I had Dean Martin and Rosemary Clooney songs dancing in my head the whole time I was in Italy... aside from "We No Speak Americano," of course. And it started the moment we thundered across the highways drilled through the Alps.
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| One last look at Monte Carlo |
The landscape had undoubtedly changed between Monaco and Ventimiglia, a Ligurian factory town just behind the mountains. There were olive trees everywhere; and the tall, thin pines that I've seen so many times in guidebooks and coffee table books rose rebelliously from the ground, like unruly weeds.
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| And suddenly, we were speaking a different language. |
It was a Thursday, and we told my cousin Alden we could meet him at his apartment after work. The GPS told us clearly where to find him: take a left on the second corner of X then make another left, and go around to get back to the first corner you passed. But H, mistrusting the GPS again, turned left on the first corner. Of course, if he asked me I could have told him it's probably a one-way street, but he's a man so he didn't.
So we slowly tried to back up out of this blind corner we found ourselves in, when all of a sudden a car arrives behind us. The driver didn't seem to be in the mood for lost foreigners so he launched into hysteric horn-blaring and shouting in Italian. Now, I've always adored this fiery tongue, so to me it was just like being in the Godfather. Far from being mad when the man decided to get out of the car so he could curse our whorish mothers more audibly, I was actually amused.
H, tired from the long drive and from sleeping on an inflatable mattress for 2 nights, wasn't in the mood so much for bitching. So he shouted right back in French, and the Italian said, roughly, "Ah you're French, huh? You don't speak Italian? You speak French? Alright, then you understand THIS!" Then he cupped his balls and went back into the car. Being the loving wife that I am, I surely didn't want any harm to come to my husband - but as I sat there, thinking about what happened, I was kind of disappointed at the anticlimactic turn of events. Where was the spitting and the cursing of each others' forebears? Soli ang bayad! After the ruckus, H said he would have gotten out of the car if he didn't need to pee so bad.
In five minutes we found my cousin's flat and H got to pee and we had spaghetti and everything was peachy. Alden said Italians are all talk and no bite anyway, because there's a law says that whoever punches first goes to prison. In my head, Dean Martin went back to singing.
The next day, Alden bought bus tickets with us and he introduced us the street market on the way before he took a bus for the office and left us on our own to find the subway and explore Milan. There were a lot of Pinays, and I enjoyed eavesdropping on their scandalous conversations. H wanted to know the chismis too, so we walked slowly behind the Pinays as I translated each shocking revelation.
Milan (and some nearby cities in the region) is home to the most number of Filipinos in Italy, the statistics giving a wide ballpark figure between 30 thousand and 60 thousand to account for undocumented immigrants. I guess Pinoys just really love it in Lombardy.
Coming out of the subway, I was greeted by the magnificent gothic Duomo of Milan. I've seen pictures before, but I was never as impressed as I was when I finally stood in front of it. Pictures cannot quite capture how sculpted pink marble can so resemble fine lace.
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| Photo by H |
Unfortunately, for the first time since I was hit with wanderlust, I made an unforgiveable traveling booboo in Europe: I forgot to cover my legs.
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| Photo by H |
I never went touring without covering my shoulders or legs before, but it was just so fuh-reaking hot that day that I put on the shorts. DUH! So no interior shots of the Duomo, sorry.
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| The Duomo as seen from inside Galleria Vittorio etc. etc. |
But the Michelin guide *did* say that its spires and buttresses were the most marvelous thing about it, so we felt quite justified to sour grape.
Just a few steps away from the Duomo is the swanky Galleria Vittorio Emmanuele II, an ornate covered passage that leads to Piazza dela Scala. It was about here where we started feeling that Milan really wasn't for us.
The crush of tourism can throttle the excitement out of any trip, after all, and there is no better proof of this than our inauspicious attempt to try our luck at the Santa Maria delle Grazie.
A week before our trip to Milan, we had already tried to get tickets to see its famous mural. It's been rumored that people book this months in advance (but cannot stay more than 15 minutes once inside) before their trip to Milan, so of course we made some attempt at snatching the golden tickets - to no avail. So we said we'll see if we can get lucky once we get there. Maybe someone would decide not to show up after all and we could get in?
