diagrams and direction signs were all made up of international symbols that were once again completely unintelligible to me. They certainly meant well. I walked to each of several ticket dispensers, and I watched other people (that knew what they are doing) use them with ease. They were exactly like the ones in Washington DC's Metro, I think, but I couldn't be sure. Also, since this subway station was connected to the Central train station, I was nervous about accidentally buying a ticket on a train to the Milan suburbs or to Rome. I finally got to the other side of a very normal looking magazine and soda kiosk, and saw attendants seated behind bank-teller windows. The magazine kiosk, it seemed, did double duty. I looked pleadingly at the man and asked, "do you speak English?" "Yes, of course" he said with the accent of a man born and raised in Iowa. "I want a ticket to go downtown". "One-way or Two-way" he asked. "I don't know", I say. "Are you intending to come back tonight?" he asked. "Oh! Of course. Yes!", I stammered to him. He generated 2 paper tickets, much like movie tickets, and I paid him 2000 lira (pocket coins). I read the wall size maps again, and looked at the kiosks again, but still could not figure out exactly what I had just done. I watched everybody else stick their tickets into a slot by a green light on the nearby turnstiles, so I found an empty one down at the end of a row (out of the way) and fiddled with it for a minute. Suddenly I was in! I walked down the ramp to a train (either the right one or the wrong one). I looked at the map on the wall and convinced myself that I was going the right way. Two men were walking along side of me down the ramp and said to me "Scuzzi" (excuse me), but I replied, "I am sorry, I only speak English". They lit up and asked where I was from and if this was the right way to the train downtown. I told them about the USA and Florida and said I was not sure but I thought so. We laughingly agreed that we three were either going the right way or the wrong way but definitely the same way. They wandered off and continued their conversation in melodic Italian. In general, this type of friendly transaction occurred a dozen times in my single day in Milan. What a delightful experience! The train arrived and three stops later I was at the Duomo station. I exited up the ramp ("uscita"), and was surprised to be immediately confronted by the immense Duomo courtyard, blocked off, with people all around it standing behind sawhorse-style barriers. I stepped back and then up a small ramp to see over them and noticed that there was some kind of strange military-style display in progress – maybe like a "veteran"s day" celebration in the US. I took some pictures of the square, of the Duomo church, of the crowd, but it was getting late and darkness would soon prevent me from taking any more pictures. The court was full of groups of soldiers or people dressed up as soldiers. They were in sets of 20 to 50 men, each group dressed alike, with 10 or more different groups present. Some were on horseback, wearing dark green uniforms with full capes trimmed in gold, with red flume pompons protruding up from their dark green hats (looking to me like members of a high-school marching band). Others were similarly garishly adorned, but in blue, or gray. Some had white trousers and blue coats. Some horses were paired up and hitched to old-fashioned cannons (I think they were old-fashioned, but I'm no expert). They were all standing around in very straight lines, nobody was speaking or anything, and nobody was marching or trotting or, for that matter, doing anything except standing around in formations. I took a couple more pictures and walked off in the general direction of "The Last Supper". I was getting hungry, too, and kept my eyes peeled for a place to grab some take-away finger food, but could find nothing except McDonalds. I took some more pictures and eavesdropped on people talking melodic Italian. The air was crisp and my jacket was zipped up, but I didn't need a hat and my hands were not cold. I stopped in front of a store to groggily look in through its window and a 12 year old girl was standing next to me, also looking in the window, and muttering quietly (to herself?) in Italian. I guess I was supposed to lean in to hear, but it was gibberish to me and I instead stepped around behind her and kept looking in the window. A 12 year old boy, standing next to her, turned toward me and was also murmuring and the girl turned around, away from the window, to murmur directly at me. When I saw that the boy and girl knew each other (but had pretended not), I shouted "Hey!" and I literally jumped two steps out of a closing circle of waifs and into the street (no cars -- a pedestrian mall). There were 6 of them, now, all facing me like a children's church choir. The taller ones, the ones previously beside me, were now in back and the smaller ones (one 9, one 10 or so) had crept in behind me but were now turned around and therefore in front of the older ones. I took another quick step back from them and then they all pointed at me and laughed, and said things in Italian. I leered and shook my head at them and walked away quickly. It all happened in less than 10 seconds. Of course, I do not know exactly what were their intentions or what they were saying, but that is not my responsibility. Where is a polizi when you need one? I suddenly noticed that I was walking on the same streets where I had been driving that morning on the way in from the airport. I had been a mere 3 blocks from the Duomo, but the streets were laid out specifically to make it difficult to get around in a car. I decided right then to try to drive here the next morning, at first light on a Sunday, to take Duomo pictures, on my way to the airport. I walked for five or so blocks, passing by lots of high profile shopping, imposing statuary, and the Castello Sforzesco.  