How I learned about the travel bubble

Just to be really clear: I adore Poland. It's beautiful. The people are also beautiful inside and out. Milan was not so fun for me. India, however, was awesome. What's the difference? I think it is all about constructing the proper "travel bubble."

In India, I had Lokesh who was at first my driver, but became my friend (find him in earlier posts). We went all sorts of places together, and he was kind to me and helpful. And, frankly, he protected me from the bad guys.

In Milan, there was nothing and no one standing between me and the grumpy Milanese. (Perhaps they were grumpy due to the rain?)

 In Poland, I was back with friendly people. (In fact, they were friendly IN SPITE OF the rain.) I met up with Paul the night I arrived and we had dinner. The next day, teaching at the PB office, I met Robert, Pawel, Magda, and Robert - and others. And they were so funny, and smart, and kind.

They became my "travel bubble." We laughed together, went to dinner, shared lunch, shared ideas. It was fun and safe, and made me want to return to Poland again. So, lesson learned for me?  Make sure I always create - or pack - a "travel bubble."

The fashion capital of the world

Saturday was marvelous. Yesterday was awesome. Everyone was mistaking me for Italian and starting every conversation in that lovely rattle-and-flow language of love. I was failing utterly to dredge up any Italian whatsoever (but I could read and understand it!).

And then? Today.

Today? Marvelous? Not so much. What changed, you ask? As far as I can tell, I made Three Little Mistakes.

Let’s start with the city’s advertised raison d'être:  Fashion. Milano is (at least in the Milanese hearts and minds) the fashion capital of the planet. Paris would likely argue this – and win – but never mind. Let’s just run with this one.

Mes amis have a way of regularly reminding me (recent thanks to Jeremy) that I dress like a girl geek. Par consequent, I should have thought twice before stepping a sandal-clad foot onto the cobbled streets of Milano. Did you know that sandals are decidedly sans de rigueur in Milano. No? Where have YOU been?

No one would actually TELL you this key bit of information. Not even the trusty Interwebs.  It’s so much more fun to have a super-secret code! (But wait! Looking like you are having fun is another super-secret no-no in Milano. Unless the fun is to be had at the expense of un touriste.)

                                 

What’s a girl to do?

Maybe find a small, out of the way café and sip a cappuccino. Served by a hot Italian guy. That’s it. That’s safe.

Ah HA! Touriste. (Can you say that French word with a Milanese sneer?) It is après-midi! Never, ever order a cappuccino in the afternoon in Milano! (You idiot.) Oh. Did they serve it to you with a cute little heart inscribed in the foam? Have you even READ  La Lettre Écarlate du Touriste?  

So far as I am aware, these were my two mistakes. Oh yes. And wearing purple. Don’t wear purple.

As a result of these three mistakes, there were precisely three people who were friendly to me. One introduced himself to me as a massagio. I am pretty sure that was super-secret Milanese code for the more common word, gigolo. The other two? Well, Milano is consistent, if nothing else.


Is this the real reason foreigners go to Milan?

Conclusion? Milan and I are not soul mates. Take your trendy little stiletto and dig into any aspect of Milan you like – and I am probably not all that into it. 

Verona, on the other hand. I would go back there in a minute.  

Swimming in Milan

A pool is an excellent place to contemplate. Especially when you have the pool completely to yourself.

Try sitting in a pool and holding very very still. Watch the water calm to the mirror point. Now, flip your visual consciousness. Merely view a glass floor, and you are stuck halfway through it. Don't breathe. Be still. Let go of your habits of mind. Twist your body consciousness. Feel the ungiving surface press against your chest. Now reconcile your hearing and smelling consciousness with the other two. Can you? Let's not try anything with taste consciousness.

Got it? Now watch.

Imagine the beautiful man walking up to this beautiful mirrored surface, and not able to know any better, softly stepping onto it, freezing forward in mid step, inch-by-inch tipping until he is swallowed. 
Solid glass waves wash over you. Think: "that makes no sense at all!"  And then the world explodes around you as he thrusts upwards, failing to find purchase on what was a perfectly solid glass floor. Up and out. Watch him walk away, shaken.

The solid glass-waves shift to water-consciousness.  Hold still. Invite the mirror to return. Steady.

