Respite in Milan: Part I

 9 min. read

Happy 2026 to all LVC readers, casual or regular.

(c) Giulia Bertelli

By year’s end 2025, I’m pretty desperate for a change of scene. I have spent half the year looking for accommodation, a process that consumes more time, mental and emotional energy than I feel I can spare. Long story short, several months and disappointments later, Yuletide 2025 arrives and I’m still at the hotel that was supposed to be a stop gap solution.

This is an outcome I’ve doggedly tried to avoid. Surrender to the circumstances imposes itself when an application for a great flat, that would allow me to move out before Christmas, is turned down once again. Unlike a job, I can’t ask the landlord/lady for constructive feedback. Acquaintances of all descriptions have mentioned the spectre of structural racism in housing. There are reports that highlight the challenge in Belgium. It’s such an easy form of discrimination to get away with, too. An applicant’s name looks too foreign and, unless a property owner is obtuse enough to admit their prejudice, they can reject an offer without having to explain themselves.

It’s a mercy that half my maternal family have already planned to spend the festive period in Japan. It would have been too depressing trying to entertain in the hotel. (To take my mind off it all, I spend Christmas Day doing shifts at the Red Cross and enjoy a savoury meal at an Iraqi restaurant)

Even if I had been more settled, I’d have still liked to get away at this time of year. Ideally, in search of winter sun. It’s been four years since I’ve spent the season in warmer climes. Alas, a simple trip to my Med destinations of choice in Portugal or Italy isn’t as budget friendly as during those days of COVID-related travel industry lulls.

I reach out to Melissa, a long-time friend based in Italy. Off the cuff, I propose that I could spend the holiday in her neck of the woods, the Milan region, as a pretext to see her. Melissa returned to Italy for good a few years ago, after three decades away. Whilst we met in London back in the mid-2000s, our mutually itinerant paths and her subsequent domestic responsibilities mean that we’re so rarely in the same geographical space. If ever the twain shall meet, we have a mere few hours to catch-up properly on years’ worth of events.

Melissa is a busy woman, with a part-time job, husband and three pre-teen children. I therefore don’t expect her to be as receptive to the idea as she turns out to be. So much so, she offers to put me up. I decline, not wanting to add to an already full household. The idea of a city break in Milan increasingly appeals. What I might lack in hotter weather would be compensated by the warmth of friendship. I’ve heard mixed feedback about the city itself, including from Italians. Apart from its reputation for catwalks - of no interest to me whatsoever - I hear it’s very industrial. Even a 2009 edition of Lonely Planet (that I’ve momentarily appropriated from the hotel in Brussels) notes that Milan is perceived by some as  ‘...Flat, featureless…with a grab bag of architectural styles…[and] often called ugly…’ Others are more charitable. ‘We like to say it has character’, Lonely Planet continues.

Setting aside the mixed feedback, it would be a welcome chance to see more of mainland Italy. Flights to Milan Linate are also a lot cheaper, even relatively last minute, than most other destinations I’ve searched.

(c) Jeremy Gunawan

Once I find cost-effective and well-reviewed accommodation, it’s settled. Mel and I exchange several emails in the interim. She provides me with lots of useful tips. She’s so keen that she even shares the news with our erstwhile mutual acquaintance, Lorenzo, whom I bump into at a Christmas Eve vigil at Holy Trinity Anglican church in central Brussels. I’m shocked to see him still in Belgium at this time of year. I'm almost as surprised that he’s already aware of my holiday plans in his homeland.

My flight leaves Brussels International first thing in the morning. As usual, I spend the night at the airport to make sure I can make the early check-in. I realise it’s been a good while since I’ve seen the airport draped in festive cheer. I gaze with child-like wonder at all the lights and elaborate Chrimbo decorations. It takes some of the edge off there being fewer places to camp out that night.

Having had a short and fitful sleep, I pass out on the plane, only vaguely registering that we’re running slightly late. I stir briefly to notice we're flying over what, in hindsight, I believe to be the Alps.

Melissa has generously offered to pick me up by car at Linate airport. That’s just the start of the great hospitality on offer. She takes me back to her childhood neighbourhood where she now resides with her husband, Pius and their children Renato (or Raio), Benny and Giú. Home before Italy was Southern Africa, where the couple were involved in several not-for-profit initiatives.

Milan is frosty but sunny with a bizarre fishy scent in the air. En route to Mel’s, I notice with delight some snowy peaks in the distance. Melissa casually explains they’re part of the Alps. The Italian/Swiss-border is relatively close, she continues. It's a region about which I’ve been curious for a while. Mel provides me with lots of ideas for day trips. Apart from the Lonely Planet guide, I haven’t done any homework. I’m reliant on the walking tour I’ve booked the next day to fill the gaps.

I learn from Melissa that Milan’s strategic location means it’s also not far by train from other major cities such as Verona, Turin and Bologna. I become excited. I have just shy of a week in town to explore.

(c) Ale

Modest Melissa has somewhat downplayed her attractive and comfortably-sized abode. The family mercifully offers the chance to shower, giving me a much welcomed opportunity to freshen up. I have quite a lot of time to kill before officially checking into my accommodation. Mel invites me to accompany her to the local Lidl so we can shop for lunch and I can stock up on supplies for my evening meals. In the carpark, Mel remarks on seeing a young-ish Afrodescendant gentleman. He looks as if he’s settled, she says, with a confident spring in his step. Mel adds that it’s unusual for those parts. Her diverse family set-up notwithstanding (Pius is Rwandan by way of Kinshasa), and the fact Italy is more multicultural than when she grew up, she insinuates that many of the African migrants are still on the socio-economic margins of city life.  During my brief stay, I'll notice that it's South Asian migrants who seem to be predominant in the occupations considered at the bottom of the rung.