I made my way to the church where "The Last Supper" is painted, but it was closed for viewing for the day. Instructions in English, French, German, and Italian explained that you needed "a ticket" that you needed to get somewhere else and also to have reserved a time. The church itself was open, so I walked around inside and enjoyed the art. A priest was sitting and reading a bible in a small kiosk under one of the stations of the cross. I noticed that each station had such a kiosk but that the others were empty. Signs asked for donations, others explained dates and artifacts. A pair of homeless guys were opening the door for people (waiting for tips), so I exited from the other door. I sat in the plaza, under the stars, and enjoyed the fresh evening air. It was cold, but not enough to "see your breath". I set the GPS, in case I came back tomorrow morning or on a later trip. I walked up the street and into a store with postcards and other pictures. I bought a book on Milan, and a dozen picture postcards. I told the woman at the desk that I spoke only English and she smiled weakly. Her husband, who was putting books away, spoke up (in good enough English) and asked how long I had been in Milan, when I would leave, where was I from, etc. He was sad that I couldn't see "The Last Supper" and his wife said "Tomorrow?". No, he explained to her, "Aero-puorto tomorrow" and she nodded. I promised to return on vacation with my family and he duly translated for his wife who nodded and smiled. He mentioned that the store building is over 500 years old, and that many of the handicraft items for sale he had made himself in back. I took my book and postcards and thanked them both. Outside, the air was getting more chilly and my feet were getting tired and I was getting to be very hungry. In a surreal scene, the street was blocked off and a crew of 20 people were involved in photographing a car or a car commercial. Extensive lighting equipment surrounded a silver sedan in the center of this particular blocked side street (but no fashion models!). I walked 6 blocks, one at a time, studying stores, reading signs, eavesdropping on conversations, looking at the "street-cats" that seemed to be everywhere, just like the Sylvester cartoons. I looked into coffee-shops, but all were full of people smoking and drinking those tiny cups of harsh harsh coffee that everybody in the world (but me) craves. Where's a 7-11 when you need one? I looked into several bakeries, but nothing was appealing. I passed a McDonalds, but refused to give in to easy temptation. More coffee shops, and several restaurants but this was not the time for me to sit down for dinner. I found a book store and bought some souvenirs. Books in Italian, for the novelty, and a children's book to teach Italian kids how to speak English (quite funny to read). With stuff to read now, I stepped into a small restaurant next door where several people were talking amiably in back. I stood near the front, near the register, and a middle aged woman holding a baby on her hip with one arm came forward and asked to help me. She spoke OK English, invited me to sit but immediately said that the restaurant will close at 7. She pointed up to a wall clock that said 10 minutes to 7. "You can order, just not too much, OK?" she asked. I said I would come again later, and continued walking my way back toward the Duomo square. The square was now empty when I arrived. I noticed that the building directly next to the huge church is the famous huge mall that I once saw on a poster in my dentist's office ("Gallaria Vittorio Emanuele II"). I cut across the square, now totally deserted, and slowly became aware of the remains of the dozens and dozens of horse mounted soldiers that had been here when I arrived. Of course, I did not become aware of this until I was half way across the courtyard, so I simply stepped lightly, jumped here and there, and made my way to the dramatic archway entrance. The mall was spectacular. Its gallaria passageway is shaped like an "X", 4 stories tall, with 4 story tall arched entrance ways at each if the four access portals. Inside, there was an ancient glass panel roof of the very old style with thick leaded strips holding the glass panes in place (like the tintypes of the original crystal palace). There were no stores that interested me, and my feet hurt and I was now officially starving. There was a neat little restaurant, built out into the mall with a greenhouse type overhang and I was waved in by the Matre'd after he captured my attention. During my dinner, this matre'd constantly repeated the act he performed for me, going outside in the walkway, accosting and hauling people in, showing them menus, holding the door for them to enter then standing in their way if they tried to leave, telling them the other restaurants were closed (they weren't), etc. Dinner obviously came with a floor show.  I read the menu pages printed in English, then I leafed from page to page, and saw the same information in Italian on one page, German on another, even Chinese. Since the prices were all the same on each page, I decide to stay. I asked the waiter American Express? Visa? No, he said, only cash, and I was down to my last 10,000 lira. I excused myself and walked back across the mall and back across the courtyard to a currency exchange, then back again across the yukky courtyard and back to the restaurant. I settled down to warm pasta, and had a nice little dinner and read my book on Milan, and when finished I asked for "American Coffee, weak". I was brought a cup of coffee, a pitcher of cream and an extra pitcher of hot water. I smiled and cut the harsh coffee with the hot water, then added cream and sugar, and then proceeded to drink a tepid glass of diluted lousy over-acid coffee. Where's a Dunkin Donuts when you need one? As I went to leave the mall, there was a display case in the center of the "X". It was, of all things, the "Davis Cup" tennis trophy. Signs explained that Italy and Sweden were scheduled to play for the world championship in a few days so the cup was on public display (to generate interest) along with flags and informational signs. Security guards wearing those tiny white museum gloves were hovering around with several big empty velvet lined shipping cases and were tapping their toes and looking at their watches (it was 5 minutes to 9 o'clock). I took a picture