Postcard from Milan, Part IV

Ultimo Giorno (Last Day) 

          My alarm went off at 4 am, after four hours of sleep. It was time to start the journey home. I zipped my suitcase up and wheeled it down to the lobby.

          Up until this point, all the taxi drivers we’d had were calm, older men. This driver was a 6’6” body builder with a shaved head and tattoos all over. He looked like the evil character in a super hero comic book.

There was confusion because although John walked me down, he wasn’t going with me to the airport. (He would leave later that afternoon to go to Germany for a few days, then onto France, then England.) The hotel desk clerk chased John outside, worried that we were skipping out without paying. The cab driver asked me in Italian at least three times, if it was just me. “Sí.”

          I settled into the van. I was glad that I put my seatbelt on. He was hitting speeds up to 50 mph. All the traffic lights were blinking yellow on the main thoroughfares so he barreled on through, and I held on, scared that we’d get broadsided. I didn’t know how to tell him to slow down; we were early enough that there was no rush. It was definitely not a slow sentimental last ride through Milan.

          At Linate airport, I wheeled my luggage around in search of Air France. The check-in counter was dark, closed. I was the first in line. I waited about five minutes, then noticed that there was a bustling snack bar open. May as well get something to eat, while I kept an eye on the check-in counter.

         The man in front of me was ordering a cappuccino and pastry. He debated between a crema or cioccolato pastry. He settled on cioccolato. I copied his idea when it was my turn to order and got the same thing, but with tea. I paid and took my pastry over to the counter where you picked up drinks.

         A gregarious barista in his 40s asked in Italian what I had ordered. I answered, “Tea.”

         He acted flattered, pointed to himself, and asked, “Mi????” with a rascally twinkle in his eye.

         I immediately realized my blunder. In Italian, “ti” means you. I could tell that he knew I got his little joke, so I played along, “Oh, sí! Ti!” I nodded, and pointed flirtatiously at him.

         He laughed as he handed me my cup of tea. Lesson learned two days before: I stood at a high table to drink my tea and eat the chocolate pastry, while I watched the empty Air France counter.

         When I was done, there still wasn’t anyone manning Air France, and nobody was waiting in line either. I went and asked a woman working at another airline about it. She told me to go to Air Italia. When I showed her Air France on my itinerary, she told me that Air Italia handles Air France’s first flight of the day. Then she directed me to Area 1.

          In Area 1, I wheedled my way in front of a Japanese tour group to ask where I should go. Once I found the right counter, everything went smoothly, including getting through security. I bought a water bottle for the 12-hour odyssey to Seattle.

          Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris was a whole different story. Getting through that airport is a grueling test to see how badly you want to fly. First of all, it’s huge so buses, trains, and moving sidewalks are involved. Second, they are don’t trust any other airport’s security, so you have to go through theirs even if you haven’t left the airport. Third, their security procedures are even more ridiculous than ours and slower too. You can’t put your passport away because you’ll have to show it three to five different times. And to top it off, if you plan on buying anything, it’s so expensive that you might need a second mortgage on your house.

I’ll admit that I have a chip on my shoulder about airport security, but it’s not paranoia if they really are after you. My purse has been searched at least 90% of the times I have flown. I should start wearing a t-shirt that says: My purse and carry-on have been rifled through in: Seattle, Denver, Los Angeles, Chicago, Atlanta, New York, New Orleans, and Paris, but not in Italy, and not in Beijing, a communist country. I’d have to leave space on the shirt to add more cities. 

In Paris, on the way to Milan, John walked right through. I got a full body pat-down. After that, they took my purse, and pawed through it, dumping everything out. Two female guards kept asking me in weird (Haitian?) French, if I had a knife. I kept saying no. They made rude comments to each other about the contents of my purse thinking I didn’t know what they were saying. Then, in a seldom-used pocket, they found a 1” pocket knife that they were giving away at Cabela’s grand opening. Aha! It’s more like a nail file than a knife. There was an argument between them about what’s allowed. I kept telling them to just take it. They finally did.

So, I wondered what I would have to sacrifice to security this time. No matter how hard I try to avoid it, I always get the overly zealous security person. This time the woman was nearly hysterical telling everyone that they couldn’t have ANY electronics in their bags—no laptops, no cameras, no I-pods, no nothing!

I ransacked my purse. I took off my jacket. I wasn’t wearing the watch that set off the metal detector last time. She ordered me to take my shoes out of a bin and put them directly on the rollers going through the x-ray machine. I wasn’t allowed to carry my passport in my hand; it had to go in a bin.