Now, trust the beautiful man. Gently move. Watch the waves flow forward. See them fly!  Then ... Lose interest. Flow elsewhere. Catch yourself and return to the waves reaching the other side of the world.  No surprise? Then why do we feel surprised when we find that days after swimming past someone, they are still reeling from our waves?

60 hours of life, 6 hours of sleep

In the past 60 hours, I have had a total of 6 hours of sleep. It has been chasing me across the Atlantic and through Il Duomo. It caught me somewhere between a glass of red wine and a small serving of gelato limone. Going to bed without any help from Ambien.

Okay, Some Background on the Trip

Some helpful background on this trip. Originally, I had big plans for this time. They consisted of finding a perfect body of water, and then parking myself next to it for about a week. With a margarita or some umbrella drink in hand.

That was the plan. Then everything got interrupted when I was asked (last minute) to go teach in Poland. Well, have you ever researched what there is to do in Poland? There has got to be a lot to do. I'm sure of it. But most of it is drowned out by posts on drinking (a lot) and visiting the former Nazi death camps. This just didn't seem like a reasonable competitor for beach-sand-margarita.

When walking this dilemma through with my friend, Nate, he brought the obvious to my attention. No one said I had to actually vacation in Poland. I just had to teach in Poland. Then he left the exercise of figuring out the right place to adjust to the Polish time zone to the interested listener. (There's only one timezone in Poland, right?)

I built a mind map of all the airline gateways to Krakow, and Milan bubbled up the list. So, here I am until Tuesday. I arrived this morning, and must be doing a pretty good job of adjusting, because I have already been out to Duomo and shopping at Piazza Duomo. God, I love Zara!

Now I have yelped a reasonable pizza place and am going to track down a bottle of local red wine. Then I will sit down, sort through my photos, and make this blog more interesting.

Ciao ciao!

On My Way to Milan!

In order of appearance, this episode includes: Shoes. Rocket Pop. Ranch, The Tell. The Inquisition.
Yeah. It's random.

SHOES

Sitting on the tarmac at JFK, ready to take off for Milan. Let me just say:

OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD. I am going to Milan!! (Oh my god, will I be able to muster the same enthusiasm for Poland?)

I hear that for the oh-that-is-so-yesterday Milanese, fashion is high on the list. So I will spend time focusing on shoes. A fashion Mecca should have OUTRAGEOUS people wearing RIDICULOUS shoes!

I should walk the aisles right now.  Surely there are
SPECTACULAR shoes somewhere south of row 45. Unless the Milanese are practical travelers. How boring would THAT be? (God, is this the blog of the CAPS LOCK key?) Seven minutes to take off. 6 minutes to a glass of champagne (oh, never mind … it just arrived). This blog is about 2 inches from becoming a self-indulgent crawl of you-had-to-be-there observations. I better have another drink. You probably should too.

ROCKET POP

The world is your rainbow-striped rocket pop when you are suspended thousands of feet above the clouds continuously falling across the Atlantic. You just have to tilt your head south and squint. Right now, I want a glimpse of myself in a mirror. I want that snap second where I borrow someone’s eyes and really see.  No preconceptions. No habitual “oh yeah the one I’ve known-seen-done-been for going on half a century.”  What would I see? What would you see?  A middle-aged woman? Sure. If you looked close, would you also see the fourth-dimensionally off-centered I’ve-got-a-secret look winking out at you? No? Then you are NOT paying attention!

RANCH

I am going to Italy, where I will be force-drowned in vats of oil and vinegar by hot Italian waiters. So, for a switch, I ordered ranch. Channeling Kansas 32,000 feet above the Atlantic.  If I ever had the chance to travel with Mitt Romney, I would order ranch dressing.  I would! You just watch.

THE TELL

You can tell who flies first class all the time. They are the ones who dutifully rattle free their Ambien,  put on their monogrammed eye shades, turn down all offers of booze and food,  and go to sleep, dammit. Then there is the rest of the cabin. The ones who are probably flying on someone else’s nickel. They look forward to each interruption like a kid looks forward to Christmas. What? Oh, of course I would like a hot towel! Champagne before take off? Yes. Please! By the time dinner is served, they could give us a fucking Birdseye frozen dinner and we would be absolutely delighted. Yes we would.

THE INQUISITION

The only thing more painful than getting hotel internet to work at the Grand Visconti Palace, is probably the techniques used at some time in the past 1000 years during a time charmingly called The Inquisition.