Milan

MSC has updated some of their procedures for disembarkation, most of which actually suited me better, which can’t possibly be their intention, but I’ll take my wins where I can.

For a start, one need no longer place one’s large luggage in the corridor the night before disembarkation and then collect it when on shore. There’s a new voluntary process called “Self-Assist Luggage”, which basically means “take responsibility for your own damn bags.” Given that the last time I used MSC they shredded one of my bags, I was more than happy to avail myself of this.

I was supposed to be out of my cabin by 8am, and actually managed it around 8.15am. Another new process is that disembarkation groups are smaller and run much later into the morning, and my group weren’t supposed to meet up to leave until 10.15am, so I happily spent a couple of hours enjoying one last meal in the Buffet, which, better late than never, included two types of breakfast dessert pizza!

I went down to the meet up point just in time to find my group being led out, so there was some perfect timing. All I had to do then was stroll up to the train station, as much as one can stroll when dragging two wheeled suitcases across cobbled streets and piazzas.

Even with all of this adept time management, I was still about 90 minutes early for my train to Milan, so I parked myself on an out of the way bench and settled in to be bored. Fortunately, however, the lawyer I met at the solo traveler event came by with his luggage and, as his train was even later than mine, was happy to sit down and chat for the duration.

It was another 90 minute train ride up to Milan, and even over the course of only a week the landscape seemed less flowery and greener. I arrived back in Milan exactly on schedule and checked back into the same hotel as before.

Afterwards, I walked over to the OVS on Corso Buenos Aires and scrounged for some officewear and underwear, since they make exemplary and inexpensive examples of both. OVS has an odd quirk, however, of selling at least ten different kinds of white T-shirts, or blue pin-striped business shirts, all basically identical, but with radically different prices. As such, it’s always vital to check the price tag of every single item you want to buy, just in case one of those five identical T-shirts costs more than the others combined.

I then walked across to the Corso Como and the Corso Garibaldi. I thought about getting a gelato, but on this warm Sunday afternoon every Milanese person had the same idea, and there were lines out of every shop. I was a little jealous, and not only because they had gelato and I didn’t. They were standing around in beautiful clothes, because Milan, chatting with their friends, because of course they weren’t alone. What happens to friendless losers in this highly social culture? Do they just hide at home and only emerge, Phantom of the Opera style, when the streets are empty? Or does the government have some sort of platonic matchmaking service, so that even the saddest sacks have an opportunity to go out for aperitivo and/or gelato?

Despite that train of thought, I was feeling oddly contented as I wandered around. It slowly occurred to me… could I actually be becoming fond of Milan? I’ve always dismissed it as a lesser quality Italian city, useful mostly as a hub to reach better places, but perhaps Milan’s charms just take a while to reveal themselves. I started snapping pictures of scenes that seemed to capture the appeal of Milan.

A typical street corner flower seller. They are always arranged like design statements rather than shops, just like the fruit and vegetable stalls that look like postcards.

It seems that all nature strips and small parks in Milan are allowed to overgrow and run to seed in the spring, including this one which was crammed with pink and apricot roses under all the wildflowers and new growth. In some ways it’s more romantic than ruthlessly maintaining the beds.

Similarly, it’s fun when a roof garden goes berserk and tries to escape.

Milano Centrale, the city’s grand, maximalist train station, seems more ornate, more cavernous, and more resplendent with historic pomp every time I see it. Moving through it to do something as prosaic as catching a ride to the airport seems faintly ridiculous. Glorious, but ridiculous.

As evening fell and the need for aperitivo became pressing, I girded my metaphorical loins and did another google for good cocktails. After my lacklustre experiences in Genoa, I was not expecting much, but one establishment, called Drinc, was close-ish to my hotel so I decided to take the risk. I walked for twenty minutes or so and found it easily enough… but they were closed, despite there being evidence online that they were normally open at this time on Sundays.

This was not a good omen. There was however a sign in the window suggesting that persistent patrons walk two blocks over to their sister establishment, Drinc Different. My initial googling had suggested that Drinc Different was the oddball, experimental offshoot of Drinc – as much performance art as cocktail bar – but it was worth checking out.

I found a tiny venue with only one other party enjoying a drink, but the waitress happily sat me down at one of the al fresco tables and gave me a drinks menu.

The cocktails were indeed oddball. Some infusions were via ultrasonic washing. Ingredients included barbecue sauce, pine needles, taralli, tzatziki and Doritos.

I ordered their take on the Americano, which, along with the usual boozes, included salt and pepper, barbecue sauce, celery bitters and a dusting on smoked thyme on the rim. And it was magnificent. Catching a little smoked thyme on the lips with each sip lent a herbaceousness to the drink that worked perfectly with the flavours.

I’d also returned to the city of decent free bar snacks – taralli, but this time with black olive tapenade, the ubiquitous crisps, blocks of cheese with a fig marmalade and dried fruits and nuts, bocconcini and cherry tomatoes in basil oil, and a tiny, thumb-sized steak tartare.

I was so impressed that I went for a second drink – this time a take on the margarita with tequila, sherry, rosemary, chestnut honey and pine needles. I find a lot of margaritas a bit thin, but this one had a complex profile of sweet and savoury flavours and scents.

When I went up to settle my bill it took all of my alcohol-dulled strength not to effusively thank the staff for saving the very concept of aperitivo for me. It occurred to me that maybe Milan was returning my new-found affection.