by William Breiding

2.
Misfits in Milan

"Traveling is a brutality. It forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of all that familiar comfort of home and friends. You are constantly off balance. Nothing is yours except the essential things -- air, sleep, dreams, the sea, the sky -- all things tending towards the eternal or what we imagine of it."
--Cesare Pavese

"In the course of an hour I should have to go out to dinner, which was not supplied on the premises, and that effort assumed the form of a desperate and dangerous quest. It appeared to me that I would rather remain dinnerless, would rather even starve, than sally forth into the infernal town, where the natural fate of an obscure stranger would be to be trampled to death."
-- Henry James, "Italian Hours"

"I'm an American. I'm an American. I'm an American."
-- Patti Smith

I would say that the circumstances were peculiar, but the truth is that there are no such things as peculiar circumstances. The entire unfolding of life is a peculiar and unlikely circumstance. How we move from birth to death is just the story of one expulsion to another. What we do in between is of little consequence to anyone but ourselves and the few that we touch.

It wasn't until later that we began climbing the gleaming spires of love and obsession, then fell from the moon, plunging straight through the dizzying heights, deep into the tectonic plates of the heart, and into the mind rending, cataclysmic break up of the psyche. No. This was before then. But after I'd fallen out of love. Maybe a year since that first meeting, "memoria in aeterna", in the subway.

Here we were: racing down through the misty Italian landscape, the skeleton trees and sere hills of winter greening, calling to life the villagers of Domodossola. We were rough and tired after a moody stay in Paris. I was unshaven, red-eyed. Wearing jeans, denim shirt, black vest, cowboy boots, a grey denim jacket that both zipped and buttoned. Danielle was wearing a skin tight black vintage lace dress, waist cincher, sheer black stockings, Victorian-styled boots, and a long coat of pale brown wool. Her hair was short. Probably shorter than she will ever have the nerve to cut it for the remainder of her life, patterned after men's styles in the 40s: cropped very short at the temples and over the ears, longer, fuller at the top.

I fell in love with the sound of the word: Domodossola. I repeated it incessantly for days in Marlon Brando's 'Godfather' accent, much to Danielle's amusement. We did not disembark at Domodossola. Though we were tempted by the bucolic surrounding, the fields of grapes, and the very name of the village. We knew better. We were happiest on the train.

Our goal was Milan, fashion center of the world, second only to Paris. Our original destination had been Rio. All the cool shoes we were purchasing in the early and mid eighties had been made in Brazil. We decided a pilgrimage was in order, and suit cases full of shoes. A round trip ticket for one was $1,500. A round trip ticket to London for two was just slightly less than $1,000. Together with month long EuRail passes, we still came in under $1,500. So much for the land of cool cheapo shoes.

Milan is a brooding city. The May weather threw a constant skim of unruly clouds skidding across the sky. The threat of rain was a too likely stage-drop for the huge, fascistic train station. No other depot is quite like it. The impression it gives is difficult to explain. Within the beauty of the structure lies a deep terror. Like being intimidated by a fat, courtly bureaucrat.

If I were a travel writer of the first magnitude, such as Donald Harrington, Jonathan Raban, Lawrence Millman, William Least Heat Moon or even John McPhee I would hit the library for some intensive research on the Milan train station, give you a complete account of its history, yet allow it to reflect my own feeling on the matter: that the building was erected during the fascist regime, meant to loom nobly and intimidate the excitable burgher into placid submission. The consequences were to otherwise be lead off towards death by the winged horses and mythical men at their sides, whose arms are stretched in the position of jettisoning an arrow from a bow but are, in actuality, empty.

In every major European city the train station has a Tourist Board office. Inquiring at one of these can be construed as a bitter offense, or on the other hand you can be swiftly helped, depending on where you are and with whom you are speaking. In Paris we were uniformly mistreated, but never so much as at the Tourist Board. The man must have decided he didn't like our looks. He refused to help us by feigning zero skill in the English language. After unsuccessfully negotiating for ten minutes we left our cue in aggravation only to have our man helpfully address the next person in clear English while throwing a disgusted look at us.

Rome was quite the opposite. At every point locals good naturedly stopped to figure us out between smiles and gestures. The Milanese were merely officious and coldly competent. A placid, aloof woman with a stern demeanor, wearing glasses, her long hair piled in a bun at the nape of her neck spoke a perfect accented English, locating for us what turned out to be an entirely romantic room in a penzione close by the train station for fewer lire than a carton of Marlboros.