She spotted the $8, sealed bottle of water that I’d bought in Milan and wryly told me that I could drink it right there, right then. I dumped it in the garbage. That was my offering to the security gods. I bet they take all those confiscated, sealed bottles and re-sell them.

The elderly man in front of me was frazzled after his itinerary got lost somewhere in the x-ray machine. My belongings made it through, minus one shoe. I gathered everything together, and held my one shoe up. They looked at me. I held the shoe up high, and said, “Une!”

The woman with the hand-held metal detector gave me a look that apologized for her obnoxious co-worker. Then she reached her arm over a plexi-glass screen and used the metal detector to fish for my missing shoe. I slipped my Cinderella shoe back on for the long walk to my gate. No glass carriage was available for me.

Charles de Gaulle Airport, Paris, France.

I did manage to buy some perfume for myself and the two Sarah’s at a store in the airport, but first I double-checked with the saleslady if there would be another security checkpoint where they’d take it from me. She assured me that I’d be able to keep it. At a newsstand, I bought another bottle of water, some Toblerone chocolate for the flight, and a bag of the best store-bought cookies I’ve ever eaten. If you ever see Bonne Mamon Sables tout chocolat, buy several bags. You’ll think, “Merci beaucoup!” to me with your first bite.

At the gate I discovered a bank of computers that I could rent time on. Our cell phones didn’t work in Europe, and I knew that John was worried about me flying solo. After several attempts to figure out how to get online, I was able to email my family that I’d made it to the Paris airport, through security, and was ready to board the plane. I clicked SEND as they called my section to board the plane.

        The 10 hour flight home was pleasant.  Johnny would pick me up from the airport. He and daughter Sarah would be especially happy to see me.

The first time the kids Skyped us in Milan, they told us that we had only been in the air for about an hour when Suzie, the dachshund we share with Johnny’s girlfriend Sarah K., jumped off the couch and hurt her right front leg. She’s so long and low to the ground, she couldn’t even limp. Johnny was taking her to the vet.

Milan is nine hours ahead of Washington. We told them to call when they got back from the vet. We were sleeping when they Skyped again and told us that Suzie had broken her leg and was in a cast.  They held their laptop’s camera so that we could see Suzy and her broken leg. Dachshunds can make the saddest of sad faces.

Suzy and her new pink cast.

Before we left, I gave Johnny $100 cash for emergencies. (Pizza and beer are not emergencies.) I was only going to be gone for five days. What could happen?

Fortunately, Sarah K.’s mother had met Johnny at the vet to help with Suzy. She’d paid the vet bill and bought a play pen for Suzy to recuperate in since Suzy wasn’t allowed to jump up on furniture, climb stairs, or chase cats anymore. It is so sad because one of the things I love the most about Suzy is that even though she doesn’t have the graceful ballerina body of a leaper, she has the heart of a leaper and didn’t let that stop her. Now we’ll have to stop her for her own good.

Sarah K. was in Pullman, taking a summer course, so she was just as upset as we were about not being able to get to Suzy. Johnny and Sarah S. sent us (and Sarah K.) pictures of Suzy in her playpen with her purple cast.

When I got home, Suzy was better than I expected. Johnny and Sarah had taken good care of her. She did her happy dance for me even though it was a little thumpy with the cast. The kids were worn out from taking care of her. Suzy doesn’t understand why she has to stay in the play pen and is still full of energy, so she’d been crying and whining a lot. Johnny explained her medication schedule to me, and showed me how to cover her cast up with a baggy to keep it dry when we carry her out.

T-Bone and Suzy with her original purple cast.

They also had to take care of Velvet our diabetic cat who is not doing well, Java our ditsy Manx cat, and T-bone, our steady older dog who’s very good about going with the flow.

As I was flying home, Sarah K. was driving toward our house to spend the weekend with Suzy. She got in few hours after me. We were both relieved to see Suzy and took over pet duty.

In the meantime, I’ve re-lived my Milan trip by writing this blog and looking at my pictures. Going to Italy had been on my wish list for decades. Before I left, when I told people I was going to Milan, they’d say that I should go to Florence, Venice, or Rome instead.  I got the feeling that Milan was the Tacoma of Italy. The short time I spent there more than lived up to my hopes. But, I like Tacoma too. Neither Tacoma, nor Milan is a huge tourist destination. Neither one is pretentious. Each of them gets overlooked in the shadow of a showier, bigger city. Milan more than lived up to my hopes.

Suzy will get her cast off in four weeks. My memories of Milan will last a lifetime.

Arrivederci,

Laura

Laura Keolanui Stark is eating a gelato bar from Top Food. It’s good, but not quite the same. She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com. 

