Wandering Thoughts: April 2007

Scotland, edinburgh G8 summit 'street party'

La Mara

Hungary, budapest

Italy, villasanta

Milano: A Pricey Slice of the Good Life?

When I mentioned to people, during my hasty preparations, of coming to live in Milano, I was invariably told of the city’s economic importance and ‘alta moda’ reputation, as if it were fresh news. To know the truth of how this city is, or even if just to imagine how ridiculous amounts of money and style might be represented in steel, stone and two million Italians, ask a Milanese. Or so I thought. ‘What is the fresh news from Milano?’ I interrogate my students. Is it a slice of the good life, or just a dirty commercial machine in disrepair? Agreement on this point has been hard to come by. Never have I been in a city of such mixed emotions.

To those more ancient people I pushed for explanations, the question seemed a superfluous one – of course Milano was a nice city, it was their city, and economic necessity had either brought them there or else given them no reason to have to leave. Logical enough, I thought. From the perspective of those who lived through post-war Italy a city of job opportunities needed little justification. But how, for a more mobile and prosperous generation, can Italy’s northern capital be defined?

Big, busy, and important, are common words you'll hear. These words, however, are often employed ambiguously in both positive and negative senses. Any visitor to Milano will soon notice, as I myself found, that the city has everything you need, as well as many things you don’t. Frustrated by the vagueness of my initial understanding of Milano, I pushed for clarification.

For many people the response is still a simple one: work. Whether for migrants from southern Italy or commuters from the far-reaching web of satellite towns, Milano means a place to go to in peak our traffic and then leave 8 hours later and a little richer in peak hour traffic. Just walking around the city (driving in Milano traffic is not recommended!) and it becomes clear that this has been so for a long time. The city’s face is stained like an aged coastline by the tides of capitalism. In it can be read modern Italian economic history. The low water marks are the sad eyed facades, cheaply constructed and ignoble. They droop, yet somehow persist, under decades of decline, forced to watch the chaos rumble by in the street at their feet. Classic architecture is mocked by their cheap slabs framed by unimpressive arches. Dampness paints dark lines of pollution down their faces like running mascara, with an ink one part rainwater and three parts infamous Milano smog.

Some buildings from early stages of this modern era retained some charm thanks to their industrial significance. These more noble facades were maintained with the care given to a company’s reputation. Other parts seemed to have flourished from the most recent injections of wealth, and stand impressively modern, as you watch your dumfounded face reflected back at you in mirrored glass and polished steel.

Protruding here and there from this modern landscape are the relics of an altogether more regal city. This other city boasts elegance and power mustered from around northern Italy over centuries. The Sforza Castle in central Milano seems too big for it's time, the old houses of the wealthy are lessons in order and style, and La Scala opera theatre leaves you breathless on entry with tier after tier of extravagance. Wealth, power, high artistic taste. One senses these relics are the true heart of Milano, yet they are often out of their context. They can look defiantly charming one day, then hopelessly swamped by modernity the next.

The difficulty of so many opposites side by side is one of Milano’s characterising tensions. The lawyer parades past the crumbled damp building, while natty-haired squatters with loyal dogs on chain crouch in front of the latest corporate headquarters, like actors wandering blindly through the wrong sets. Graffiti breathes life onto some walls and defaces others. Cigarette butts collect wherever they are dropped, which seems to be everywhere, then along comes the street sweeper who seems to work around the clock without ever quite gaining the upper hand. Perhaps half reluctantly, the driver of the pungent sweeper car avoids the ladies in fur coats, struggling to haul bags marked like billboards ‘Prada’, ‘D&G’, ‘Gucci’, ‘Armani’.

As an international design capital it's not surprising, but still infinitely impressive, just how good a shop window can look in Milano. Some appear works of art, then next week are redone. Beauty though is a funny thing, so subjective as it is. You can’t help but ask yourself if that bag is really so beautiful as to be worth 3,000 euros. While contemplating this, you may notice the beggar’s dirty Coca-Cola cup on the corner. Some copper coins barely weigh it down against the woosh of passing heels. Even if it is too simple in as many words, there is no image of capitalism more ready in my mind than that filthy beggar twisted over that Coca-Cola cup in one of the wealthiest streets in Italy’s wealthiest city. The look of scorn on the faces of passing shoppers, who seemed to think it their responsibility to make their disgust known, was my most haunting reminder of how inevitable this all is when beauty and money are equated. I was saddened, and wished I had my expensive camera with me to capture the scene.