I understand that the preceding paragraphs could make me out as a snobbish prig, or, more likely, a crass "ugly American". But what I'm pointing out here is that tourists from other countries should not be expected to speak the native tongue. On occasions too numerous to mention I have stopped for long moments on the streets of San Francisco, the Tourist Capital of these here Yew Nited States, to help a befuddled, non-English speaking alien achieve his goal. Through smiles, pointing, and key words they were sent merrily on their way. In Paris and northern Italy we found the locals hostile as the proverbial stuck pig. We were treated with uncalled for rudeness most everywhere. A minor illustration would be a shoe store in Paris. After browsing in both the men's and women's sections with Danielle I decided I wanted to make a purchase of a particularly cool pair of very pointed black and white shoes. I could not get any of the clerks to help. They would simply turn away. This made me quite angry, so I stormed out of the boutique in a rather loud huff, only to be hurried after by the store manager who made excuses for her clerks in halting English while she dragged me back into the shop where I was then attended to by several haughty women. The sale was made, but only begrudgingly. Danielle found the whole incident hilarious, and was particularly amused to see me surrounded by a number of tall beautiful women in high heels waiting to fit me with shoes. It was only later that I saw the humor in it, and the quintessentially Parisian erotic nuances of the encounter.

Rick Steves, the author of Europe Through the Backdoor tries to make excuses for this type of behavior, particularly among the Parisians, saying that they have every right to be snooty, having a history, dignity and culture to uphold, and as a visitor you should just put up with it, smiling knowingly to yourself. Those darned natives!

Walking through Milan from the beautiful but oppressive train depot to our room at the penzione was brief, made under a glowering sky. Our abode was on a small tree lined street bordered by an even smaller alley. The house was large, made of massive stone slabs. We were greeted by an ancient, bent woman wearing a heavy ankle-length dress with a shawl wrapping her shoulders.

She smiled wanly from within the deep hallway, looking us over as we gave our explanations. She stepped back, nodding, extending an arm to her right. We peered into the darkened hall and saw a heavy, wide oaken door. Danielle crossed the stoop and I followed suit. The old lady retrieved a latch key from somewhere beneath her skirts and the door opened to another world.

The room was huge, high ceilinged, paneled in dark wood, sparsely but smartly appointed. A rich brick colored throw rug with a white design lay on the light hardwood floor. A chest of drawers with a mirror stood across the room from a king-sized bed, which had a firm mattress and crisp white sheets. On either side of the bed were tables with tall, elegant reading lamps. At the far end, opposite the door, a set of windows reaching from floor to nearly the ceiling opened out into a small court yard that was criss-crossed with scaffolding. The light falling through the window was fragile, giving everything inside a pale glow.

We looked at one another in awe, Danielle's eyes widening with delight. I turned and told the old woman we would take the room for the night, handing her a wad of lire. Before she left, we mentioned something about food and she uttered a street name. She let us back out through the front door and stood watching us as we left.

Although it was mid afternoon the day was taking a rapid plunge towards dusk. A dense cloud cover had settled in and made the already grey, brooding city lonely and desolate. We wandered through an area of commerce, looked at the many cafes and restaurants, finally deciding on one after an agonizing deliberation.

It is at this point that I should note one of my many faults. It had been a playing factor all through our travels, but was now coming to a radical, uncomfortable head. For whatever reasons, shyness, fear, a strong anti-social streak, or just plain neurosis, I find it rather difficult at times to interact with people. On this European trip I had become nearly paralyzed, particularly after the sound drubbings we had taken in Paris. It had come to a stage where it was almost impossible for me to engage people. Danielle, consequently, was carrying the majority of the burden in negotiating with the locals soon after we departed London. It should be noted that Danielle also suffered from these same ailments, but to a lesser degree. At first, none of this was a problem. However, the longer we were on the Continent, it became obvious to her she would be forced by my innate lack to lead us through transaction after transaction and she began to resent me. We started bickering constantly about both tiny insignificant things as well as huge, important things.

In retrospect, of course, it all appears rather amusing. But at the time I was deadly alienated, desperately hungry and spaced out much of the time we traveled in Europe. It was no wonder that we were happiest on the train. We could sit and be with one another, no worries. At whistle stops everywhere, the platforms were canvassed with food vendors; sublime, huge sandwiches, good local beer, candy bars and cigarettes. All the comforts of home. I see now, also, it was why we ended up burrowing back into Paris after a horrific foray to Germany. Like everyone, we fell in love with Paris, and did in fact, have the quintessential Parisian experience: we broke up while there. I spent a horrid 16 hours wandering the gothic streets, lost, confused, hungry, love sick. Finally I returned to our hotel room quite ready to pack up and go, to find Danielle. The room was scattered with flowers, and she had bought a bottle of wine and candles. We spent that night making up, and for the rest of the trip had a grand time, ending up spending the total of 9 days in Paris. I learned in that period to hate the Parisians. They were the epitome of hypocrisy, worshiping at the feet of American culture but mistreating the individual. But back to Milan.