Postcard from Milan, Part III

Terzo Giorno (Third Day) 

 

Joel and Amy suggested we tour The Lakes north of Milan. We were fine with the idea, as long as we got back to Milan at a reasonable hour because I had to catch a plane home very early the next morning, and John’s talk at the conference was the next day.

        We met at their hotel, and caught a cab (yep, skipped on the tram) to the Cadorna train station. The train was not crowded. It was a relaxing ride through the suburbs and industrial areas of Milan into the countryside.  

Amy and I in Laveno, Italy.

        An hour and a half later, we arrived in Laveno on the banks of Lake Maggiore, the second largest lake in Italy. It was a picture perfect European village complete with a red roofed church steeple. It looked like a scene you’d see on a jigsaw puzzle.  

 Over a leisurely lakeside lunch, Joel told us that he’d lived nearby for a few months while he was on sabbatical. We were there at a good time, tourist season hadn’t started yet. 

Amy and Joel Baker, Lavena, Italy.

The ferry was almost empty. It was a great day to be out on the water, sunny, but cool enough for jackets. At each dock the crew would tie the boat off. Then the land crew would carry a ramp over, and place one end on the boat, one end on the dock. There were an impressive number of females working, but one that particularly stood out. 

I nudged Amy, “Check out the dock worker’s shoes. Do you think those are standard issue?” With that, she struck a pose in her black, high heeled, tango shoes. They say French women have style. Well, the Italian women are no slouches.

       When we got to Isola Bella, Joel told us this island was one of the best ones to explore. He was right. We wound our way up a labyrinth of narrow, walled, stone steps. In tiny alcoves, vendors had set up shops. We would shop on the way back down.

        At the top, it opened up to reveal a huge castle that was so big it looked like a hotel. This was the home of the Borromeo family.  The most famous family member was Saint Cardinal Carlo de Medici Borromeo (1538-1584), who was the Archbishop of Milan, Italy. The Borromeo’s transformed an old fishing village into a Baroque palazzo with a terraced Italian-style garden. It also had six grottos underneath the “house,” that were decorated with shells and pebbles.

Isola Bella, Italy.

         The dining room table was set with sparkling blue Murano glass dishes, service for 50? I collect blue glass, so of course I whipped my camera out. That’s the only picture I took inside because a woman rushed over to tell me that pictures were not allowed, but it was worth it. Notice the chandelier over the table. That’s also all made of glass. There was a unique, handmade (blown?) chandelier in each room of the mansion.

          The garden was gorgeous, sitting high above the lake. One walkway was lined with roses. An albino peacock strutted around the grounds. The only thing I didn’t care for was that I thought there were too many statues. There were many rare plants, and everything was well manicured.

Mussolini and Napolean had both visited the Borromeo estate. Now, the Starks have too!

We left Isola Bella, took the ferry to the town of Stresa, and got vague directions in Italian to the train station-- something about going up the hill and then going right. Let the trudging begin. Three miles later, we ran into two moms walking with five young children, and asked them in English where the train station was.

They asked us, “Espanol?” When we nodded, they told us in Spanish that we were close—turn right at the next street. At the arch turn left, then right again. Go straight ahead for awhile, and the train station will be on your left. A cute 4-year-old in their group enthusiastically and proudly told us, “Good Bye!” in English.

Their directions were exactly right. We cooled off with Italian beer (6 Euros each, $8.55 US each) while waiting 45 minutes for the next train. In the corner of the train station café, Shakira’s video of “Waka Waka” came on the TV set. I wondered what the Italians in the station would think if I started doing the Zumba routine to it. I decided that they probably wouldn’t care, but John, Joel, and Amy might. I restrained myself to fancy footwork under the table.

We all took turns nodding off on the train ride back to Milan. It got more crowded the closer we got to the city. In Milan, the train stopped, and everybody got off, except for us. This wasn’t the train station we’d left from. The sign said, “Garibaldi,” not “Cardona.”

We sat there for five minutes or so, then looked out the windows and noticed that the tracks ended in front of our train. This was literally the end of the line. Off we got, then looked for a cab. It ended up that Gariboldi wasn’t much further from the hotel than Cardona.

At Joel and Amy’s hotel, we sat down to an elegant, expensive dinner followed by made-up desserts that weren’t on the menu. Amy ordered tiramisu. Then Joel ordered the carmelized banana, and even though there wasn’t any on the menu, asked if they could put some vanilla gelato on top of it. The waiter checked, then came back and said that they could do that. Suddenly, John and I were ordering gelato too: chocolate and pistachio. Crazy Americanos!

It was late, almost 11:00, as we walked through the Piazza Fierenze (the last time for me), and I still had to pack.  A cab was picking me up bound for the airport at 4:45 the next morning. Today’s trip to Lake Maggiore had been a last taste of la dolce vita (the sweet life).