If you are ever sad in Milano I recommend taking something to eat or drink. Coffee flows like life in 80cent shots. The flavour is so uncompromisingly rich and deep it is always a surprise to see the bottom of the espresso cup so soon and wonder where all the flavour had been hiding. Service is efficient, and often the whole coffee experience lasts no more than two minutes. You leave the café and regain your rhythm as if you never stopped, except that everything is now magically that little bit easier. Coffee addiction is an acceptable vice in Milano.

Happy hour aperitivo is another pleasure, with an elaborate all-you-can-eat buffet included in the price of one drink. It’s an affordable way to enjoy a cocktail in style, while having your fill in tasty Italian cuisine. Some good food and a drink, a pillar of Italian culture, institutionalised into one of Milano’s bar culture’s most defining features. Italian food is much bigger than Aperitivo dishes, and then there is a story whose depth and wealth is best left told to greater aficionados than myself. All I’ll say is that if you are somehow disattisfied with food in Italy, perhaps you just simply don’t like food. Milanese people will always have something to say on the subject. Recipes and accounts of meals enjoyed flow in conversations like gossip. Everyone will swear by a restaurant, by a certain pizzeria in the city, and most likely their mama’s cooking too, all as the best to be found. It is an impossibility surprisingly difficult to disprove.

Another area where I am perhaps out of my depth is the secretive world of the Milanese courtyard. Milano has more secluded shady courtyards than I could ever know about because for many of them you have to know the right people who can then open the giant wooden doors for you. Those I did see, however, were enough to convince me that behind the many facades of Milano’s streets lie oases of tranquillity. There exist idyllic evergreen gardens, bubbling fountains, beautiful architecture set in its own peaceful context seen by only residents, and a whole Milano so special but so difficult to explore.

Something thankfully open to all in Milano is ‘people watching’, for which the city has to be listed amongst the top destinations. Beautiful people parade through Milano’s piazzas or lounge on their Vespas gesticulating wildly in conversation. Shirts of exquisite cuts and pants of perfect crease can’t fail to impress, while boldly coloured silk ties flash in the corners of your eye as you try to keep up with the scenery. Slinky olive-brown models strut between the places where beautiful people gather while the heads of ordinary folk turn. Teenage girls strain styles beyond their years, teenage boys sport shining D&G belts and big dark shades in sun or in shade. Behind this parade of design creep grave men in long dark coats - they are the mechanics of this machine. A friend of mine has convinced me that the alleys and dark heavy doorways they slip into all lead to some sinister Ministry of Dreams, another impossibility not so difficult to believe here. The old Milanese men smoking pipes watch it all from behind thick square glasses, their faces lined by the smiles and frowns of another time.

Orange trams are also relics, some are almost a century old. They rattle between the crowded sidewalks and narrowly avoid double-parked Smart cars with flashing emergency lights excusing their infringement. Streets buzz, there is life here and something beautiful. Words like flavour and refinement come to mind. But here there is also something forced, something sadly dependent on great sums of wealth for its legitimacy. A big, dirty, noisy machine, excused by expensive decoration? Maybe that's not fair, it's the talk of a miser, or is it just the traffic getting to me again?

One is left a bit confused, a bit frustrated at not being able to get closer to this beast, yet at the same time cherishing some distance from it. Milanese preached the style and the vivacity of the city, while quietly mentioning its defects, or else lamented about its defects whilst claiming the style and money was all it could boast.

Confused by who to believe I listen instead to my stomach, which tells me that now I’m hungry, again. In Italy, for most of us except maybe those like the beggar whose image I can't shake, that means a joy is just around the corner. I head for the Navigli area where one can stroll along hundreds of meters of canals lined with bars and restaurants, interrupted only by the odd bookshop or church. I watch the people everywhere in this part of the city enjoying themselves, and decide where to spend my six euros for a cocktail and all the Italian food I can eat. One of the cheaper pleasures in city where happiness seems to be on sale everywhere for a high price. I’m sold.