Our entrance into the cafe was surrounded by confusion. I was desperately hungry and tired, dazed and ill-prepared to deal with Milanese hostility. We hovered on the edge of the restaurant for some moments, with the waiters ignoring us. Danielle was hanging in the background forcing me to take charge. My impulse was to bolt, but I needed to eat. Conferring with her did no good. She remained noncommittal. I began to get aggravated.

I strolled over to a table, took off my coat, hung it on the back of the chair and sat down. Danielle followed my lead. Instantly a waiter came over wanting to take our order. But you see, we needed a menu. He gave us one and walked away, making us wait much too long before his return. I was not a happy camper. Finally the waiter returned; Danielle ordered verbally, I simply pointed to the dish I wanted on the menu without speaking. The waiter grabbed the menu from my hand and stalked off. A half hour later we were still waiting and bickering. These were simple pasta dishes. The bistro was not crowded.

Eventually the food came. I admit that it was piping hot and delicious. For the moment we were as happy as children, eating our pasta and drinking red wine, smiling, talking and acting civilized.

Our happy mood soon waned. Not only had we remained unattended during the meal, but now our waiter was ignoring us, long after it became obvious that we had completed our meal. Danielle refused to call the waiter, and said, jokingly, "Why not just snap your fingers in the air and call 'Garçon!' like they do in the movies? I'm sure he'll get the message." This was a dare if I had ever heard one. I was agitated enough to take her up on it.

I pushed my chair back from the table, raised a hand in the air and began snapping. "Garçon," I called. I looked around the bistro, found our waiter, repeatedly snapped my thumb and fore finger. "Garçon!" I called. Our waiter hurried over stiffly, all a-bristle. I looked him in the eye, rubbed my thumb and fore finger together. "Check," I said, "Check!" The waiter nodded his head quickly, blushing, turned on his heel and walked away.

I looked over at Danielle who was smiling broadly. I felt entirely humiliated. "Good job," she said. Our waiter returned with the bill. I stopped him as he began to walk away, pulling lire from my coat pocket. I counted, handing them directly to him, with the check. He left, returned quickly, leaving our change on the table without a glance. I counted out the change, certain that he had shorted us. Danielle argued that it hardly mattered at this point. I left the change on the table, and we rushed exhausted out into the street.

The afternoon was inhabited by shadows, slipping quickly along the piazzas, hands stuck into pockets of long coats, or clutched around great purses. The sound of our shoes echoed in the sky. We located our penzione, decided on a stroll through the moody day, holding hands, trying to overcome our confusion and anger, both at the Europeans and at each other. We came to a silent, secluded piazza surrounded by trees and dotted with benches, a fountain at its center. We sat and smoked cigarettes, talking, listening to the distant thunder, watching the deep gloom of the sky as it descended into our hearts. Soon it began to rain and we rose to the occasion, enjoying the light downfall. We walked back to our room.

Our mood became increasingly rank. Rain now came down hard and steady, a wind rising, rattling the huge door-windows. We began to devour one another, our hearts bleeding, our confusion with one another deep, frightening, facing raw, hot emotions. Our level voices were searching the limits of control, and anger began erupting through blazing eyes, our voices turning to shouts. The rain was slashing at the windows, the wind causing the scaffolding in the small courtyard to shake and rattle.

We were getting nowhere hurling verbal assaults; battering rams of love crammed down each other's throats. Trying to locate our hearts, finding it impossible. In frustration, Danielle threw on her coat and ran out of the room, straight into the face of the storm.

I sat down on a chair in the silence that always follows a violent act, calming my heart, coaxing my self- hatred, that beautiful bird of despair, back into its cage. I smoked a cigarette, then got out my camera and took pictures of the dark afternoon as seen through the gilded windows of loneliness.

The storm raged outside. Huge gusts of wind, loud cracks of thunder and long strikes of lightning. I became nervous, pacing the length of the room, smoking, worrying about Danielle out in this glorious spectacle, this outward manifestation of our moods.

Some indeterminate time later Danielle finally returned, wet, bedraggled and crying. I crossed the room and embraced her for long seconds. We parted from our embrace, eyeing each other, and a slow, tight smile spread across her lips, and then she was laughing. "God!" she exclaimed. "This is just like a fucking movie!" We laughed and the tension between us broke. Soon we were in bed, naked, clutching at each other.

The next day we stood at the counter of an espresso bar near the train station, gulping hot coffee, looking at each other in disbelief. Hours later we would be wandering sunny Florence, eating sandwiches and giggling down the narrow streets towards a Mapplethorpe exhibit. For the moment we were at peace with one another.

Wm in Skug 13