of the display, then looked around the crowd. There was a mother and father, my age, with their 12 year old son looking on. I said "scuzzi, por favore" and "English?". "No" they all moaned while looking down and despondently shaking their heads. I held my camera out, said "por favore" again, and pointed the camera at me, pointing to the button. The husband scrunched his eyebrows, looked at the ground, and was totally bewildered by my universal hand gestures but his wife understood immediately and so she made the universal eye rolls that mean I am married to a moron. She clucked her tongue and shook her head and said "yabba yabba de yabba" pointing her outstretched hand at me and the husband said "oooooh!, Si" to her. I handed him the camera and, with a cigarette dangling from his lips, he took my picture in front of the Davis cup. We all said "Chow" and I added "arrivaderci" (having now said every single word of Italian that I knew) and I walked off happy. Back to the metro, across the horse droppings, down into the subway, and headed back to the hotel. As I crossed the courtyard, another man (holding a map) said "Scuzzi, Por Favor" to me and I replied, "sorry, only English". He said "Tank yoo", walked up to the next man and I could hear in the distance "scuzzi, Por favor" as they started a conversation in melodic Italian. Since the Duomo station serves both the Yellow and Red lines and the Central Station (nearest my hotel) is served by both Yellow and Green line and the Red and Green lines cross in something called the "Cadorna" station, I decided to take "the long way home" to see more people, more stations, more stuff. I took more pictures of advertisements, coke machines, directional signs and the ever present graffiti. Another "scuzzi, por favor" by a man who's Lira note wouldn't work in the candy machine. I shook my head so an older fellow in a trenchcoat fished coins out of his pocket and counted them out. They exchanged and the first guy bought his candy bar. Three more stops and a change of trains and I was back where I started. I decided to try to call home one more time, it was 2 PM back there, but I again could not dial the local AT&T access number from any telephone anywhere. So I broke down and bought a 10,000 Lira phone card ($7) from a dispensing machine to call home directly. I put the card in the nearest telephone, and it failed. I hit the button with the British flag and the message read "invalid card". I tried another phone and same thing. I was now walking around the Central train station ("Stazione Centrale") around 9:30pm and couldn't help the creepy feeling that people were following me. As I walked from phone to phone, room to room, two different "homeless guys" were always in the same room with me. One used a phone directly next to mine, but mine failed so I hung up and walked off to a different one. They eventually lost interest in me, and I tried my card one more time ("invalid card"). In desperation, I simply picked up a receiver and typed in the AT&T access number, one last time, without the $7 card, and without any explanation this time it went through! I heard the chime and "AT&T". I dialed 35 more digits, with 3 strategic pauses, and I was suddenly talking to the voices of loved ones half a world away. The automatic voice announced that I had only 4 minutes left, so I quickly explained about the train station, the homeless guys, the 4 minutes left and asked will you please wait 20 minutes after we are cut off and call me at my hotel room. With a plan in place I finally calmed down and composed myself. I looked up to see that two Italian policemen, in their dapper uniforms, were standing next to me and my payphone. A grungy looking man was shouting something at them (in Italian) and flailing his arms and they were then touching his arm and calmingly saying the equivalent of "now calm down". He looked tattered, and a tattered woman (his wife?) was crying nearby (intermittently shouting out curses, just like the "grandma" character in all those Italian movies). The privacy window on the telephone next to mine was broken. Was she bleeding? A maintenance man with a broom magically appeared. The two policeman escorted the grungy man away in a gentle yet firm manner while I was saying "I will tell you in 20 minutes when you call my hotel, I have only 2 minutes left". The woman screamed, and waved her arms over her head. She tried to drop to her knees (in the broken glass that I was now suddenly aware that I, too, was standing in) like a crazed widow throwing herself on her husbands bonfire and suddenly two more Italian policeman with their leather belts and shoulder belts and cute little leather pouches for the little pistols appeared from nowhere and escorted her off, too. The man with the broom started to sweep up the broken glass as I was told by a computer voice that "one minute is left", and we agree to talk in 20 minutes. The line went dead, I checked for my wallet and camera and GPS and walked across the street and up one block to my hotel. A new desk crew was in, but there was nothing to say except "good night". I requested a 5:30am wake up call and laid down on my tiny bed in my tiny room. The phone rang and we talked for almost an hour ($50)? The line was crisp, cleaner than calling home from Orlando. It was Saturday, so I heard about everybody's day off. I told about the soldiers and horses, the Duomo and the food court, about the subway and the train station, about the bell-man and the homeless guys, how "the Last Supper" was closed and how I had shopped at a 500 year old store. But mostly we planned for tomorrow, a wake-up call, and out the door. DO NOT MISS YOUR FLIGHT! The plane leaves Milan at 10am, so I will be at the airport at 8am. I will get up at 6am, and take one picture of the Duomo on the way ("the long way") to the airport. We kissed goodnight and hung up the phone. I closed my eyes and tuned my radio. I suddenly heard "Voice of America", and a man in English was telling me the score of the Clemson / Tennessee football game. I fell asleep. Originally Written March 1999 Original Web Upload January 2000 Last Update: November 17, 2002