Respite in Milan: Part II

 6 min. read

(c) Bolivia Inteligente

Part I

After falling asleep late, I’m woken up earlier than I’d like by the movements of the other guest. Assuming it would be a woman I find out the following morning that it’s a bloke, much to my unease. To his credit, he’s very discreet and we do our best to avoid getting in each other’s way.

New Year’s Day is relaxed; dedicated to catching up virtually with family and a couple of local walks before and after dark. My temporary housemate is out for most of the day. For the first time on the trip, it’s overcast. To my relief, I find some establishments open where I can order takeaway for dinner. Most ‘proper’ restaurants in this highly residential area are closed for the holiday. My celebratory sit-down meal will have to wait until another evening. Instead, I order a Calzone which turns out to be bigger than my head and probably just as heavy. That’s not mentioning the free focaccia that comes with my cheese-based salad, as well as the mini arancini I ambitiously ordered. It won't all be consumed in one sitting, especially after my already rich and carb-heavy breakfast.

The second half of my Milanese excursion is set aside for exploring further afield. Mel and I book a girls-only day trip to nearby Turin; a steal at just over 20 euros return by train per person.

Pius and Mel collect me from the villa, sans boys, arriving early to negotiate the thick fog that has descended upon the city. The extra time comes in handy. Pius misses a couple of exits. Thanks to Mel’s foresight, we nonetheless arrive at Rho Fiera station with 20 minutes to spare. Melissa perks up at the sight of a young black woman also being dropped off. I thought you said Milan was diverse? I remark. Mel replies that it is not so diverse that it can be taken for granted. She approaches the young woman to ask for directions to the platform. I’m quietly impressed Mel addresses her in Italian, not assuming she speaks English. It turns out we’re all taking the same train. The young woman introduces herself; Lucia. Polyglot Mel asks if she speaks French or English, so that I can be included. (I have a fondness for Italian. I earned a shallow A at GCSE after two years of study. I can follow some basics but if I try to respond, my lower-intermediate Portuguese comes out instead).

Lucia answers in the affirmative, although she’s more comfortable speaking French. She explains she’s from Cameroon, where she started learning Italian long before moving to the country. Lucia already had a lot of family living in the region when she relocated to Italy, and is just returning from a festive visit with relatives. Judging by her name, it’s an Italophile family.

Turin
(c) Nikolai Kolosov

Whatever fatigue I thought would overcome me lifts in conversation with Mel and Lucia. Similarly, the deep mist suddenly clears revealing brilliant sunshine and more attractive views of the Alps.  Amongst other themes, we speak about Lucia’s good fortune in obtaining a job in engineering so soon after her masters, finding decent and affordable black hairdressers in Italy (for Mel’s oldest), the notorious (and in my experience, frequently unfounded) monolinguism of Italians, reputable places in Milan for West African dining, the Cameroonian Diaspora in Europe and Lucia’s tips on what to see in Turin. Her stop is earlier than ours and it’s a bit of a rush. We say our farewells. I have no business cards on me to share. Ships passing in the night.

The rest of the journey, and throughout the day, Mel and I will catch up properly for the first time in years, having the luxury of time that we’ve lacked for too long. Between our collective research efforts (of which Mel has been more conscientious) and Lucia’s suggestions, we begin at the extensive Porta Palazzo market in the shadow of the Porta Palatina: a Roman ruin which is one of the oldest preserved in the world.  We weave in between working class neighbourhoods and the more well-to-do...

...It’s a time of shared vulnerability. Whilst strolling or enjoying a tasty Moroccan seafood lunch, we discuss trauma past and, in relation to my current professional situation, trauma present as well as effective therapeutic treatments. I inform Mel about my ongoing quest to obtain a firm diagnosis for my not-so-nascent neurodivergence. I open up more with Mel than I am wont to do with many. After 20 years of friendship, not to mention her highly compassionate and discreet nature, I feel she’s earned it. Yet I find it’s always a tricky calculation, disclosing ‘my truth’. A person’s stories never solely belong to or implicate just them. I also worry that I’ve trauma dumped. Melissa is understanding and humbly offers some sage spiritual insight. Having a shared faith is a blessing.

The conversation is rich but not always heavy. 

Turin itself has a varied and appealing cityscape. Surrounded by the Alps and nearer hills, aspects of it remind me of Seoul. I explain to Mel that I find the presence of mountainous forms in the urban context strangely comforting. Not being much of a nature girl myself, I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s their constancy; the idea that these ancient formations have not been defeated by urbanisation.  We pass by the distinctively designed former Synagogue, Mole Antonellenia, heaving with visitors waiting to enter. We don’t even attempt to get in. We go in search instead for some Italian chocolate truffles that my sister has become besotted with. We leisurely make our way to the train station. The shops are still in Christmas mode. Mel explains that in Italy they take the 12 days of Christmas custom seriously. It ends, as it should, with Epiphany. Italy also has the peculiar Twelfth Night legend of a witch who deposits goodies for children into a dedicated stocking. 

Mole Antonellenia
(c) Tom Podmore

As the sun sets, we stop off at San Carlo Borromeo church which has caught our eye and, fortunately, is still open. Earlier, I mention to Mel how much I like exploring different Western orthodox spaces in countries with a strong Catholic tradition. My maternal family’s Catholicism was in the distant past by the time my sister and I came along, so it’s more a quirk of mine. Shattering my assumptions about all Italians being latent (at least culturally) Catholics, even if lapsed, Mel explains that she never had an affinity with the RC church. Her parents were left-wing agnostics who didn't humour the pretence of religion.

San Carlo has a wonderfully elaborate miniature nativity scene with little motorised devices; the kind I haven’t seen since I lived in Alsace.  Whilst the surrounding models of villagers reflect the multiethnic Middle East, the Holy Family is depicted as unapologetically white. Likewise for the lifesized cardboard nativity scene opposite Turin’s Porta Nuova train station; white Mary, white (red-head) Joseph and white Baby Jesus flanked by blond angels. 

Elsewhere in the city, I spot Palestinian flags, proudly-worn keffiyahs and anti-Zionist graffiti. It’s only very recently that I’ve come to learn of Italians’ longstanding staunch support for the Palestinian cause. The Zionist-sympathising Far Right government of Georgia Maloni is not, I'm told, representative.

Turin also has a number of eye-catching murals and what I imagine are pleasant park areas during warmer climes. I share with Mel that this is my idea of appreciating a new city. I’m not usually one for museums and galleries but I do like wandering the streets and letting curiosity guide me, with or without an itinerary. With its multifaceted character, Turin is a good place to get wistfully lost. 

Yet, I’m so used to doing this kind of thing on my own, it’s comparatively novel to have company. 

Despite growing up in the Piemontese region, it’s Mel’s first time in Turin. The verdict for both of us is that it has been well worth the visit.  The hours evaporate.

There’s just enough time before catching our train for me to grab some extravagantly thick Italian hot chocolate.

Pius picks us up from Rho Fiera station. The soundtrack to our journey is a mix of popular Burundian music and Afrobeats. On my request, Mel and Pius drop me off at a restaurant in the neighbourhood of the villa, recommended by my Airbnb host. He’s not wrong. I’m very pleased with my seafood gnocchi.

Soundtrack: Best of...2021 mix Part I & Part II ; Best of...2023 mix Part I & Part II (personal selection)