It’s back chez Melissa for a hearty yet healthy lunch and the luxury of in-depth discussions about politics and religion - the kind you can only really appreciate in the safety of goodwill relationships.  Pius offers to drop me off at my accommodation in suburban Cesate, en route to taking the boys ice skating. I’ll be very grateful he does, beyond the obvious convenience. The self check-in process isn’t that straightforward and I’m reliant on Mel’s language skills to liaise with the villa’s landlord.  The family helps with my luggage and shopping and Mel makes sure all is as advertised before heading off. 

I’m very satisfied with my digs. It’s clean and modern, I have a shower room to myself, an indulgent Italian breakfast is included and I only have to share the kitchen with one other guest who doesn’t arrive for another day. I’m just a little concerned about the security, given the temperamental lock on my bedroom door. I go to explore the local neighbourhood reassured by the landlord’s wife, who's passed by, that it should be fine. I take what I can comfortably carry with me and entrust the rest to God.

The next day, I learn the hard way that my accommodation is not very close to central Milan. I wonder why this wasn’t mentioned more in the reviews. If the local transport were otherwise more reliable, it would easily take less than an hour door-to-door. Instead, it takes up to twice as long.

I head out early for the walking tour. Unfortunately, the transport is so infrequent and I have such a narrow window to catch my train to Milano Dateo, my efforts to arrive bright and early are in vain. En route, I get speaking to a young Ghanaian who helps me navigate the transport system.  I learn he came to Europe to study in Ukraine and arrived in Italy via Germany. Alas, time doesn’t permit me to hear more of what I don't doubt is a dramatic story.

After several failed attempts, I get hold of the guide and manage to rebook for a later tour. I’m now slightly less rushed. Nevertheless, I’m concerned about returning to Cesate in time to beat the early wave of New Year’s Eve crowds. There’s not much choice but to risk it if I don’t want to make a wasted journey into town.

A luxury shopping centre near the Duomo, Milan (c) Red Charlie

The transport information is usefully multilingual. One train driver addresses customers in Italian, English and French. I attribute this to the city’s international fashion exploits. Later, when I mention it to Melissa, she will hypothesise that the driver is probably an overqualified graduate.

I arrive at San Babila with a few hours to kill. The temperature is brisk but bearable, helped by the bright sunshine and blue skies. I leisurely set about looking for the tour meeting point. I stumble upon the high street leading to the main cathedral, or Duomo. I pass elaborate Christmas ornamentation by the likes of L’Oreal and Ferrero Rocher, alongside the municipality’s own tasteful display. It’s one of my favourite reasons to travel at this time of year, observing how each city or town is kitted out for the festive season. Everywhere I go on my trip, even in sleepy Cesate, a good deal of effort has gone into Christmas cheer. Alongside the seasonal decorations are illuminated reminders that Milan will be hosting the Winter Olympic and Paralympic games in February 2026.  

The so-called fashion district, with its endless luxury stores and punishing commercial rents, is unavoidable in these parts. It’s so extensive and ostentatious that it makes Knightsbridge look like Skid Row. So much conspicuous consumption always makes my Christian socialist blood boil, longing for the day Christ returns to instate a post-capitalist and egalitarian alternative. Down with Gucci, Prada, Swarovski, Fendi, Vitton and the like. I feel corrupted - and underdressed - just being here. 

I wander into what turns out to be the famous department store, Rinascente, looking for the toilet facilities. The ascent to the top floor feels endless, even by escalator, and the layout is surprisingly congested. I abandon my search when I see the queues.

Il Duomo, Milan
(c) Caleb Stokes

Reaching the huge Duomo is a relief from all that claustrophobic consumerism. It’s surrounded by a Christmas market and teeming with tourists.

Despite my head start, I only just make it for the beginning of the tour with the guide, Fabio’s help via phone. (The meeting place is tucked away some distance from San Babila metro; not the four minutes that my printed out Google map promised.)

The tour kicks off at sunset, which has an enchanting air and is perfect for appreciating the festive lights. Fabio talks us through the Milan vs. Rome rivalry, the link between the Italian flag and Margherita pizzas and why he insists his city has the largest gothic-style cathedral and not Seville. He’s very proud of Milan’s proximity to Switzerland, claiming that in respect to cleanliness and efficiency, the Milanese are ‘more Swiss’.

Fabio has a way of saying year numbers in long form that is, well, unorthodox- at least in English. 1885 for example is ‘One Thousand, Eight Hundred and Eighty Five’. Not even: The Year Eighteen Hundred and Eighty Five. 

All around us, establishments are closing early. I’d have thought New Year’s Eve would be a good night for business. I ask Fabio if it’s because it’s difficult to get people to work that evening. He replies in the affirmative, before bemoaning the complexity of Italian employment regulations.

After the tour concludes I don’t linger, eager to avoid the NYE swarm and aware of the long journey back to Cesate. Milan’s transport network follows a similar zone system to cities like London and Paris. If the main parts of interest are within Zones 1-3, Cesate is all the way out in Zone 5. There’s no point waiting for the sporadic bus from Garbagnate Milan station, so I'm looking at a 15 minute walk in the biting cold back to the villa. In the end, the journey is much quicker than I anticipate, aside from the waiting time. The walk isn’t so bad, either. I realise I almost made it to the train station on my previous night’s stroll.

I have a decent amount of time to unwind before praying in the new year.  Naturally, the soundtrack before, during and after my prayers is the successive explosion of fireworks - the likes of which seem excessive even for the occasion.

Soundtrack: Best of...2021 mix Part I & Part II (personal selection)