How Soon Can You Have Your Bags Packed for Milan?

I have good news. First, I’m putting up a new post, so that crappy one I wrote about Berlin (you don’t have to be nice, I know it sucked) is no longer at the top. In my defense, I had the flu and wasn’t in a cheery mood when I wrote it. Second, if Milan is an indicator of what upcoming fashion is going to be, then people from the West Coast are total trendsetters. For the first time since leaving the US, I saw crowds of people – Italian people – wearing running shoes. And the mannequins in shop windows were wearing Lee jeans. All this time I thought I dressed like this because I’m cheap and the clothes are comfortable, but it turns out I was just way ahead of the style curve.

To the casual observer, it may seem I have a bit of a footwear fetish, since I’ve mentioned shoes multiple times. I just want to clarify: ask any experienced traveler and they’ll tell you that looking at people’s shoes is the fastest way to tell where they’re from. So that’s why I notice what people put on their feet.

My plan wasn’t originally to go to Milan this weekend. I had plane tickets and everything and was all set to fly to Marrakesh. Unfortunately, the aforementioned flu struck with a fury and I couldn’t make it further than down the hall, so another continent was out of the question. Since I got sick, it spread to six of the nine other people on my floor and two people on another floor and has become known as “Joel Seaton’s Revenge,” though I continue to blame the Germans. I came down with it the day after I got back from Berlin, so, as Michael Scott would say, the timing was nothing short of predominant. As soon as I was more or less better, though, I looked up places I could go for a weekend and found Milan. About 48 hour elapsed between when I decided to go there and when I arrived. I think that’s a new personal record for spontaneous travel.

Admittedly, I’m always pretty close to having an 80’s song stuck in my head, but in Milan I kept singing Devo’s “Beautiful World” to myself. “Beautiful people everywhere/The way they show they care/Makes me want to say/It’s a beautiful world/For you/It’s a wonderful time to be here/It’s nice to be alive/Wonderful people everywhere/The way they comb their hair/Makes me want to say/It’s a wonderful place.” I got in at about 8 in the morning, which, apparently, is much earlier than Italians get up. There are certain things you just have to do in Italy, so I started the day with a cappuccino. In Italy, they’ve combined the coffee shop and the pub, so the espresso machines are located right next to the taps. If Starbucks ever needs to expand its global domination even further, I think that’s the move they should make. And they should serve the beer in the same paper cups so you could sneak them out on the street.

The center of Milan is The Duomo, the third-largest church in the world. This is one of those occasions where words fail me, so all I can do is direct you to my photos. I managed to take a good number before security grabbed me and said I wasn’t allowed to use my tripod. A dumb rule, if you ask me, but Italy is where Fascism was invented, after all.

Milan is also home to da Vinci’s The Last Supper, the one where Jesus obviously said, “everyone who wants to be in the picture, get on this side of the table.” Unfortunately, there’s a two-week waiting list to see it. Two freaking weeks. I blame Dan Brown. Seriously, the book wasn’t even that good.

Fortunately, there’s another museum – the Pinacoteca Ambrosiana – which isn’t nearly as crowded and has a bunch of famous pieces, like Madonna of the Canopy, Basket of Fruit, School of Athens, and da Vinci’s Portrait of a Musician. Next time you see a print of Titian’s Adoration of the Magi, look at the bottom of the painting, slightly left of center. What the hell is that?

As mentioned in my last post I felt the need to buy some article of clothing in Milan so that, if anyone ever compliments me on it, I can say “oh, I got it in Milan” while I stare off over the person’s right shoulder in a disinterested manner. My book recommended a place called Il Salvagente, sort of a Sample Sale (for those of you from Gig Harbor) of Milanese fashion. I suppose the discounts were good, but when a jacket is marked down from 1100 Euros to 400 Euros, it’s really just varying degrees of “Jesus, you have got to be kidding me. No way. No… effin’… way.” Instead, I found a street market and bought some shirts there. Hey, they’re from Italy and that’s all I needed.