Buona Notte,

Laura

The next postcard will be the final one from Milan.  Laura Keolanui Stark can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.

              

Postcard from Milan, Part II

Secondo Giorno (Second Day)

          Today, John spent his day at the conference center in Milan attending the Society of Environmental Toxicology and Chemistry (SETAC) meeting. That’s the whole reason we are visiting Milan. 

          I spent my day with Amy, the wife of a University of Washington-Tacoma professor who was also at the conference. She is a scientist too, but wasn’t attending the conference.

          I walked over to meet her at The Enterprise hotel on the other side of the Piazza Fierenze. Yesterday, she and her husband Joel had gone to the Duomo, but hadn’t gone inside. Last night, I skimmed through the book I bought there, and found out that you can go up on the roof. Amy and I agreed to go back to the Duomo.

          She had ridden the tram yesterday, and knew where to get tickets. I had seen ATM signs, but thought “Automatic Teller Machine,” not “Azienda Transporti Milanesi.” We walked over to a diner, and bought one-way tickets because that’s all they sold.

          When the first tram came along, we hopped on. Fifteen minutes later, the streets didn’t look familiar at all. The tram had veered off west of the Duomo so we jumped off, and consulted our map. It looked like the Duomo was fairly close by.

          In the meantime, there was a big brick church in front of us, and a sign with a picture of Leonardo da Vinci out front, so we headed in. We had accidentally found the Santa Maria delle Grazie, home of The Last Supper and the largest collection of Leonardo’s drawings. We approached a counter decorated with many signs in many different languages, stating that this was an exhibit of Leonardo da Vinci’s drawings, NOT The Last Supper, which was around the corner somewhere. John and I had tried to get an appointment to see The Last Supper, but it didn’t work out.

Santa Maria delle Grazie, Milan, Italy

The drawings were just fine with Amy and me. We happily plunked down 10 euros each. Inside a darkened chapel, we studied each sheet of parchment paper filled to the edges with Leonardo’s drawings of inventions and figures, doodles of people’s heads, and notes. One page had a list of what he packed when he moved to Milan. I’m guessing that paper was a lot harder to come by back then, so he used up all the space he could on each sheet, no margins.

          There were also paintings hanging on the walls behind the drawings. The wall behind the altar and the ceiling were covered with frescoes of angels. I wondered out loud, “who painted those?” On the way out, Amy asked at the front desk. They replied, “Leonardo da Vinci.”

          We u-turned right back inside to admire the paintings and frescoes paying more attention this time. What a precious exhibit to stumble upon!

          Then we were off in the general direction of the Duomo. We cut in back of some buildings on a service road. A guy in a small truck started backing up and almost hit Amy. She dodged and slapped the back of his truck at the same time. He leaned out the window, and spewed irritated Italian. She answered in irritated English. Hands were thrown up in the air—the universal sign of exasperation, followed by exaggerated Chip ‘n Dale motions of “You go first!” “No, you go first!”

          We kept expecting to see the Duomo as we came around each corner. It reminded me of the way Mt. Rainier hides in cloud cover for most of the winter in Washington. Eventually, about a crooked mile later, the Duomo did appear.

          At the entrance, I turned around and Amy was gone! I thought she was right behind me. She’d been waylaid by street vendors hawking 6” pieces of string as “bracelets.” Back at the entrance, I started through, but the “gatekeeper,” told Amy she couldn’t go in because she was wearing shorts.

          We left, and went to eat lunch nearby, planning to shop for a skirt or pants for her afterwards. At a sidewalk café, she had pizza and I ordered lasagna. The waiter got annoyed with Amy for ordering “sparkling water” instead of “acquata gassata.” Extremely slow service followed. We decided to take off the string “bracelets” thinking they could be tourist markers.

Amy sitting behind our bottle of acquata gassata.

          After lunch we went in search of clothes to get her into the Duomo, but we were in the high fashion district. We found a pair of Adidas running pants, but they cost 80 Euros or $114 U.S. Could we tie a scarf around her to look like a skirt? Maybe she could wear my skirt, then come back out and give it back to me to wear in. In the end, she said she’d wait outside for me, and tour the Duomo a few days later. She was staying in Milan longer than I am.

          I went in and looked all over for the elevator up to the roof. No luck. At an exit that I hadn’t noticed before, I pantomimed my quest for the roof to a cathedral guide. He pantomimed back to go around the corner to a separate building to buy a ticket for the elevator.

          I went in the opposite direction to get Amy. Maybe they’d let her on the roof in shorts. At the ticket office, they told us that shorts weren’t allowed up there either.