Well, the farthest we could get was inside the church itself. The masterpiece that waited within is a long-standing part of Pinoy suppers; and is therefore on the to-do list of any self-respecting Filipino. In fact, it is as Pinoy as green mangoes and shrimp paste.
I am talking, of course, about Il Cenaculo - The Last Supper by Leonardo.
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| From Wikipedia |
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| Gepetto and the Dragon Katowl cowboy. |
We found him in a nondescript store on the street in front of the Santa Maria delle Grazie, almost invisible if it were not for the black sign on top of the door that said "Cartoleria." When I told him he looked like Pinocchio's father, we found out there were TV crews that filmed here before that shot him tinkering in the workshop at the back of the store (which he let us take a peek of, too). And he proudly showed us a drawing a Korean made and gave him, with "Gepetto" written on top. I guess that's proof enough.
At noon, overpowered by the intense heat of the Italian sun and burning with disappointment, we decided it was time to sit down and eat. The problem was, we had always decided depending on the impression of popularity (if many of the locals are eating there) and the look of the plates (we're not the most discreet about it too, heheh) - and we couldn't find a busy restaurant ANYWHERE. They were all empty save for a few tourists. It was as if the Milanese knew the best places to eat but were keeping it a secret. Finally we were tired and we were beginning to snap at each other so I pointed to a place in front of the Castello Sforezco and said "no more talking, just go."
And it was a good decision, because my pizza was perfectly thiiin, and criiiispy, and cheeeeesy, and I was too busy to notice what H had but he said it was pas mal either. At around 1pm locals started flooding in, and so did the realization that Italians eat an hour later than the rest of mankind. Mamma mia!
With our energies and good humor restored, we went back to exploring Milan.
Milan is small enough to be conquered in a day but it has a lot of museums, each with their own crowning jewel, so it was hard to see everything within opening hours.
At the end of the day we wound up at the Duomo again, so we sat our tired asses down at a restaurant along Corso Vittorio Emmanuele II with a view of the church and the chichi shops. The waiter had a familiar lilt when he spoke so I took the chance and spoke Taglish (Tagalog and English) and he said he couldn't understand because he's Korean. Minutes later, owned up and said he's really Batangueño. He came back with a bowl of olives and chips to go along with our tea and coffee. Aperitif time! But no one told us there was going to be entertainment, too.
A middle-aged man with some teeth missing danced flamenco with his eyes closed for 15 minutes and some people thought he was loco. But his moves were very precise, so in spite of how he looked, he seemed like a professional dancer to me. Then when he opened his eyes he asked in Italian, with a discernible Spanish accent, for our generosity.
Meanwhile, at the metro station, a Japanese carver was fashioning animals and roses out of vegetables! They may not hold a radish to Michaelangelo, but they were still pretty well made. It was a reminder that I was making pancit for Alden when we got home. H was relieved that I'd had my fill of Milan, because all day he had been dying to get back to the apartment, away from the heat.
As luck would have it, on the train going back to the apartment, I was seated next to a pie-eyed man stinking of cheap but strong boxed wine. He kept nudging me and H wasn't helping for some reason (I think he thought it funny). The lush tried to start a conversation with me - about the stings and arrows of outrageous fortune, for all I know - but as I can't understand Italian - moreso, drunk Italian - I talked nonsense in Tagalog instead. When he left, that other notable martini-soaked Italian started singing Mambo Italiano in my head again.
I realize now why some Europeans come here just to shop. As a day destination, Milan wasn't so bad. There was a lot to see, but not all of them take-my-breath-away phenomenal. If you plan to come here, make sure you got tickets to the Last Supper first.
Up next, Bella Italia 2: Lago na u, lapit na me.
Sizzling Beach 1: Yes, We Cannes!
Sizzling Beach 2: Antibes to St. Paul
Sizzling Beach 3: Nice and Monaco
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