  I took my 8 euro ticket for the lift to a little area at the back of the Duomo, (Yay! No line!) and walked through a metal detector. Security guards directed me to a ticket scanner. I put the ticket in, and got the red buzzer NO! sound. Turned it around—NO! Then the young soldier who was part of the security force came over, took the ticket out of my hand, flipped it around, and re-inserted it correctly. His sigh and eye-roll was exactly like my kids’ reaction whenever I’m in this kind of situation. Ah, the international language of la gap generazionale. But, he did have to cross the hallway to help me. His mama raised him well.  I thanked him, “Grazie!”

          “Prego.” (You’re welcome.)

All roads lead to Il Duomo.

Looking down on a lower level of the Duomo roof.

   The view from up on the roof was worth the hassle of getting up there. I could see the street spokes of Milan leading toward the Duomo. The maze of sloping walkways and terraces above the city made the spires, statues, and gargoyles seem within reach. It was not clear enough for me to see the Alps, but I trusted that they were out there.

It’s mind boggling to think that the all the architectural engineering, heavy marble, and intricate carving that went into creating this magnificent cathedral happened centuries ago, without today’s technology. How could that be possible? Yet my feet were standing on it.

To inspect the outside of the Duomo, two construction workers rode a coffee table-sized platform raised on a hydraulic lift. They pointed to me and waved. They were totally comfortable, but it’s not a job I’d want.  Being from Washington, and therefore, being used to doing everything in the rain, I imagined being up on the Duomo’s roof sliding around on rain-slick marble, or worse snow!  I was extremely grateful for the sunny weather.

Back down on earth, I met Amy and showed her around the fashion district. We darted into a fancy bakery. She ordered a cappuccino while at another counter, I got a chocolate gelato cone. Then we made the mistake of trying to sit down. After being denied three times, a waiter finally gave up, and seated us at a booth. Apparently, you’re supposed to stand at the counter with your cup and saucer to drink cappuccino. We were doing the American Starbucks thing--if it’s not in a disposable cup, you get to sit down.

We’d had a busy day. Time to buy a return ticket for the tram. Amy spotted a little convenience store that she thought would sell tickets. When she asked the man at the counter in English, he was short and to the point, “No.” When she followed up by asking if he knew where we could buy tickets, he gave another terse “No,” and waved us off.

We wandered around some more until I saw a place with lottery ticket signs. Inside, people were gathered around a TV, waiting for them to pull the winning numbers. I stepped up to the man behind the counter, said, “Bon Giorno,” then pulled my old tram ticket out, and gave him a questioning look.

He answered, “Si. Quanto?”

“Due.” I paid for two tickets, and out we went. Amy was impressed. 

I don't speak Italian other than a few phrases I learned from a "Learn to Speak Italian" CD that stopped working about 10 minutes into the lessons. I did take Spanish through junior high school and high school, then a couple of semesters of college French. Ultimately though, I'm pretty sure that I got away with a lot in Milan because I think the Italians thought I was Italian until I had to have a real conversation. But by then, they’d already opened up to me.

We looked for a tram stop. I reasoned that we needed to cross the street, so that we could catch a tram going toward the Piazza Fierenze. Amy knew that we had to catch the #1 tram. We scrambled aboard one.

Then Amy’s ticket wouldn’t work in the scanner. I took it from her, and turned it around every possible way. A man took it from me, just like the soldier at the Duomo, and tried. He told me in Italian that it had expired. I told him in English that that was impossible, we’d just bought it. He told me in English, “OK, just sit down.” So we did.

We sat down anticipating a 20-minute ride. We got more than an hour’s ride. My bright idea of crossing the street to catch the tram was a mistake. We made room for elderly ladies carrying shopping bags with designer names on them so they could sit down. Office workers rode standing holding onto the bars above us. We sat with mothers and their elementary school children riding home from school. We saw the city center, nice neighborhoods, the Asian section, and areas where there were lots of massage parlors.

We waited, with only one other passenger, for fifteen minutes through the changing of drivers. We watched the new driver ring the bell, and tell a car to get off the tracks. We eyeballed the signs at each stop and made sure that “Corso Sempione” was listed on the sign. I looked in my purse for the address of the hotel, so we could catch a cab home if this went on much longer. And then, we saw the castle. The streets looked familiar again. It was 6:30 when we got off a block away from Amy’s hotel, exhausted and relieved.

               I planned to take a shower and put my feet up when I got back to my room, done for the day. Amy had the same plan. However, when I got back to the room, I found out that only part of my plan was going to happen. The shower part.

Dinner at La Bufala restaurant with scientists from the SETAC meeting.

          John told me the real plan included more walking to meet about 50 other scientists and graduate students, from around the world, for dinner. At the restaurant I sat beside a student from Finland. Across the table were a professor from Poland, a student from China, and a professor from England. On the other side of John, that professor was from Germany. There was one other American there. The discussions were lively, and thankfully not political, and for the most part in English, so I didn’t have to use my pantomiming skills too much. I was finally meeting people that John had worked with, and told me about for years.

          It was a long day filled with adventures in Milan. I slept well my third night in Italy.

Ciao,

Laura

The next “Postcard from Milan” will be from The Lakes of Northern Italy. Laura Keolanui Stark can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.

Postcard from Milan

Primo Giorno (First Day)

               Buon giorno!  John and I are here in Milan, Italy and the weather is perfect—sunny with temperatures in the upper 60s, low 70s. 

Courtyard at The Regency Hotel, Milan, Italy.

              Our hotel, The Regency, is a restored noble residence from the 1800s with a Spanish feel to it. Located a few blocks from the Piazza Firenze, it is quiet although we can hear the trams going by every once in awhile. They look like the streetcars in San Francisco and New Orleans. Most of the apartment buildings around us are less than 10 stories high. All of them have balconies overflowing with lush plants, red blooming azaleas and maybe bougainvillea.

               It was late afternoon when we got settled. Our first meal in Italy was a prociutto e funghi (ham and mushroom) pizza with due birra (two beers) in a little mom and pop style café/convenience store a few blocks from the hotel. We were a little skeptical about how authentic the pizza would be because the waiter/cook was Asian, but he spoke Italian, and all the customers were Italian. The thin crusted pizza was delicious and perfect after our long trip.

John at The Duomo, Milan, Italy.

               This morning we caught a taxi to the Duomo Cathedral, the historic center of Milan. On the way we spotted a castle with a huge fountain spouting water high in the air, and watched Italians going about their Monday morning. We entered another Piazza (traffic circle) and there was the massive white marble Duomo reaching up into a clear blue sky. It looked like something that should top a wedding cake: intricate, lacy, and sparkling in the sun as if it was made of sugar.

“What a wonder it is! So grand, so solemn, so vast! And yet so delicate , so airy, so graceful! A very world of solid weight, and yet it seems ...a delusion of frostwork that might vanish with a breath!”--Mark Twain, Innocents Abroad

The Duomo, Milan, Italy.

               I pulled a gauzy scarf up over my head as we entered the cool, dark, spectacular interior of the third largest cathedral in the world. From the outside, the Duomo with its flying buttresses is massive. I’ve seen other buildings that may be even bigger, but the difference is that the insides of those buildings are divided up into smaller rooms. 

          The interior of the Duomo is soaring open space held up by gigantic carved pillars with statues of Saints perched in niches near the tops of the columns. The marble floors with an elegant design in pink, white, black, and red are smooth from centuries of people coming to worship and visit. The stained glass windows tell stories from the Bible, the life of the Virgin Mary, and the Saints.

               Although you aren’t supposed to take pictures, everybody was snapping away with their cameras. We stopped at the bookstore on the way out and bought a book about the Duomo filled with pictures taken by professionals, and the history of the cathedral that took over 400 years to build.

               Back out in the sunlit square, we passed through an arch into the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, a mall of ancient buildings covered by an iron and glass roof.  Prada, Louis Vuitton, and other famous designer storefronts lined the walkways that led out to the fashion district streets hosting Dolce & Gabbana, Valentino, and Giorgio Armani among other famous designers.

Laura in the Galleria Vittorio Emanuelle II, Milan, Italy.

               The styles in the windows were clean and tailored, except for the shoes—minimum four inch stiletto heels with straps all over, guaranteed to make me fall and break an ankle if I wore them. Don’t know how they do it,  but there were women walking all over the cobblestones of Milan in those shoes. It was fun window shopping, but way too impractical and rich, hundreds or thousands of Euros (1 euro = $1.4069) to coax me into opening my wallet.

               Instead, I spent my money on creamy chocolate gelato and museums. One of the things I loved about Italy is that there were places to eat everywhere. Whenever we got hungry, we’d look up and there’d be a café or two to choose from.  We stopped at a little store/restaurant to eat lunch: orecchiette con I funghi (little ear-shaped or bowl-shaped pasta with a mushroom sauce) for me and spaghetti pomodoro (spaghetti with fresh tomatoes) for John. The Italians eat later than we do, so it was rarely crowded for us.

Afterwards, we wandered around some more and chanced upon the Museo Poldi Pezzoli. I’d seen it listed in my tour book and loved the symbol of the museum: Portrait of a Young Lady (15^th Century) by Antonio Pollaiolo.

We crossed the courtyard and bought our tickets. At first, we thought the whole museum was on the first floor: armour, tapestries, and lace, but no sign of the Portrait of a Young Lady. She was upstairs along with 16-18^th century clocks, Murano glass, precious ancient jewelry, and room after room filled with paintings by the masters including Botticelli’s The Virgin and Child and his Pieta. This fine collection was gathered by nobleman Gian Giacomo Poldi Pezzolli and housed in his 19^th century aristocratic Milanese residence, a peaceful oasis in the middle of a busy city.

Mary's reading to Jesus in Botticelli's The Virgin and Child.

We strolled back down the Via Manzoni, past the Teatro Alla Scala opera house and the statue of Leonardo da Vinci, and decided to try to find the castle we’d seen from the cab.  Castello Sforzesco was easy to find with our map. We rested awhile beside the spectacular fountain.

There wasn’t much in the castle because the museums were closed, so we just walked through the courtyards out to the Parco Sempione. John, ever the biologist, spotted some turtles sunning themselves by a pond in the park. We exchanged picture taking with another couple, and dodged the locals kicking a soccer ball around. The Arco della Pace (Arc of Peace) was even more impressive close-up than when we’d viewed it from a distance.

This was where Corso Sempione began. We knew that it went straight to Piazza de Fierenze near our hotel. Trams kept running along the tracks parallel to the sidewalk we were on, but we hadn’t figured out how to get tickets to ride them.

Tree-lined Corso Sempione was beautiful, but it had been a long day with lots of walking. John could feel blisters forming. We didn’t want to call a cab because it seemed like Piazza de Fierenze should appear any minute. Funny how different map/cab-distance is from walking-distance. It was a long 3-mile walk “home,” on top of the other touring walking we’d done.

Back at the hotel, we changed shoes then left to eat dinner at a family restaurant that we could see from the window of our room: Stefano’s. This was our best meal in Italy. We started with Salata per Antipasta—a bed of spinach, butter lettuce and another lettuce with big, warm shrimp (gamberetti) served on top. For Il Primo (first course) we had lobster gnocchi. We were supposed to have Il secondo (the main course), but had to sacrifice that so we’d have enough room for Il Dolce (dessert). They had an unbelievable dessert cart, so it was hard to make up our minds. John had almond cake, and I had crème brulee. Both were the perfect ending to our molto bene meal and first full day in Italy!

Arrivederci,

Laura.

Secondo giorno en Milano will be coming up soon. Laura Keolanui Stark can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.

Happy Mother's Day

            On Mother’s Day I woke up to sun streaming through the windows of Sarah’s apartment in Pullman.  We were all still glowing from Johnny’s graduation the day before, but it was time to shift gears. Sarah put her hair up and slipped into a pair of flat shoes.  She gathered up her music while John and I packed our bags. Then we pointed our car north toward Spokane.

                Sarah, a Junior, is majoring in piano performance.  She was competing in Music Fest at Gonzaga University.  Her boyfriend Andy, a Senior who is also a piano performance major, was also playing three pieces. He’s the top piano performance major in WSU’s music department.

Andy Romanick and Sarah Stark

                On the hour and a half car ride over, we talked about how the competition had gone last year, and how the semester had gone for Sarah. We also talked about the advantages and pitfalls of dating another piano performance major. Nobody but another piano performance major could understand the stress, or the nuances in different pieces. But, people would naturally compare them, so they’d have to guard against becoming overly competitive with each other.

                When we arrived at Gonzaga, Sarah signed in. She had a horrible cold so we came armed with cough drops, tissues, hand sanitizer, and water bottles. There were several other musicians from WSU there and if they had any jitters, they hid them well.

                Sarah was the first to play in her class, and her performance of Prokofiev’s Suggestion Diabolique was solid. The judge, who had an impressive musical pedigree, gave her some advice after she finished playing. She painted a background for the piece. Sarah already knew that the piece was about the devil being diabolical. The judge told Sarah that she was a beautiful, young lady, and she didn’t think that Sarah had the devil in her, but she thought the audience should be terrified when they heard this piece.

Sarah got a glimmer in her eyes. The judge asked her to play a few measures, and see if she could make it sound more terrifying, more devilish. Sarah nodded that she’d try. Then, she aggressively dug into the piano. The judge looked startled, but pleased. 

                We listened to a few more pianists in Sarah’s class. Then we had to go downstairs into another room for her to play her Bach. That judge also offered some good advice. Again we had to leave for Sarah to warm up for the next class.

On the way, Sarah checked back with her first group. She was excited that she’d been called back. The judge had chosen her to play Suggestion Diabolique again. She had to have chosen at least one other person to play again in the “play-off.”

In the practice room, Sarah asked me to see if she had a fever. Her head felt a little warm, but I’ve always tested for a fever by feeling my kids’ hands. Hers were cooler than her head, but her hands are always cold before a piano performance.

                We rushed back upstairs for the play-off. Sarah popped a cough drop in her mouth and we entered the room. That’s when we saw who she’d be playing against---Andy!

                Two sets of parents acknowledged each other across a quiet room.  The judge and several others sat behind the grand piano, poised to listen. Andy adjusted the bench, and settled in. He played the opening notes of Scriabin’s Etude in C Sharp minor, op. 42, no. 5, and continued playing flawlessly. His piece is extremely complex, but he made it sound effortless. We all applauded, Sarah smiled at him as he picked up his music, and scrambled out of the room to get to his next performance.

                Now it was Sarah’s turn. She was all business. She adjusted the bench, and looked for the judge to nod signaling her to begin. That’s when she attacked the piano. The difference between this performance and her first one was staggering! This time, it truly was terrifying! The audience was stunned, yet couldn’t look away. It seemed like all of our hair should have been blowing straight back from the sound of the piano. The judge had a huge smile on her face. Her body rocked in time with Sarah’s playing. When she finished, there was a slight pause of silence, then loud applause. We were glad that we weren’t the judge because she had a tough decision to make.

                The attendant sitting outside the room had an amazed look on her face as we headed down the hallway to a practice room. Once she got inside the room, our elegant, slender daughter with her eggplant colored lace top, and black slacks, jumped up high in the air and clicked her heels. It had been one of her top performances (the piano playing, not the heel clicking, although that was pretty good too).

                When she entered the class to play her Schumann piece, the attendant  made Sarah sit right behind the judge, in the front row with the rest of the piano players. John and I were relegated to desks across the room.

                A Chinese girl played Chopin. Then the door opened and a lady asked if Sarah Stark was in the room. Sarah raised her hand. The woman handed her the Prokofiev music. John and I could see that there was a certificate on top of the book, but couldn’t tell what it said.

                Sarah looked over at us with even bigger eyes than her usual huge eyes. She tried to mouth something to us, but we’re horrible lip readers. The only sound in the room was the judge writing excruciatingly long notes about the Chinese girl’s performance. Sarah sneaked her cell phone out of her pocket and gave John a pointed look. (Cell phones are supposed to be off when you enter the performance rooms.)

                John slid his cell phone out of his pocket. I was sitting behind him leaning over his shoulder. Sarah’s hands were texting almost as fast as she can play piano. She stopped and looked at us. It was today’s version of passing notes in class. We waited and waited for her text to beam up to a satellite and back down to us four rows across the room.  The judge kept scratching away at the comments page. Finally, her text lit up the screen on John’s phone. ALL CAPS, “I WON!!!!!!”

                I’m surprised that we weren’t kicked out of the room for thunderous heart beats and silly grins. Once we broke out of that room, we were free to celebrate. Almost instantly, Sarah thought of Andy. Before she could say anything, I told her that I was sure Andy would be happy for her and that if he had to win silver, I was sure he’d rather she was the one who got the gold, than someone else. When both of them made it into the play-off, it was a win-win situation.

                To celebrate, we went to Red Robin. While she was playing, Johnny and his girlfriend Sarah were driving over to Spokane from Pullman to give our Sarah a ride back to campus because John and I were leaving for Puyallup directly from Spokane. They called when they were close, and we ordered for them.

                When they arrived, Sarah announced that she’d won gold and Johnny high fived her across the table. Sarah had been calling Andy to see if he and his family could meet us at Red Robin, but he wasn’t answering. She guessed that he’d been called back for his Beethoven piece. Mid-way through our burgers, he called. He’d won gold on the Beethoven, and in an unprecedented move, the judge at their play-off had gotten an exception and awarded both Andy and Sarah gold!

                Sitting at that table with two freshly graduated college kids, and my daughter holding her gold medal made my Mother’s Day the best ever!

                Follow up: On the following Tuesday, Sarah and Andy were invited to play piano and be interviewed on Spokane’s public radio station. Her grandparents in New York and Hawaii got to hear the broadcast along with many family friends and their piano teachers.

Laura Keolanui Stark is still enjoying her irreplaceable Mother’s Day gifts: Johnny and Sarah. If you want to hear the broadcast, you may be able to access in on KCPQ’s website as a podcast under Music Fest 2011. You can also hear both of the pieces Sarah and Andy played on YouTube. My apologies that this blog  was posted late. I am posting it from Milan, Italy—a blog about that is coming. Laura can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.